[b][u][center]An Unexpected Comfort
By Draconicon[/center][/u][/b]








Since arriving in Skyrim, Arga had decided that snow was a greater enemy than heat, than rain, even than the storms that cast lightning upon the lands. At least with any of those even a poor Saxhleel could find shelter and ease without having a fortune. Snow, however…

Arga hissed as another mass of snow slid down the slopes over his head and thumped against his back. The Argonian kept his arms tight to his sides, resisting the urge to batter it away and waste what little warmth he still had. He could already feel his fingers going numb and his toes doing the same; he couldn’t afford to get any colder. 

[i]Keep walking,[/i] he thought, his jaws clenched shut. [i]Just…keep…walking…[/i]

The snow used to feel like fire. That’s what he remembered thinking when he’d first stepped foot out of his ‘owner’s’ house back in Windhelm, that the snow felt like it was searing his feet with a cold burn that he’d never escape. Now, he’d trade almost anything to have that sensation back rather than the growing numbness underfoot. 

[i]Keep walking. Keep. Walking.[/i]

Arga looked over his shoulder. The snowstorm had already hidden the river on the south side of Windhelm from him; either it was so far off that there was no way that he could return quickly, or the storm was so brutal that he would die of exposure no matter how close it was. Shaking his head, he turned back to the path ahead. 

The only resort that the poor and emptyhanded had against the cold was to keep moving. If you stopped moving, you died. If you kept moving, there was a chance, however scant, to survive. 

Death, slavery, or escape. One was unacceptable, one was unwanted, and one was waiting to be found. 

[i]Keep. Walking.[/i]

#

Hours later, with the moon peaking through a momentary break in the storm clouds, Arga spotted shelter. It was barely visible, just dark rocks and a tower against the mountainside, but that was more than he’d seen since leaving the city. With the last of his strength, the Argonian hurried toward it, stumbling through the snow and barely keeping his head up. His knees buckled and almost sent him flying into a snow drift more than once, and only raw desperation kept him moving. 

All but throwing himself through the tunnel opening, he landed with a thump. The wind ceased its endless whistling around him, and though the air was scarcely any warmer in here than it had been outside, at least it no longer had the icy wind stealing away what little warmth there was. 

Arga wrapped his arms tight around his middle, hissing through clenched fangs. His hands shook, fingers twitching as he tried to summon his magicka. 

“Nnngh…nnngh…mmmph…”

[i]Come on…come on…Fire…Need…fire…[/i]

He hadn’t come this far to die now. Burning his master in Morrowind, fleeing to Skyrim, escaping his second master in Windhelm – he couldn’t die in a cave when he was so close. 

A spark escaped his hands and warmed his stomach. The Argonian rolled onto his side, forcing himself to extend one shaky arm toward the depths of the tunnel. His fingers shook, a spark here, an ember there on the ends of his fingers. 

[i]Burn…BURN![/i]

Finally, the fire came. The comforting heat of his magicka swelled in his veins, running from his core to his hand, and the orange light of fire blossomed between his fingers. He threw it a few feet away, setting fire to old roots, moss, and more down the tunnel. Almost instantly the heat started to push away the cold. 

It wasn’t enough. He needed more. Arga swung his arm to the stone walls and let loose another blast of fire. Another, another, another, a string of it along the rocks all around him until they went from gray to orange, pulsing with heat. The ice melted off the sides, dripping to the floor or rising in steam. 

By the time that he ran out of magicka, the tunnel was no longer cold. The fire-heated rocks banished the chill, and though they were already losing their heat-light, they were still keeping the cold at bay. 

Arga lay there, soaking it in until he passed out. 

#

When the chill woke him, the moon was still high overhead. The Argonian sat up, closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around his middle. 

[i]How long…[/i]

Not very. The moon had been halfway across the sky – or at least, the one that he had seen had been – and a glance out of the cave mouth confirmed that it was still well over the horizon. An hour, maybe two. Enough to get some rest and no longer feel so utterly exhausted, at least, and enough time for his magicka to regenerate. 

[i]Take your time. You have some, this time. Even if he knows you’re gone, he won’t come before morning. He isn’t that desperate.[/i]

At least, that was what Arga desperately hoped. If the damned Dunmer back in Windhelm decided to chase after him, the elf had horses and the money to hire trackers. If his old master wanted him back badly enough – 

[i]Can’t do anything about that. Act like you have time, because running now is going to get you killed.[/i]

Particularly with the storm kicking up again. Arga leaned against the stones as long as his scales could stand the cold, half-hoping that the storm would die off and knowing it would not. Eventually, he was forced to turn away from it, once more wrapping his arms around his middle. 

What a night. Two years in the ‘employ’ of an elf that saw him as nothing more than a slave brought to an end with an impossible demand. He’d run off, disappearing into the night with – 

Well, very little. He looked down at himself. A loincloth, a belt, a few food supplies – that was all that he had thought to grab before running out the door. His current self cursed his past self for its desperation, but there was little that he could do about it now. He’d just have to be smarter going forward. 

[i]Wait for the storm to pass and then keep going south,[/i] he thought, shaking his head as he walked deeper into the cave. [i]You get to Riften, then you have options. Riften…Riften’s better than staying there.[/i]

Because for all that Riften was under Stormcloak control – and all the problems that brought – Arga had heard the other rumors. Thieves, a guild of them, and more than willing to work with someone for the right cash. If he could get in touch with them, then there was a real possibility of getting somewhere safe. 

Away from the elves. 

Away from the Stormcloaks. 

Away from the people that saw him as a – 

“Petty little witch…”

Arga stopped dead in his tracks at the new voice. Not for him, he didn’t think – doubtful anyone would see a near-naked Saxhleel as a ‘witch’ – but he wasn’t giving the speaker a new target. He crouched, sinking further into the darkness as he rested one hand on the wall beside him. 

Now that he was paying attention, he could hear someone up ahead, pacing, muttering, and there was a firelight that he’d missed from being so lost in his own head. Stupid, stupid. He could have walked right into – 

But he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t. Arga kept his breathing slow and quiet, advancing toward the light as silently as he could manage. The lack of armor and gear suddenly became an advantage with no clatters or thumps to give him away. 

He found the edge of the tunnel, his fingers clenching against the rock as he slowly leaned around it. The fire burned no more than ten feet away, just a little ways off from where he’d collapsed in the tunnel. It had been pure luck that whoever had spoken hadn’t seen him while he was passed out. He couldn’t count on that luck again, not with – 

The figure moved and even in the darkness he knew what the black robe the stranger wore meant. He was facing a necromancer, and a gold-skinned Altmer of a necromancer, at that. Arga leaned further into the tunnel, keeping his head out just enough to see and no more as the elf circled something on the floor. 

“A petty little creation, hardly worth the magicka keeping it moving. What is that little wretch thinking? These bodies are wasted on her,” the Altmer muttered, the golden elf shaking his head. “Well, no matter. If this is all she can summon, then it will be easy to take Ansilvund off her hands.”

Someone else was here, then, someone that this necromancer didn’t like. Another necromancer, too, from the sound of it. Not good, but not as bad as some of the other possibilities. 

[i]Think. Think clear, think fast.[/i]

Right now, he had a necromancer that was already plotting murder in front of him. There was another necromancer in the ruins. The other necromancer might or might not be strong enough to fight this one. The other necromancer might or might not be the sort to look at a ‘beast’ like him and send him back to slavery. 

This one, however, would. Elves were always a danger. 

Easy decision. 

The Argonian moved, darting out low, quiet, but quick. He had no weapons, but he didn’t need one; he had his magicka. 

Before the elf could turn at his approach, Arga sprung up from his crotch and slammed his elbow into the necromancer’s spine. Taking the other man to the ground, he pinned the elf’s legs with his, keeping them locked to the earth, then jammed his hand into the back of the elf’s neck. The magicka surged as the fire came. 

Turned out that flesh resisted fire far less readily than rock. In less than a second, he’d burned through the back of the elf’s neck, through the front, and silenced him. The fire spread upward, and in seconds, the necromancer was dead. 

It took a few seconds for the reality of what he’d done to catch up to him. Arga pulled his hand back before he could clench it into a fist; the idea of crushing more burnt bits between his fingers nearly made him throw up, and the reality would have. 

The Argonian shivered as he pulled back from the dead body. It wasn’t the first time that he’d killed someone – you didn’t survive as an adventurer, nor escape from being a slave, without having the ability to kill – but it was the first time that he’d done it in a while. More to the point, he’d just killed the man without giving him half a chance to prove that he wasn’t an evil bastard. 

[i]He was. The Altmer always are.[/i]

Not all of them. 

[i]Enough. All elves are, when they look at the beasts.[/i]

What if he wasn’t?

[i]Still a necromancer. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.[/i]

How many excuses did he have?

[i]Enough to not throw up and enough to stay free.[/i]

His breathing slowly evened out as he looked away from the body and back to the fire. There were other things that he had to consider, things that would go a long way toward getting him out of this alive. 

[i]Managed to get him from behind, avoided burning his robe. That means clothes, even if they’re necromancer robes. Keep me from being exposed until I can get something better,[/i] he thought, inching closer and closer to the fire. [i]Once I get to Riften, I can get something better, but at least I’m not going to be traveling naked anymore. That’s over and done with.[/i]

He spread his legs at the fire, letting the heat flicker across his calves and thighs and all the way up to his groin. The last of the snowstorm’s chill faded, and he felt like certain parts were no longer trying to suck themselves inside of him. The shrinkage finally started pushing back out, something that was almost amusing to watch as he looked down. 

“Nobody owns you anymore,” he muttered, and he didn’t know if he was saying it to himself or to his slowly-expanding shaft. “No more shocks for popping up without permission…no more being forced to be a ‘fountain’ for their pleasure…”

Shaking his head, he scooted a bit closer to the fire. It crackled, likely only having another hour or so of life to it, but it was nice to have something that hadn’t been born of his own magic heating him up. He held out his hands, letting the fire seep into the red scales on his palms. He tilted one leg toward the blaze, then the other, letting the fire’s heat seep into his soles. 

Once he felt less sick to his stomach, he turned back to the body. It hadn’t moved – how could it? After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed hold of the back of the robe, right at the base of the hood. He took a deep breath and counted to three, then pulled. 

The robe came loose and the body went flying. He’d guessed that the Altmer hadn’t been that big or heavy, and he’d been right; the corpse went flying out of the robe and hit the floor a fair way off. He shook his head, flicked out the robe a few times, then slowly pulled it on. 

It was only when he was pulling the sash at the waist tight that he thought about the ‘wretch’ again and remembered – almost too late – that there was someone else in the cave. It came with a bad feeling, a sudden fear, and he leaned to his right – 

WHOOSH!

A sword cut straight through where his head had been. He turned the lean into a roll, sweeping his legs out – 

CRACK!

“NNNGH!”

Arga growled and hissed through clenched teeth as he rolled away. Rubbing his calf where he’d kicked bone, he stutter-stepped backward away from the pair of skeletons that were still marching his way. The Draugr a few steps back was another threat, but it could be dealt with in a minute. 

[i]Had to be a ruin that was filled with the undead…[/i]

As if there was another sort. Arga pulled back quickly, getting himself some room. Already channeling magicka down his arms, he twisted the earlier fire spell into something different. No point in blowing up the room with fireballs, not when they were consistently pushing closer, and the streams of heat from earlier would be useless against something as hard as bone. He needed something else, something that’d shatter them. 

His fingers tapped together as he felt the first spark. Waiting for the next blind sword swing to pass, he lunged in and slammed his palm into the first skeleton’s rib cage. 

Thunder clapped. The lightning spell didn’t do much on its own, but the explosion of air rushing out shattered the joints of the skeleton, sending its bones flying. Arga didn’t waste time; dropping to his knees, he grabbed a leg bone, swinging it up and bashing it against the other skeleton’s head. 

As the skull went flying, the skeleton itself collapsed. Arga shook his head, throwing the leg bone at the advancing Draugr before dropping down and grabbing the abandoned blades the revived bones had been using. 

“Alright. That’s a little better,” Arga muttered, shaking his head and adjusting his grips on the blades. “I wonder…are you rising on your own, or do you have a master? Or a mistress?”

The Draugr stopped. Its blue eyes fixed on him. Arga slowly nodded. 

“One of the two, then.”

The Draugr remained quiet for a moment longer, then its rotted mouth opened. Its tongue, long gone, slowly reformed in ghostly fashion, descending from a jaw that was barely there, only to retreat a moment later. A voice, ethereal and yet firm, spoke from the Draugr’s throat. 

“[i]You do not belong here. I am here for my own reasons; leave, or join the army that I have raised.[/i]”

“I’m not here for long. Just until the storm stops,” Arga said. “But I wasn’t the first one here.”

“[i]You…were not?[/i]”

“Can you see me?”

“[i]I see something. Something magical.[/i]”

Arga shook his head before glancing back at the floor. The dead body was still there, though markedly less intimidating without the robe on it. He gestured with one of the swords he’d picked up. 

“Another necromancer was here when I woke up,” he said. “An Altmer, one that…implied…he was going to take this cave from you.”

“[i]…[/i]”

“I don’t want to fight. I just want a place to stay for the night. I’ll leave as soon as the morning comes. I don’t have an issue with necromancers.”

“[i]You will stay.[/i]”

“I –”

“[i]And I will see you myself.[/i]”

Arga winced. So much for a quiet night. 

#

She came flanked by two greater Draugr, and the minute she rounded the corner, Arga felt her power. It wasn’t like the time he’d seen the dragon in the skies overhead, but it was stronger than his. Her black robes shimmered with enough magic to repel fireballs from mages twice as strong as him, and any thought of fighting her with magic disappeared like fish before their hunters. 

The one good thing was that she wasn’t an elf. She was a Redguard, her dark skin barely visible under her hood. She wasn’t one of the slave-keepers; if anything she might be on his side on that. 

She stopped a few feet away and looked down at the elf’s body. After a few seconds, she looked back at him. 

“Your work?” she asked.

Arga nodded. 

“I recognize the ring on his hand. He…was a problem in another ruin,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He might have been a problem here.”

He didn’t say anything. 

“I know you didn’t kill him for me,” she said, shaking her head again. “Did he try and kill you?”

“He didn’t get the chance.”

“Then why? Are you one who hunts necromancers.”

“No, no,” Arga said, slowly sitting down. “I didn’t kill him for necromancy.”

“Then why? I’m not in the habit of sharing space with someone else, and sharing it with a killer would be foolish at the best of times.”

“No disagreement there.”

“Then speak. Why?”

“…Because he was an elf.”

“…Explain.”

“I was a slave in Morrowind. And then I was a slave here. I will not be a slave again if I can help it.”

“A slave. I see.”

He expected the quiet that came afterward. Not everyone liked to be reminded that such things existed across Tamriel. Some of the Nords in Windhelm liked to believe that it was just the natural way of things, that the beasts bowed to the elves. They didn’t want to admit that their silence let the Dunmer, Altmer, and Bosmer commit innumerable abuses to people like him. 

Of course, that would mean admitting that Argonians were people, wouldn’t it?

He leaned on one of the ‘borrowed’ swords from the skeleton as the Redguard looked at the body and the makeshift camp. She was thinking it through, wondering whether he was dangerous enough to kick out or safe enough to let stay. There was no sympathy in that stare, and he didn’t blame her. It was hard enough for him to feel that when it came to the people he saw on the road [i]before[/i] he was enslaved for the second time. Now…well, he didn’t know if he would be able to keep sympathy in his heart. 

The necromancer eventually flicked a finger. The Draugr behind her stepped back, kneeling. She reached up for her hood and tugged it back, revealing a face drawn tight. Not old, nor starving, but wracked with grief from what he could see. 

“I am Lu’ah Al-Skaven. Do you know me?”

He shook his head. 

“Then you are permitted to stay. So long as you leave with the morning sun.”

“Provided that the storm breaks?” he asked. 

“…Granted.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, leaning forward toward the fire. 

“…You have no curiosity?” she asked. “I’ve seen many hunters come through here, many adventurers that would have sought my head the instant that they learned I was a necromancer. Even if they didn’t know my name, they would have wanted me dead for that alone. Why not you?”

“I’ve seen far, far worse magics than necromancy.”

“And that’s enough for you?”

“Do you [i]want[/i] me to try and kill you?” Arga asked. “I already know how that’s going to go. I’ll swing a sword or throw a lightning bolt, then you’ll kill me stone dead. And then you’ll have another body to raise to do whatever it is you’re doing. I don’t want to die, you don’t want to fight, why does it matter why I’m not curious?”

“It’s…novel.”

“I wish I could say the same. I just want to sleep, then leave. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you’re not trying to kill me or send me back to Windhelm in chains.”

“That is enough for you?”

“Let’s just say that the last few years have set the bar very, very low for what I’m willing to be thankful for.”

He poked the fire. As the flames shifted and surged around the dying embers, Lu’ah sat beside him. The Redguard stared at the flames with him, and they sat in silence. 

The silence was both comforting and irritating. Comforting for the lack of annoying questions, but irritating because it brought a different sort of pressure with it. Every second with her sitting beside him without saying anything made him wonder what she wanted from him. Silence had been his old master’s way of testing him; he was supposed to intuit what was needed at any given point, and if he could not, then he was punished. Was the Redguard doing that now? Why – 

“I’m trying to bring back my husband.”

No. No, she was just lonely. He grunted, hoping that’d be enough to get the message across that he didn’t want to talk.

“He died fighting for the Empire.”

Apparently not. He tried grunting again. 

“Then the Empire made peace. They wasted his sacrifice; he fought in the battle for White Gold City, and they made [i]peace.[/i]”

Arga bit back the instinct to tell her to stop. This was her place, and she still had the power to make him leave. If he wanted to sleep here, if he wanted to survive the storm, then he needed to stay on her good side. If that meant letting her rant about why she was here practicing forbidden magic, then that was a small price to pay. 

She kept up the history, spilling her tale bit by bit, and he learned more about the Redguard and her husband than he ever wanted to know. The years they lived together, the closeness that they had even with Saeel fighting in the war, the grief that came afterward and her plans that drove her deeper and deeper into necromancy – 

And her hate and hurt. There was a [i]lot[/i] of that, and it was all from the point of view of being so hurt nobody could get it. 

He tapped the fire when she took a breath. It shocked her enough that she didn’t start again. 

“You’re still here,” he said. 

“…And he’s not.”

“More than one way to solve that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m saying you’re still here. A lot of people aren’t.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “And you chose to stick around. You had options. You decided this was the best one.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good one.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t choose it, either. And there’s a lot of us that don’t have good choices, either. Obey as a slave, die as a slave, maybe die trying to get away, maybe live trying to get away,” he said, counting them out on his fingers. “Not very good chance of living a happy life. Or living, for that matter.”

“…”

“Not saying you don’t deserve some vengeance. Just saying…not the only one angry. Not the only one that got hurt.”

“Did you kill your master?”

“Not this one,” he said, and it was so easy to say this time. 

“Why not?”

“People would have noticed.”

“You wanted him dead, though?”

“…Yes.”

“You understand.”

“I think more people would than you think,” Arga muttered, shaking his head. “Are you done?”

“…I have one more thing to say. Well. One more thing to ask.”

“Hmm?”

“Come with me.”

“What?” 

#

“…What?!” 

Lu’ah pushed him and he toppled into her bed as if everything had gone limp. The necromancer still stood at the foot of her bed, one hand on the belt of her robe, the other still stretched out toward him. 

[i]Sleep with me.[/i]

She’d said it just after they arrived, and he still didn’t know what to say as his ‘host’ started to disrobe right then and there. He stared as she undid her belt and pulled her robe back, revealing precious little underneath it. Her breasts were restrained by a simple leather band that looked like it had seen better days, and a cloth wrap pulled down between her legs to hide what lay there. He shook his head slowly as she let the robe fall to the ground and climbed onto the bed furs with him. 

“It’s a distraction,” she said, her hands on his sash as she shook her head. “You listened. You – you get it. I haven’t –”

“What about your husband?” 

“He isn’t here. And…it isn’t the same.”

[i]Isn’t the same with a beast, you mean,[/i] he thought. 

She finally got the sash undone, pulling his robes open and – 

“Oh…”

He looked away; his body had been trained to respond anytime that his master wanted it. Not that he ever was in charge, but his master wanted him to feign enthusiasm, at the very least, and often pushed him to go further. If Arga didn’t cum when the master was toying with him, with or without permission, then the master got angry. An angry master meant pain, and the body…well, the body was very good at trying to avoid pain. 

So, when Lu’ah reached down, she found a shaft already erect at eight inches, the tip red and the shaft as black as much of the rest of him. She squeezed it and drew a hiss from him, only to lean closer. 

“Do this, and I’ll give you more when you leave,” she whispered. “A few potions, at least. Just…let me have this. Just let me use this.”

“Mmmph…”

“Will you make me beg?”

He should. At the very least, he should tell her that he was free and she shouldn’t treat him like a slave. He should push her away and just go back to the mouth of the cave and sleep there. 

Instead, he remained where he was, as silent as the grave. Lu’ah seemed fine with that, reaching down to undo the rest of her garments. 

The bedroom was too dark to see details, but she guided his hands, one to her breasts – small, but soft – and the other to her hips. She, in turn, reached down and grabbed his cock, giving it a few quick strokes before pushing it down and back. It took them scant seconds to line up, for his hardness to find her softness, and then –

The soft squish as he slid in was loud enough to hear over his grunt and her hiss. She was tight, tight enough to tell him that he was the first to slide inside her in a very, very long time. Her insides clenched on him, almost spasming, and he could hear the little whimper she tried to hide. 

“You don’t –”

“Silence.”

She pushed down the rest of the way. It was only half-pleasurable as she reached the bottom of his cock; he could feel how she was hissing, straining herself, but it must have been pleasurable enough for her. She reached forward, resting her hands on his chest. 

“Just…stay hard for me…let me do this…”

He could have asked why, but he imagined he already knew. Slaves did it all the time; someone that understood, someone that was on their level, someone that hurt the same way. They didn’t need [i]sex[/i] so much as they needed someone close. 

She hurt. 

He hurt. 

That would be enough for any slave, and he had no doubt that it was enough for her. 

So, when she started lifting her hips, he kept one hand on them and just gave in the way that he had done with his master, with both his masters and their guests and anyone else that wanted him since he was captured all those years ago. He closed his eyes and put himself somewhere else, almost pretending that it wasn’t happening. It wasn’t perfect – it wasn’t even entirely believable – but it was better than staying in the moment. 

Squelch. Squeeze. She moved slowly, and every time she lifted herself to his tip, she pushed down on his chest. She [i]pinned[/i] him, holding him down, keeping him from doing anything but lying there and being her relief. Up, down, up, down, her thighs and hips slapping against him. The few times he could make out her face, he could tell that she didn’t see him lying there. She saw someone else. 

Someone dead. 

Someone she really wanted. 

He closed his eyes again and let himself drift. She would be done soon enough. All he had to do was ignore the memories…the things that had been done before…and the aches that always came when they wanted it and he did not. 








[b][u][center]The End[/center][/u][/b]

Summary: Well, this is the first bit of personal work that I’ve done for myself in 2026. A little one-off with Arga before he got all warped and fucked up by the Thalmor, but after he got away from his second master. Seems like he’s got all kinds of problems. 

Tags: M/F, Fade To Black Sex, Fighting, Skyrim, Dub-Con, Non-Con, Argonian, Redguard, Altmer, Arga, Personal Story, Slavery, Effects of Slavery, Nudity, Vaginal, Endure It,