"It will not be I who kills you.”
No. She will not kill him. Not now. It is so very rare she finds a worthy adversary, someone she has just as much curiosity for as she does hate—she should have left by now, should have smashed him in his bloodied face again and tightened his shackles and broken him, not stand and have a conversation. He is eloquent and does not cry—maybe that is why. She does not like crying. Does not like weakness.
And he is strong. And he does not spit at the mention of her brother, does not slander his name with “Dunmer fucker!” or “Grey skin lover!” as the others do. And maybe that is why it stays her fists for the time being. She still hates him. But it is not enough, not right now, for her to torture him further.
”The Imperials despise selfishness…” she swallows. Both sides have their reasons—have their loyalties, but where does Agni stand? She fights under red banners with silver Imperial armour—but her fellow soldiers stand with their loyalties under the Empire, through and through. The Stormcloaks stand by Ulfric’s ideals and their country. Agni… she fights for one side but does not truly have reason enough o do so—just selfish familial vengeance. "I am more often than not scolded for stepping my toe out of line—for a lack of faith in the Empire. My own agenda… aided by this side. Nothing more.”
They are treasonous words, and should a young recruit been listening, he may have certainly blabbed about it to a superior—and swiftly received a beating from her for it, for she is intensely talented at lying.
There is a curiousness in how she watches him, how she can see the pain in his eyes and still, he manages to smile. Never, never, has a prisoner smiled at her. It is a smile as if he pities her. And she truly doesn’t blame him. For she is pitiful as probably the lone Nord on a side which tears her apart. And it causes her face to twist for a moment before kneeling down.
She undoes the shackles at his wrists—nothing more.
He is still tied into this place in other ways but——this
does make his task sufficiently easier.
”I suppose it would not be my problem were you to escape,” she says to the floor, elbows on knobby knees. What is she doing? Legs stand and head to leave the room—"The Recruits are fast but stupid. Good night, General. ” Her voice is not kind—it is flat and laced with—what?
Curiosity of a challenge.
Eyes will not leave her as she moves. What, exactly, is she planning? Does she mean for him to run, for her to chase him and cut him down? Or have one of the recruits do it? Or does she, for some reason unknown to him, truly wish him his freedom if he can prove that he is worthy of it?
He doesn't move. Not an inch, not even a fraction of an inch, for he does not trust her. He respects her, yes, but that is an entirely different matter. A woman he respects may still offer him up to the wolves if she sees a need to-- and he cannot understand at all why she may wish to set him free.
Large hands massage wrists as he watches her leave, and he does not offer her a single word in response. She means to test him, to see if he can rise to her challenge, to see what kind of man he is. Hallbjörn is tempted-- so very tempted-- to run straight for it, though he is no fool and knows that would only end in his death.
So he waits.
And he waits.
And he waits.
It takes him a very long time before he rises to his feet and, injured as he is, begins to limp and lope and stumble through cold, cold corridors. Bare feet make very little noise upon the stone floor and fingers trail lightly across rough walls as he goes. Often he will pause, either to recover from the intense pain he feels from moving or just to avoid any guards on their way past.
He gets so far in his state, can almost taste freedom when he feels eyes upon his back. The Legionnaire barely has a moment to cry out before the bear of a Nord descends upon him. It is a short fight and, by some minor miracle, Hallbjörn ends victorious. The poor boy ends up with his own sword through his neck and the elder man quickly makes his leave. As quick as he can, at least, stumbling and wincing and so very nearly crying out in pain a few times.
And then there is the feel of the breeze upon his skin,
the smell of fresh air and the sound of babbling streams.
Hallbjörn blinks, screwing his eyes closed before looking out into the near pitch black of the night. His heart thumps. And again.
He is so very nearly f r e e.