Long awaited art by  Ezcett
Original post

   “This time will be different. This time I'll manage to escape these Altmer bastards at last!” Or so she thought.
M’Ria ran through the dense Falkreath forest, her already torn ragged clothes became even more torn as she was making her way southward through prickly bushes, toward the border with Cyrodiil. M’Ria had already covered a dozen or so kilometers and her breath had become ragged, her lungs were burning, her feet hurt and her pace had become slower. M’Ria could hear her pursuers - the masters' servants and slave overseers - getting closer. Unfortunately, she twisted her ankle at some treacherous stone and rolled out onto the road.
   – Gods, no... – M’Ris cursed. She was so close...
Her freedom was short-lived. The chasers quickly reached and surrounded her. There were three of them: an Altmer and two Bosmers; angry not because they intended to kill her — she was far too valuable for that — but because they needed to "remind her of her place." They always did.
   – Help... – M’Ria pleaded silently.
   But this time, they didn’t get a chance. A figure appeared — silent, swift, and deadly. The figure seemed to blur. He moved so fast that M’Ria couldn't see him, elves shouted and magic lightnings thundered. But in a few seconds it was quiet, her pursuers were dead, brought down with quiet efficiency. The stranger sheathed his black sword behind his back and looked at M’Ria — a gray-blue Khajiit girl crouched in fear and disbelief, her ears pressed flat.

   That was how M’Ria met Maks.

   M’Ria got a better look at him. Young Khajiit looked into his sharp gray eyes, she could swear she saw a glimpse of sky-blue light in them. His face was marked by a deep stillness rather than anger. Imperial? Breton? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about anything — except that he had saved her.
   Still kneeling in the grass, scratched and breathing hard, M’Ria gathered her courage and spoke up.
   – Th-thank you... for saving me... – she breathed out, not knowing what to expect from her savior.
   – M-my name is M’Ria. C-can you tell me y-yours, muthsera¹? – she asked, her voice soft and uncertain.
   – It’s Maks, – the man answered dryly. He stepped closer to check her wounds. Noticing some, he cast a healing spell with a casual, negligent movement of his hand and was ready to walk away.
   – M-maks... Muthsera, thank you again, – M’Ria’s eyes widened in surprise as her scratches and bruises faded away. She made up her mind fast. She wants to be like him, to be able to protect herself. To thank him, to repay this man... Maks for his kindness and stand beside him. She had to.
   – Please, muthsera... Teach me. I want to learn to protect myself. And I w-want to repay you, – she looked at him, determined, ears perked up.
   – No, – his response was immediate. Not even a brief hesitation.
   M’Ria’s ears flattened, offended and self-conscious. Of course, he declined. Where was he and where was she. She’s a stray cat, a fur rug, an animal, a pet – this and many other words they call Khajiits.

   But in Maks’s head there were other thoughts. “Another damsel in distress.” He had met many like her for the decades of travels. Not Khajiit, perhaps — her strange gray-blue fur was unique even among them — but humans, elves, demi-humans, beastkin... many others who had been hurt, desperate to cling to the one who pulled them from the dark.
   Sometimes they meant well. Sometimes they didn’t. Many of them had tried to become his apprentice, partner, offered treasures, titles, even themselves, trying to bind him with “love” and sex – anything to take advantage of his protection and abilities, they saw him just a convenient tool, a solution for their problems.
   But even if their intentions were good, when they found out what he really was, they turned. They always turned. They told about him to the church, inquisition, hunters, or whatever there was in their worlds against monsters. Or just fled in dread and disgust. Why would that Khajiit be any different?

   But M’Ria didn’t give up. She followed him — arguing, pleading. All the while, he said nothing. Finally, perhaps out of curiosity more than compassion, Maks spoke.
   – A month, – he said, – You keep up with training for a full month, you can stay. If not — we part ways. And no “muthsera”. Understood?
   The idea was to scare her away, to make M’Ria give up, but instead she beamed with a smile.
   – Understood, – she nodded quickly, following him, ears perked up.

***
   The first days were brutal. Maks didn’t go easy on her. He trained her hard, efficient, relentless, and unsentimental. Nonetheless, he never gave her anything she couldn’t do right away, always giving a task within her capabilities, building her body anew. No weapons training, no magic, only basic physical development.
   About a week later, to Maks’s surprise, M’Ria didn’t even think of giving up, so he decided to add sword training. She deserved it.

***
   M’Ria was now trying to take the correct stance with newly transmuted steel training sword. Her waist was tied tight with underbust corset, making her to keep her back straight. Her shirt and skirt didn’t restrict movement.
M’Ria only had to keep her stance for several minutes. No sword swinging, no sparring, just standing and learning footwork with sword in her hand. And even then Maks told her to move painfully slow, striving for immaculate precision, to make her body to remember how it’s right.
   – Hold on, you do it wrong, – Maks said dryly. He stepped behind her and, with the same seriousness, placed his hand onto M’Ria’s waist, fixing her stance. His other hand landed on her wrist, adjusting sword’s position. He was literally sculpting her body into right position. His movements were confident, precise. Nothing improper.
   But M’Ria’s knees nearly buckled.
   She was accustomed to rough treatment from the elves and had heard of how the other races treat her kind. Her past had taught her to flinch from hands, especially from those with power. But Maks’s grip was careful, precise. Not controlling — instructive.
   She stole a glance at him. His face was unreadable as always, bored, even, but not cruel. For someone who seemed so distant, he never once struck her. Never insulted. Never raised his voice. Called her only by name. Created clothes for her with magic. Gave tasty food, not scraps. He never treated her as a burden, or a pet, or someone lesser. Just... equal. It shook her more than she expected.
   – Better, – he said, simply, – Once more.

   That night, alone in her tent M’Ria stared at her hands, blistered and sore. And still… she smiled, just a little.
She had made it through one week.
   Three more to go...

¹Muthsera - term of great respect among mer (elves).

M'Ria & Maks ©