Based on the book The Last Scabbard of Akrash, Story of a Slaver's Daughter and Her Khajiit Lover, appearing in Skyrim, Oblivion, and Morrowind.

Rated M for violence and explicit sexual content.

1

Kazagh

The first time Peliah laid eyes on Kazagh, she was eight years old.

It was her birthday. Her father had invited all the lads and lasses from the great Houses in Tear for a party.

Peliah didn't like them. They were loud. Whenever she tried to speak to them, they would simply talk over her. Or shout at her. Or push her.

She had always been an odd child. She preferred to spend her time reading or sitting quietly. Her bright red eyes were almost too large for her face and she rarely spoke, except to ask questions.

The other children weren't particularly fond of her, either. When she chose not to argue with them, it only annoyed them. She just didn't fit in. They only came to her birthday party because their parents forced them to. It would be rude to refuse a noble party invitation—especially one of House Dres. She would be very rich when she grew up, lording over a vast estate with hundreds and hundreds of slaves. It would never do to burn bridges with such a child, the grown-ups said.

Still, the children did not like her. They did their best to ignore her, shouting and tearing around the garden where several large tables were set up, heaped with cake and candy. Peliah did her best to ignore them as well, though it was significantly more difficult—particularly when young Soron Jeles came flying around the corner of one table and crashed right into her.

Soron leered at her, sprang up, and dashed away. Peliah got to her feet slowly. She felt like crying for a second, but decided against it. I'm not hurt, she reasoned. Crying doesn't make any sense when you're not hurt.

She often thought that way. Rather than flouting what was on her mind like everyone else she knew, she preferred to absorb information, process it, and plan. Rarely did she speak or act without thinking about it first.

She grabbed a piece of bread from a silver platter and munched on it quietly, observing the bedlam with subtle distaste. Soron was shouting about something and brandishing a wooden sword. He tackled Ulani, a member of House Dres and a cousin of Peliah's. She screamed shrilly and set about striking him on the head with her tiny gray fist. Meanwhile the other children whooped and crowed, circling the brawlers and betting on the outcome of the disagreement.

Suddenly something brushed Peliah's knee.

She started and looked down. Something was moving beneath the tablecloth. There was someone under the table!

Peliah glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Then she bent over and lifted the edge of the tablecloth.

A pair of giant green eyes met hers. A Khajiit boy crouched there, trembling. His ears were pressed flat against his head and as Peliah stared at him, his pupils dilated with fear.

Peliah cocked her head. She'd only seen a handful of Khajiit in her life, in spite the fact that they'd cooked her meals, washed her clothes, and cleaned her room since the day she was born. He father had always said that a good slave was never be seen or heard unless he was called upon. With their soft voices and soft paws, his Khajiiti slaves had stayed out of his way easily enough, and Peliah's too. Until now, anyway.

The boy drew his lips into a frightened grimace. He seemed to waiting for something—what that something was, Peliah wasn't sure.

She peeked up over the table. The other children were still engrossed in Soron and Ulani's fight. Surely they wouldn't notice if she disappeared for a minute or two.

She knelt down in grass. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a high, calm voice.

The boy swallowed nervously, his eyes flashing. "Khajiit o-only wanted to see the party," he rasped. "Please forgive him, Sera! He did not mean to be impertinent. He will go away now! Please do not tell!"

The tiny elven maiden could only stare. Everyone at the party, including her, would rather be almost anywhere else. But this Khajiit was willing to hide under the table just for a glimpse of it.

"Why?" she asked.

The boy looked confused. "W-Why what, Sera?"

"Why did you want to see the party?"

"Because of all the sweet smells," he said, eyebrows pulling together. Wasn't it obvious? "And the toys. And the games."

Peliah frowned. She hadn't really thought of it that way. Toys and sweets were a part of her everyday life.

"But Khajiit didn't take anything, Sera!" the boy said when he saw that Peliah was frowning. "No, no, Khajiit would die before he took the sweet smelling things that the mother made for Sera's special party."

Again, Peliah was surprised. "Your mother made all these treats?"

The boy nodded, wondering if his mother's situation might get him out of the storm of trouble that was sure to follow. "Yes, Sera, all. She is the baker."

"What do you do?" she chirped. She could hardly contain her curiosity.

The boy shivered. Was she questioning his usefulness? Was she going to tell her father sell him? Surely they would not be so cruel as to separate him from his mother!

"Khajiit does lots of things around the kitchen," he said in a rush. "Khajiit is running errands and peeling ash yams. He is lighting fires and sweeping and dusting and mopping. He is a good slave."

Peliah looked at him carefully. She could see the fear in his eyes, but she didn't understand it. She didn't like that. Above all, she wanted to understand—to know things. It made her feel stronger than the people who didn't know things. So she asked, "Why are you afraid?"

If the boy was confused before, now he was completely perplexed. What did Sera mean by asking him about his feelings? He had never heard of such a thing before.

"Because Khajiit was seen," he said warily.

Peliah looked around again. The other children were still squabbling.

"Only by me," she said, "and I'm not going to tell the others."

"What about the Serjo, the father?" the boy asked, shivering at the very thought. He had heard stories from the other slaves of the cruelty of Dres Minegaur.

The little maiden thought about it for a minute. "I won't tell Papa if you don't want me to," she said slowly. Besides, there's no reason for me to tell him, she thought to herself.

The little Khajiit's body relaxed. His whiskers drooped with relief. "Oh, thank you, Sera! Thank you!"

"Why are you afraid of him?"

The boy bit his lip. Was it possible that the little Sera didn't know? Or was this some kind of trap? His mother had told him never to trust the Dunmer overlords. Yet there was something different about this girl. She was quiet and calm. And when she'd discovered him, she hadn't screamed and called attention to the fact that he was there—which was what he had expected her to do.

"Because Khajiit will be punished," he finally said. "Serjo will tie Khajiit up by the arms and whip him like Kuu'njo and Saar. The mother said. But this one didn't listen." The boy shook his head remorsefully.

Peliah's mouth fell open. Her papa, whip someone? It couldn't be true.

"You're lying," she said in a low voice. Her mouth trembled. "My papa wouldn't whip anybody."

"Khajiit has seen," the boy said. He could see that he had angered her, but it was the truth. He couldn't take it back now.

The girl plopped onto the ground, dazed. Don't cry, she thought. Crying would get everyone's attention. He must be lying. But why would he? If he were trying to stay out of trouble, he'd try to make friends with me. He must be telling the truth.

The little girl looked into the Khajiit's eyes. "I… think I believe you," she said in a quiet voice.

The boy considered for a moment. "Khajiit is sorry," he said. He was intuitive enough to understand that this revelation about her father had upset her.

"Why are you apologizing? It's not your fault," the girl said, cocking her head to the side.

The boy shrugged.

"What is your name?" Peliah asked.

"Kazagh," the little Khajiit said.

"That's… funny."

"It is a Khajiiti name," Kazagh said defensively.

"Well I'm Peliah," the girl said. She smiled. "It's a Dunmer name."

Kazagh smiled back at her. His round little face with the stubby ears and wide eyes was transformed. He looked cute. "It's still a funny name."

Peliah giggled.

"Peliah!" her father's voice called from the edge of the garden, "it's time for presents! Where are you?"

Peliah sprang to her feet. "Right here, Papa!" she called.

Kazagh gave her a terrified look.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "We'll all go inside now and you can escape."

"Whatever are you doing over there?" boomed Minegaur, strolling through the flock of boisterous children.

"Eating sweets," she said simply, dropping the edge of the tablecloth.

The old elf chuckled. "You are going to get another toothache at this rate, young lady! Now, into the house with you! And tell your charming little friends to come along."

"Yes Papa." Rather reluctantly, Peliah turned and trotted off after her father. Kazagh watched her go from beneath the tablecloth.

~o~

Like most children, Peliah would have preferred to believe that her papa was a saint. So she wondered if Kazagh had made up a story to gain her sympathies and worm his way out of minor trouble. But the boy had clearly been frightened when he had described the punishment that he would suffer at the Serjo's hand. When Peliah recalled the sheer terror in his eyes, her sharp little mind told her that there was something to his tale, whether she wanted to believe it or not.

"It is a trial, Tinúviel," she told her ragdoll the next morning. "But I daresay that if something happened, it happened. There isn't anything anybody can do to change it."

The doll stared back at her with its sparkling black button eyes. Its hair was a mass of black yarn. Its body was a gray stocking filled with stuffing and artfully shaped into a head, torso, legs, and arms with a needle and thread. It was not a fancy doll, but Peliah's mother had made it for her before she died of the crimson plague.

Peliah kept the doll because she liked her. She was not a sentimental child. Besides, what she remembered most about her mother was the shouting. And the hitting. Once her mother and Minegaur had argued so violently that a vase had fallen from the shelf and shattered into a million pieces. When Peliah's mother died, the house was finally quiet. Things stopped breaking.

Peliah liked the quiet. She had liked her mother—when she was quiet. There had been rare moments when the Dunmer woman had taken her tiny daughter in her arms and held her close, not making a sound. Those were the moments that Peliah liked to think of when she held Tinúviel close.

Of course, she didn't forget the shouting either. The shouting had taken up most of her mother's time, she reminded herself. And so she was glad that her mother was dead.

The house was quite silent now. For the last two years its vast dining chamber, long corridors, and sumptuous bedchambers had been as still as the grave. Heaven knew that Peliah did not run about screaming and shouting, as a normal child would have. Minegaur had thought his daughter was in mourning at first—then, upon questioning the girl and finding her largely unmoved by her mother's death, determined that she was simply strange. Quiet, and very strange.