Reached the Treasury. There's a Tonal Lock here, still active. Judging from the corpses, it's safe to say the traps are still active, too.
16th of Morning Star, 203
“How is your wrist?” Layrene asked, giving Ondolemar a sidelong glance from her horse.
“I will live.” Ondolemar stated flatly, rubbing the still-tender joints. “I will need to seek treatment once we reach the Embassy.” The She-Elf frowned, her nostrils flaring, making Ondolemar roll his eyes. “What?” He raised his eyebrows and gave her a look. “What you did was cursory. Adequate for a field operation, but let us be clear. You are no healer, my dear.”
Lareyne smirked, moving her horse closer. “Or did I not heal you the right way?”
Ondolemar laughed, throwing back his head, only to cover his mouth when it echoed in the pass. “In due time. In due time.” He looked up and squinted against the stray snowflakes. “Hmm, probably sooner than we think. Looks like snow and I do not feel like traveling in that shit.”
“How do you know?”
“That is right, you are still new here. After some time in this abysmal province.” He winked at her. “You learn to see these things.”
They did not even stop to see about the others, he thought as they rode through the beginnings of the mountain pass. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves were making him a bit sleepy and that was dangerous in this weather. That the cold was oppressive and his body was aching didn’t help either. You are a mess, Lord Gaebinder, what would your family say? They’d mistake you for a Nord that’s what they’d do, he laughed inside, rubbing his grizzled cheek. His goatee was threatening to become a full-blown beard at this point and Lareyne didn’t look much better. She was a little thinner from her ordeal, her fiery hair tangled and her clear skin sallow and dull from the lack of food and rest. They were not especially kind to her at Dreth’s camp. Poor thing, he would have to remedy that later. A week or two at the Embassy with all the comforts of home would do wonders for the girl. For you too, you fool. And Rulindil will pay up. Cheeky bastard didn’t think you could pull this off. But despite his aches and pains, Ondolemar was beyond elated. He felt his chest swell with righteous pride.
The mongrel was dead. The Dusken Dog. Dead and left to rot in a burning Forge. Shards of Aetherius meant nothing when the final vestige of the Crystal Tower was destroyed. An abomination beyond all abominations.
Unthinkable, unmentionable. The implication of his true nature, of what was Äelberon of Dusk, the ultimate insult to the Altmer. He had been allowed to see some of the documents. He understood what they meant and was shocked that they had allowed him to live for so long. Granted, the beast did kill Bet and that perhaps would have been a bad thing for the Altmer people if that monster had lived, but Ondolemar would not have let him live so long after that. Gods no!
Of course whether or not he was what was being implied by the evidence was still a matter of debate. Even their inner circle was unsure when the First Emissary revealed certain classified documents in their meeting last First Seed. A meeting prompted by Ancano’s harried and detailed report of the mongrel’s sighting in Winterhold. Vingalmo scoffed at the idea when they discussed that the Elf they had been tracking all these years was this “Dragonborn” thing, calling it ‘silly Nord superstition’. That the shouts were really just his way of casting spells. A primitive way that actually required words when all an Elf had to do was think and the magicka would come to them. Then, the mongrel had defiled Anu’s holy name by becoming Hircine’s Beast. That was the time to strike, when he was weak, corrupted by the foul daedra, but now?
Now, Vingalmo was dead.
Ancano fell in line with Vingalmo. The little lapdog, Ondolemar cursed. The first Emissary was strangely silent, impossible to read, as always.
They should have killed him when he was born, but what was done was done, the proponent of the crime untouchable in their land for his service during an Era that was alien to Ondolemar. Damn Vestige and his meddling. Slavish observance of his Tenets to Auri-El. No slaughtering of innocents and what not. Fuck the innocents. Innocents like that only deserved one thing, to be tossed over the cliff at birth. There was a reason why the Altmer were superior in every way. We did not allow the imperfect to live. There were no ‘special’ babies in Alinor. No, holy blind children or gifted cripples. Special was the ‘gold standard’ in accordance to their history. In veneration of the ancient Aldmeri Ancestors. The Vestige allowed a sickly little white goblin to live, weak in his show of mercy.
And that sickly little white goblin of a baby is now… Ondolemar smiled, well, he’s dead. He’s nothing now. No wandering snake in the sky, no Dragonborn, nothing. At first, he balked at Emissary Elenwen not deciding to tell High Emissary Cyrenar of his continued existence, citing that it was a Skyrim matter and therefore under her immediate jurisdiction, but now, he understood her judgement, though he would still saved a lock of hair for the grand Mer. They lost Vingalmo in the process, but Vingalmo let his emotion get the better of him, destroying his life in a desperate attempt to get closer to the mongrel. Becoming a vampire. It was a brilliant undertaking to try to trap him and he had come so close so many times.
A profound sacrifice for the Aldmeri Dominion that did not go unnoticed. From what he learned, Vingalmo’s funeral in Alinor was a stately affair, the Thalmor of Northwatch Keep retrieving his body after the battle, washing it reverently, and shipping it to Alinor where he received the glorious light of Auri-El in the capital. His soul forever free and in Aetherius, transcending to meet the very gods as an equal, for there was no way he would be bound to Coldharbour for such a noble sacrifice. The day of his birth was declared a national holiday, though the people were led to believe he was killed saving loyal citizens of the Aldmeri Domionin from an army of Talos worshipers. He saved women and children—babies—even, single-handedly, apparently, sacrificing himself so they could escape. Ondolemar thought that story a bit rubbish, as Vingalmo really hated babies, but the People gobbled it up like a Matron gobbles up orange cakes after overindulging the Hookah. After all, Vingalmo was the Lord of House Caemal, the golden lord beloved by all. His ashes then interred in his ancestral home in Cloudrest. It was said millions wept and wore shrouds of black…A true hero of their people in a way that they would never understand.
But she did not attend the funeral. The equally golden Queen of Cloudrest. An insult to the House of Caemal by the Royal House. House Larethian did not attend either. Their behavior was suspicious to Ondolemar and he knew there was more to all of this that the Emissary was not sharing.
“Lemar!”
Ondolemar snapped to attention when he felt another set of hands on the reins, only realizing that he had nearly ridden his horse off the pass and into a crevice of jagged rocks. He looked down and felt his heart at his throat. That had been close.
“I think we should set up camp.” Lareyne volunteered. “You are clearly not focused enough for travel.”
“I am fine, the sooner we get to Falkreath, the better I’ll feel.”
“No. You nearly rode to your death, and she will not just take my word on the matter. I am not going to bail you out again—“
“What?” Ondolemar’s head turned rapidly to face the youngling. He blinked. “What did you just say?”
“He would have done more than snap your wrist if I wasn’t there.” She hissed, her green eyes snapping. “Me stabbing him again. That killed him. Never forget that.”
Ondolemar let his jaw drop. The insolence from her was beyond his comprehension. From the very Forge even. He released a chuckle that made those green eyes of hers change their tune. She was clever, but he was far older and could intimidate with a mere look, or in this case, a chuckle. “And how, my dear, would you have escaped the Forge to inform our Emissary of our success?” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “That’s right. If you had paid a bit more attention to magicks in your studies, then perhaps your argument would have been valid.” He raised his hand to caress her jaw. She was extremely beautiful, even exhausted and worn from travel and gods only knew what other things, he shuddered inwardly. Not as exotic as others he had had in his long past, but she was beautiful. Their eyes bore into each other while his fingertips traced the line of her jaw and then her cheek. His hand raised.
The bitch didn’t even flinch when his hand struck hard her across her face. “Remember your place, youngling.” He warned, taking extra care not to break eye contact. Then he smiled when she did not react. “Auri-El’s bow, Elenwen picked you well.”
“We should make camp.” She insisted, her breathing now heavy. You liked that, eh? I did too. Yes, we camp now.
“I agree.” Ondolemar replied, letting his hand fall to the top of her chest. Ondolemar let it linger and liked that she made no effort to remove it. Oh yes, been a while for you and this child has had to put up with utter garbage. More than likely she had slept with some of them. Part of her job, why she was so utterly excellent in what she did. Help me, I’m a poor Altmeri maiden mage, all sensitive and fragile, look at me! Look at me! Bullshit, Ondolemar grinned, Lareyne probably had those rutting horkers eating out of the palm of her hand. Only the mongrel was not swayed by her ploy, but such things never influenced him. Once burned, twice shy. Oh yes, that original Fist, Ondolemar’s eyes narrowed at the memory… She had been a looker, with her long, flowing ebony hair and deep orange eyes. The First Emissary had paid close attention to the mongrel’s dreams, his screams in the night when the Tower just fell. Ebonnayne, ene-molage. Granted, her eyes were not quite like fire, but it was close. So close… And that first year of exile can make or break a Mer. When you are cut off from everything you love. It was why the action of exile was so perfect. If they actually “survived” it, an Altmer rarely made it past the first year. They usually committed suicide, unable to bare being severed from their—Ondolemar smiled a cruel smile, remembering the mongrel’s cry at the Vampire Symposium—‘Blessed Isles’.
The first Fist had caught the mongrel by surprise, so long ago, a fellow fighter planted in the ranks of the Bloodworks in the Imperial City. Crawling up the ranks with him, earning his trust, his respect. She was trained and sent, in the beginning, for the sole purpose to infiltrate the Arena and capture him, but they proved useful for so many other operations that their training was continued and expanded for all manners of infiltration. The mongrel, however, had figured her out. You cannot make a normal She-Elf want a freak. Her reaction to his innocent, low-born advances blowing her cover. Her unmasked horror. He was such a hopeless romantic, Ondolemar rolled his eyes. The ideas of love and honor. And the Grand Champion never claimed his prize, fleeing to the mountains of northern Cyrodiil. The mongrel’s paranoia probably accounted for all the traps in Raldbthar. Incredible instincts that one had had. He gave the mongrel that. He had incredible instincts.
“You are distracted.” Lareyne furrowed her brow. “We camp?”
“I am distracted.” He chuckled huskily, his eyes on her breasts. “For a far better reason now.” Put him out of your mind, he’s dead. It’s over. Ondolemar’s hand moved across her chest and he eyed her slyly. “Aye, we make camp. Besides, we have been corrupted.” He gave one of her breasts a quick squeeze. “It is time for reeducation.”
She laughed, narrowing her eyes. “I will go easy on yours.”
“I do not want you to go easy and I won’t either. This reeducation will be hard.” He smiled wickedly.
“Good, because while they looked and smelled like cave bears, I felt like I was being fucked by feathers. Gods! Especially the young one.” Lareyne made a sour face. “He was untouched and you would think, as big as he was, that it would count for something, but no. I think I laid on the ‘gentle Altmeri maid ploy’ a bit too thick with that one.” She chuckled and shook her head, clearing enjoying Ondolemar’s hand over her breast. “He fell in love with me. Told me right after he finished! All of five minutes later then fell asleep. Snored like a troll. I bit my lip so hard that it bled, I was trying not to laugh.”
Ondolemar’s jaw dropped again but his eyes were watering from his suppressed laughter, letting his hand fall from her breast to wipe his eyes. “No!”
“Verily!” She exploded into a peal of laughter, deliberately imitating Ondolemar’s more archaic speaking. “The Colovian was a bit better, but had the endurance of a sload.”
“Then I will make it my mission to reeducate you properly, youngling.” They dismounted and Ondolemar felt like continuing the conversation, while Lareyne unloaded a tent. They had managed to salvage most of his gear from Dreth’s camp. He wondered if she could cook? He couldn’t. Shit, no Archer. Kitty was nothing, but Archer’s absence would be felt for at least a few days. “You cook?” His rumbling stomach temporary won over his twitching crotch. You are hungry. Food first, then reeducation.
“Actually, yes. Part of my training.” She replied, searching the bend in the road to find a spot to set up the tent. Before the rocks was a relatively flat area of snow to ride out the storm. Ha! Ride out the storm, literally, Ondolemar thought lasciviously while he watched Lareyne move, eyeing her legs and her backside. Hmm, front or back? With her, it was a brutally hard decision. Both had their benefits. He had sampled her goods very soon after she arrived in Markarth. Evidently Calcelmo’s nephew did not give her what she needed either. I know what a she-elf craves. They love being dominated. They are so strong-willed normally and most Mer do not understand this. “I am well-versed in several regional cuisines. If they are enjoying a meal, they will usually not realize it’s poisoned.” She smiled before continuing, “Until it is too late.”
“Oh? Am I at risk?” Ondolemar flirted, crossing his arms over his chest. The She-Elf chuckled demurely, stooping to roll out the bedroll, and his crotch was beginning to win over his stomach.
“I need to you corroborate the death when I—we report to the Emissary.” She pointed to the oddly-shaped pack on her horse. “Validate ownership of the weapons.”
“And nothing else?” Ondolemar asked, making himself useful by retrieving the pack. The mongrel’s bow and blade. He had wanted to destroy the weapons, but Lareyne stopped him. Elenwen had wanted them whole. It took a great deal of effort to accept the Emissary’s request on the matter, knowing full-well what had gone into the bow’s construction. An insult to the Thalmor and to the Aldmeri Dominion, for only one thing was made of such quality Altmeri materials. Thalmor armor. He had fashioned the bow out of the armor of fallen Thalmor. Thalmor he had probably slain himself. Bloody Southern savage. They were practically Nords down there with their heresy. Were, that was over now. That had been insulting, yes, but the ebony, the ebony was beyond blasphemous.
That he wielded ebony certainly supported the documents’ claims. Lareyne was right. Bringing the entire weapon to the Emissary would help convince her of the seriousness of their situation.
“Oh, yes, and of course, reeducation.” She smiled, interrupting his thoughts. “I will start the fire.”
“Good, I am starved.” He laughed, tossing the bag onto one of the bedrolls.
“Careful with that.” She warned, beginning to gather some wood for the fire. “That is our proof.”
“Bah! He was a blasphemous pig, but the blasphemous pig could make good weapons. The family had some skill with the craft.” He suddenly laid down and stretched on one of the bedrolls.
“Not going to help, eh?” She smirked.
“Nope.” The Older Mer winked as he stretched out the kinks in his sore muscles. He was going to need his strength for this one. “You take care of all that. I need to save my strength to reeducate you properly.” He winked again, devouring her arse with his eyes.
“Ha! First from the gobliken and now from you—“
“What?”
“Aye.” Lareyne confirmed, tossing some wood into the fire. She squatted and extended her hand. Small flames came from her long, slender fingers and the fire was instantly lit. He wondered, as he lay on the bedroll, how long it took those idiots to light a fire. It was almost sad. They needed the Altmer badly. The guidance. The Khajiit and Bosmer already benefitted. The southern cities of Alinor… It was the right thing… “He, the one they called Greenskin, slip of a gobliken, or Orc as they call them in the mainland, he had them and me setting up camp. I will give him credit, besides the Telvanni—“
“Oh gods, him.” Ondolemar groaned, folding his arms so he could rest his head on them. A temporary pillow until her glorious tits arrived. “I wanted to claw his eyes out. The smug superiority. The stink of his hair oil. The grey-skinned bastard.”
“I know, me too, but Greenskin was different. He was sly, like the old fox.”
“Everyone considered that Orc sly. That’s why you faked the letter, my dear.”
She nodded. “Yes. He and the mongrel then played Dreth rather well. I was impressed. You had downplayed the mongrel’s capabilities, Lemar. He was extremely intelligent and clever. He knew what I was, I think, the very night I arrived.” Lareyne furrowed her brow as if she was puzzling something out. “Something I didn’t see that he saw set him off. I looked for him everywhere when that Nord fell asleep and he was gone, like a ghost. He knew and that bothers me. He saw through me and nobody sees through me. Not what I expected…”
Ondolemar raised his head from the bedroll slightly, frowning. “You admire him?”
“Let’s not lie to ourselves. There is something to be said about admiring a great adversary, a great quarry. You learn from your enemies. I learned from him...”
“Hmph. Well, they didn’t play Dreth well enough. We won.” Ondolemar sneered. “I bested him.”
“Did you?” The She-Elf retorted. “If you had waited any longer, the mongrel’s plan would have actually worked. I did not know the Forge used the valves as the triggers for the constructs. Must have had that stored in that brain sources from the old Tower. Why didn’t you strike right when his back was turned? I had to make the first move.”
“It’s complicated.” Ondolemar sighed, turning away. “Just cook. I do not wish to discuss it with you further. Remember your station, youngling.”
“Yes, Lord Gaebinder.”
“I want to think of other things…”
“Like what?” She replied, setting the cooking pot upon the campfire. He watched with narrow eyes as Lareyne retrieved and unwrapped some dried beef from her pack and a small satchel. Ugh, dried beef. You’d kill for a fresh steak. His foot was near her while she worked and she moved it gently to the side. She smiled at him, her eyes full of lust, and he smiled back, feeling his crotch twinge. She opened the satchel and sprinkled the contents upon one of the pieces, leaving the other without anything.
His foot moved quickly and he kicked the seasoned beef out of the way, ruining it in the snow along with the satchel. He eyed her and grinned when he caught the anger flashing briefly in her eyes. Oh, I know your kind, bitch. I’m not stupid. We’re in this together. To the very end. “No, uh… seasoning.” He sneered.
“Very well.” She replied curtly, letting air out. You are so ready to kill me. Aye, reeducation is going to be something else.
“I miss Archer.” He sighed.
“Were you banging him too? Seems a bit old.” She smirked, putting two now unseasoned pieces of dried beef to sizzle in the pot. She then added water and he finally relaxed when she added it from the same skin. She’ll try something else later. You’re safe for now.
It’s just what fists do. They infiltrate and clean and if they think you’re dirty, they’ll clean you too.
Ondolemar laughed. “Xarxes’ arse, Reyne, Wild Hunt was long gone for that weathered dick. Besides, I like my women tall.”
She laughed. “He wasn’t a woman.”
“Bah, he was Bosmer, close enough.” He grinned. He moved his foot again and she was watching it warily. No, not going to ruin dinner now, my sweet. Remember? I need my strength.
“How many days to the Embassy?”
“In this shit weather? Almost two weeks from our position.” He settled back into the bed roll. “Why? You have an engagement?” Are you figuring out when you’re going to kill me? That it? Oh no! I know what it is… Ondolemar felt a smile creep up. Ha! Truth be told, he wouldn’t want to either. His assigned wife was back in the Isles. The future of House Gaebinder soundly secure with only one bloody awkward night, thank Anu.
“No, was just curious.” Ondolemar let his smile broaden at her words. Liar. She was practicing her ‘face’ now. The unreadable one. She was alright at it, but nowhere near as good as an Elder.
“But you do have an engagement.” He chortled almost playfully. It was her turn to roll her eyes and Ondolemar laughed aloud. “You actually going to go through with that, Reyne?”
Reyne, he liked that, Reyne growled, throwing the spoon into the pot that she was using to stir the reconstituting beef. “Fuck! I had forgotten about that one.”
“You could always season his beef…”
The spoon flew from her hand and struck his chest, making him rise from his bedroll quickly. She was like a cat, but he was a bit faster, a bit smarter, and a bit stronger. He subdued her and pinned her snarling form to the bedroll, smothering her lips with his. It was time for reeducation. The beef could burn.
You know that tune, he thought languidly, drifting between worlds. It was whistled quietly, under the breath, and Ondolemar was caught up in the beauty of it. The farwaway quality. The whistle became words, a mournful cracking baritone, like thunder’s distant rumble…
“Black is the color of my true love’s soft hair…”
You know that tune, with its gentle ascent and then fall. His mind suddenly bombarded with images of the salty sea as he struggled to wake.
“Black is my sword wielded under Battle’s glare…”
The words were new. You don’t know these lyrics, but fuck, you know this song. The image of an older Mer sitting at the edge of a rocking boat. His body wiry from years of toil.
“Black is the armor my oaths bind me to bear…”
An older Mer with honey gold eyes, blond hair bleached by an eternity under Magnus’ glory, the skin weathered a deep, deep gold.
“Black is the cloak that enshrouds my deep despair…” The voice kept singing, soft and sad, singing that old fishermer’s tune. A jagged scar across the left leg of the old Mer, he remembered. He walked with a marked limp. Ondolemar could smell the fish and the smokes. He could see those honey gold eyes twinkle merrily over that hawk’s nose as he cast his net to catch their lunch, the laugh lines crinkling. You puked your first time in that Old Mer’s boat. They went on a fishing trip, to a small archipelago. You had never swam a day in your entire life and you were terrified, but Galmo said it would be fun…
It was fun. That was fundamentally the problem. Ondolemar had admired, respected, even feared his own father, but loved him? No, there was never love, but Äelberon? Yes, say the beast’s name. Ronnie, Ondolemar thought dully. He had let you in too. So trusting, so open. Ronnie loved his father and that old Mer loved his son back, treating him with a kindness that made them all stare at each other in surprise at first. And then the old Mer was kind to you, teaching you how to swim those crystal seas himself when you were a child, when the wounds from the burning skies still smarted. And you liked it.
“But your black…” The voice sang, the tone becoming different.
My black, Ondolemar echoed in his mind. My black is a banner of black and gold, the mighty eagle, spreading its welcoming wings; enveloping all creation in perfect geometry and perfect symmetry.
“Your black…” Repeated, more bitter this time, the fishermer’s tune a cunning contrast to the stark lyrics.
It made you jealous, their bond. They were supposed to be like beasts, but they conducted themselves with a sincere affection and a dignified pride that left you speechless.
We then purged Alinor of such things. Weak things.
“But your black…” The voice rose in pitch slightly, just the way that old Mer’s gourd pipe rose when he played that part of the melody while Ondolemar finally laughed, bobbing in the warm water with the others, the pain of the burning skies temporarily forgotten. The anguish. He could even hear the little whistle as he took in air. A lilting melody of rolling waves and simple pleasures, intoned at dusk. He always wrote such beautiful music and Ondolemar’s heart skipped a beat. He knew the tune, but the words were new. The words were new… Wake up!
“Is a black I will never wear…feim zii…”
The singing stopped after that strange whisper and Ondolemar opened his eyes with a start and a gasp. What the fuck was fame zee? That wasn’t Altmeris, was it? You were always lousy with languages. You took his father’s name…Kahleron. He let out a slow gust of air, watching it steam upwards. You’re cold. It was a dream. The kind of fucked up dream you have when you fuck too hard and too fast. He smirked, the first session of reeducation is always the roughest. He glanced towards his chest and saw a naked Reyne sprawled on top of him, the bruise just beginning to appear on the cheek where he struck her. Sleeping deeply. I could kill you now, you little whore, and you wouldn’t feel a damn thing, but I won’t. I want you to come with me to Markarth. Yes, he’d ask her to replace Archer. Auri-El’s grace; at least she wasn’t too heavy. His head hammered and his body was stiff. Too long in one position. He dragged her cloak over her body, noticing how the strange blue light mixing with the campfire’s warmth played on his hand. No sense having that delicious arse of hers freeze off…Bah, they burned the beef, he wrinkled his nose at the stench. The smell of smoke and soot. Of sweat and tears.
And blood. He smelled blood. What kind of beef was this?
He paused. Blue light? Campfires were not normally blue.
“You never learn from your mistakes, do you?” A voice murmured hoarsely into the campfire and Ondolemar’s heart leapt to his throat. There was that baritone chuckle. “It is not the first time I have caught you with your pants down, Lemar…”
His brain screamed ‘no’ over and over again. Was this all part of the fucked up dream? He dug into the flesh of his palm with his nails and felt pain. No, not a dream and he felt the panic build in him. You’re naked, just like you were then. Naked and vulnerable. Lareyne stirred, moaning and for a moment Ondolemar didn’t know what to do. He whipped his head towards the sound of the voice.
Ronnie was seated at the campfire, but… Ondolemar’s eyes narrowed. He could see through the Dusken, he could see the wall of the pass beyond the spectral form. Spectral?
A ghost. A ghost, he sighed in relief.
The serpent, restless as it crossed Tamriel’s sky. An aimless wanderer. Did you expect the wandering to end when it died? He was… an impressive ghost, large, a blade resting over his legs as he sat. Ondolemar recognized the shape of the weapon. The Redguard’s blade? He scrunched up his face in confusion, hating that his mind was so slow. Why would he carry that weapon in death?
“You are haunting me?” Ondolemar asked.
The ghost kept his face to the fire and Ondolemar heard the faint whistling wheeze as the spectre breathed. That was the whistling you heard in your dream. Ghosts breathe? How fascinating!
“Tit for tat.” It answered with a sly smirk that wasn’t quite the Ronnie he remembered.
Ondolemar chuckled, reaching to grab the spectre. His hand passed right through the ethereal blue and he grinned, shaking his head at the irony. “Why would I be surprised? She needs to see this.”
“By all means then…” It replied. “Wake her up.”
The Justiciar shook the sleeping She-Elf, making her groan. “Not now. I’m tired. Yes, more reeducation, but later…”
“You tired her out.” The sly smirk turned into something a bit on the dark side. “Good.”
“Lareyne! Guess who’s come to haunt us!” Ondolemar whispered loudly. She lifted her head and blinked wearily at the spectral Elf sitting at the campfire. Her eyes honed in on the ghost and the ghost turned his head, smiling back at her.
“Why, hello Lareyne. You are engaged to be married, no?” He asked with his typical playful Dusken charm.
It wasn’t the reaction Ondolemar expected. Wait, how did Ronnie know she was engaged? Lareyne bolted out from her position on top of Ondolemar and shrank away like an animal, crouched, reaching for her dagger. “Ondolemar! Get your weapon, charge your magicks!”
“What?” he said, surprised at how groggy he still sounded. “Why?”
The spectre chuckled. “So it seems you were not helping put out the fire at Candlehearth like Erik said you were, after all…” He teased, shaking his head. Another chuckle. “Well met.”
“Ondolemar get dressed NOW!” Lareyne warned, beginning to hastily put on her clothes.
“I don’t understand.” Ondolemar stammered, looking at both the ghost and Lareyne. She was almost frantic, her hands trembling.
“You stupid fuck! GET DRESSED!” She screamed.
“Oh you are a smart one!” the ghost reclined casually against a rock. “Bet you watched the whole thing. You are a lot like Ancano in that way. You know, he even watched me bathe back in the college? But I am sure you have read that report. I even swung my hips just to make that slapping sound with my cock. Could hear him gag through that keyhole. I’m a priest, but I do have a naughty streak...”
“I don’t understand!” Cried Ondolemar.
“He’s not dead! He’s not dead!” She pointed at the ghost, her eyes wide in terror and growing rage.
“Yes, he is! We killed him! Are you crazy?” He growled, angrily beginning to dress. This was a haunting, plain and simple. Lareyne was being paranoid. “I saw you plunge the dagger. I used my sword. He fell—“
“This is dragon magicks! A shout! A SHOUT! We don’t have much time!” Her shrieks grew louder and Ondolemar got up quickly, sliding to her side. He slapped her, but she didn’t stop her ranting. “The dragon, the dragon!” She kept repeating. He slapped her again. “The dragon!” She reeled from his next blow, but it didn’t stop her. “It is rising, rising again!”
“Better listen to her, Lemar.” Ronnie warned mockingly while Ondolemar rushed to finish dressing. This was ridiculous. He sheathed his blade not understanding what was going on. “You do not have much time…”
She was hysterical by then, charging magicks or reaching for her blade, unsure what to do. All the while the ghost watched intently, fingering the hilt of the weapon resting on his lap. Ondolemar noticed the tension in the powerful spectral leg muscles. The clenching of that square jaw. The look on its face, waiting, calculating. The whistle as he took his breaths. Ghosts breathe? The vampire didn’t breathe, but this was breathing.
“The dragon what? What dragon?” Ondolemar asked, shaking Lareyne’s shoulders in an attempt to calm her down. It was a stupid question, he had seen the carcass with his own eyes, but he didn’t know she had seen the battle herself.
“The dragon in Windhelm. Fame zee groan! It said Fame zee groan! And it became like a ghost—“
Ronnie burst out laughing. “It’s Feim zii gron, ya nitwit!” He then coughed, but kept chuckling. Ghosts cough?
Fame zee, fame zee, fame zee. The whispered words. Ondolemar whirled around, feeling the magicks build in his hand as spectral became solid. As ethereal blue became the familiar solid Dusken wall. Dream became reality and the dead rose. The blood oozing from the wound to his heart as he readied his weapon, all the past playfulness gone, replaced with a look that sent chills up Ondolemar’s spine.
He doesn’t have a heart, Ondolemar reminded himself, you will kill him a second time.
“Let´s dance, motherfuckers,” Äelberon growled through gritted teeth and he saw how both of his opponents frowned after that strange sentence. It was not like him. You do not like this? Get used to it, he scowled. He then spit, just like Decimus. The blood-tinged spittle fell upon the snow and Ondolemar smiled, thinking the blood was a sign of weakness.
I will wipe that smug smile off your face, you bastard.
“WULD!” The world moved forward, towards Ondolemar. The Justiciar raised a ward in the last second when the blur that was the Slayer of Bet charged at him, the powerful battle cry more daunting than he expected when he saw Ondolemar flinch. Äelberon felt his left shoulder strike the ward, he felt the pain, but his momentum was more powerful than charging downhill. The impact sent Ondolemar with his ward into air, throwing him against the rocks. He grunted in satisfaction watching him squirm.
An ethereal blade imbued with purple flames suddenly appeared, aiming for his face. The old Knight of the Crystal Tower swung his sword to meet it, blocking the blow. But Lareyne retracted the blade, already moving behind him. He wasn´t fast enough to see her move, the injuries were preventing him from spinning around too much, but an old warriors know tricks. He used his ears instead, hearing the shuffle of her footsteps in the snow. I do not need to move to see you, blasphemer. Aye, blasphemer for wielding the weapons of the Daedra and insulting the many Mer who died for you.
“Feim,” the Dusken dog whispered and he saw the blade pass through his chest, suddenly ethereal, appearing on the other side. He spun around, swinging his blade in a wide arc, his form becoming solid again. He grinned at her surprise. What? Did you think me a sload? I had better trainers than you! The desert winds, the sand of the Arena, the desperation of not wanting his race to die when they poured in hoards from the gates of Oblivion
.
Lareyne ducked under the sword and her Bound Sword went straight for Äelberon’s crotch. She´s fast! he thought in that moment when he finished the two handed swing and used his left hand as leverage against the Bleak Walker´s sword´s pommel, bringing the sword down to protect his body. When the blades met, he kicked with his heel. Lareyne dropped to the ground and her left hand grabbed his ankle, pulling in the moment he was finishing the kick, hitting only air.
The pull threw him off-balance and he dropped to the ground with an angry roar of frustration, immediately rolling because Lareyne released a stream of fire from her hands. It followed him as he rolled, he felt the heat, the melting snow turning into steam. He felt the pain, every jarring motion against the ground.
“Kahleron!” Lareyne shouted and Äelberon gritted his teeth when he stopped moving, on his stomach ready to push up.
“Don´t use the name of my father, you Bitch!” he growled at the stream of fire heading towards him. “FUS!” he bellowed against the streak of flame, snuffing it like a candle, and he saw how the gust of wind had swept Lareyne off her feet. He started when he saw her struggle, his mouth open, breathing heavily, understanding what he had done.
Only in times of great need.
The last time he had used the thu’um to do violence against a person was at Gallow’s Rock. An emotional display of grief and rage from Skjor’s death that nearly got Aela killed. He swore then and there to never use it like that. To save it for the demons and the dragons.
Äelberon heard the mountains around and above him rumble, carrying the echo of his thu’um and he could have sworn he heard a faint dragon’s roar from high above him. He listened for the echo to stop as he slowly got to his feet, coughing from the pain. He saw the blood mixed with spit fall upon the snow. Red against the white. That is what you are coughing up, Old Mer, and he could feel the blood and drool freezing on his beard near his mouth, feel his nose run, his eyes water. He could hear the wheeze of his screaming lungs. Feel the dead glare in his eyes. His vision went blurry and then refocused. The injuries were getting to him and knew that he didn´t have much time. “Grant me vengeance.” He snarled weakly, watching Lareyne spring to her feet. He was watching her.
A mistake, he realized when Äelberon heard the crackling of lightning. Something hit his side, send a shock through his whole body, lifting him into the air.
He slammed into the ground hard, rolled few times, but he used the momentum and vaulted to his feet, though he wavered for a second, his left side still a little numb. Ondolemar was standing on the spot where he was a few seconds ago and Äelberon saw the grin. “I know that trick too, dog!” The Justiciar extended his arm towards Äelberon, his body suddenly turning into a lightning bolt that surged through the air towards Äelberon. Ondolemar had learned from some mistakes, it seemed.
“Feim!” he shouted, the lightning passing right through him and becoming Ondolemar behind in and with a gasp, willing his body to move, Äelberon was already spinning, his blade aiming at Ondolemar´s shoulder in a diagonal slash. The Justiciar spun around too, little bit faster than Äelberon, mirroring the coming diagonal cut with his saber. The Justiciar’s blade hit first, striking Äelberon’s shoulder, but because the saber was a very light weapon, it only scratched his shoulder pad, cutting over it and into the leather. Into the reinforced leather, but not through it. Bastards, however, are much bigger. Äelberon’s sword hit Ondolemar’s shoulder with more success. The ebony blade rang as if it was hitting solid rock, making Äelberon’s teeth vibrate uncomfortably, not being able to cut through the Flesh spell, but the blow was strong enough to break the collarbone. Ondolemar screamed in pain, dropping to one knee under the Dusken’s superior strength.
Äelberon heard the crunching of snow as fast, light footsteps closed in. Ondolemar then growled, a whirlwind of lightings surrounding his body and Äelberon perceived the hissing of fire from behind him. He jumped aside, the firebolt passing through the spot he was standing few seconds before. He rolled over his shoulder—fucking left shoulder, dammit—and got back to his feet, though it took more willpower each time, his strength now waning. I have my own fire, he sneered before opening his mouth.
“YOL TOOR!”
A wave of fire rolled from his mouth, the heat completely vaporizing the snow in front of him. It rolled quickly over Lareyne who raised a ward before the fire reached her and Äelberon then turned around to block Ondolemar´s sword that was aimed for his side. The cloak of lightning grazed his hand and he growled when the pain from the magicks nearly made him drop the Bleak Walker’s blade. He took a step back, only to hear steps on the scorched ground nearing him.
“Feim,” he whispered, jumping right through Lareyne, who cried out in anger. The moment he passed through her, he turned around, materializing again to swing his sword at her. It rang against her Bound sword and the strength behind his blow threw her off balance. He continue with a stab at her torso, which she blocked, but it allowed him to get close enough to hit her with back of his gauntleted hand, sending her hard to the ground with blood and teeth spraying from her mouth. How do you like my fist, little Fist, he thought dully, feeling a wave of Dusken pride. We may have been oafs to you, but we were fucking big oafs.
He had little time to savor the moment because the fucking cloak of lighting approached again and he was forced to retreat, taking a step back. Fucking magicks, I hate magicks. No, you don’t, you love magicks, your magicks, but not this shit’s magicks. I hate lightning. He took a deep breath, well as deep as he could muster, and coughed as he faced the slender Mer before him who was also sputtering, his finery all but gone. Those light green eyes blazing with a spirit that made Äelberon nod. Ondolemar´s left hand was hanging at his side, completely useless, and his right was still clutching his saber. He had to give the fuck credit, he was still holding his blade. Good old-fashioned third era stubborn and Äelberon couldn’t help but grin at his adversary. They don’t make Elves like they used to, eh Lemar? They seemed to share a moment in the snow, their eyes locking, and it seemed to Äelberon like they were both remembering a time when they were once friends.
He laughed when the blade came swinging through the lightning, drawing on them, and Aelberon jumped away from its range. Not friends anymore! But Ondolemar released a spell through the sword, lightning cutting through the air before Äelberon could dodge. It hit his side, sending a searing pain through is body. Like a thousand daggers piercing through flesh and bone. His muscles started shaking and the air was beginning to fill with the stink of burning leather and flesh. He remembered the Orc in the Forge, or rather, the pile of ash that was once the Orc at the Forge. He heard Ondolemar’s cry of victory, his taunts as he increased the flow of lightning. He heard Lareyne echoing Ondolemar, her voice rising in pitch. “Yes” over and over again was all she could say. Like she was having a bloody orgasm. That it? You want to see die, eh? He opened his mouth and the thu’um tore through him.
“FO KRAH DIIN!”
A gust of bone-chilling air escaping his lips, making the ground freeze with ice spikes blocking Ondolemar´s lightning path, and Äelberon’s muscles stopped shaking, feeling the the world grow dim as he stumbled against the Bleak Walker’s blade. Ondolemar was forced to raise a ward, and Äelberon saw through the growing dimness how it wavered against the ancient frost and then both the ward and shock cloak disappeared as Ondolemar ran out of Magicka. But Äelberon wasn´t in any better state. Each shout sapped more and more of his strength and his lung was getting worse. He was gasping for air like a dying fish, fighting for every breath, the pain almost unbearable. Blacks spots dancing before his blurring eyes. He felt how his joints were beginning to stiffen—the shock magicks had made him bleed into them—get up, old Mer, before the blood clots and moving will be almost impossible. You have it in you, come on, he urged himself. You are a Knight of the Crystal Tower, sworn to defend her to your last breath. Show these Thalmor who you are. Get up.
“He’s done for.” Lareyne sneered, her eyes narrowing.
“Remember who I am, youngling.” He said softly.
“A relic.” She scoffed, though her voice was different.
“Aye… a relic.” He nodded.
Äelberon found that he was on one knee, leaning against the Bleak Walker´s sword. Sweat dripped from the damp tendrils of his hair and he saw them fall upon the snow. He was definitely drooling and his nose was running faster than a Khajiit on skooma. He chuckled. When this is over, old Mer, you have earned. He paused. You have earned nothing. All you want is gone. His eyes then looked away from the snow, boring into the two Mer before him with renewed hatred, and with sheer willpower he got back to his feet. He saw her surprise when he rose and he felt a tiny smirk form on his lips. That’s right, Bitch, welcome to the third era. Where Mer were Mer. It turned into a full-blown laugh when he noticed how Lareyne and Ondolemar looked. Men have nothing on Altmer on a grudge match. If they knew how we could fuck up each other, they’d be shocked. Both Lareyne and Ondolemar didn´t look much better than he did, breathing heavily, barely standing, but oh, they’d fight to the bitter end, just like him. Lareyne´s chin was covered with blood, and her stance wavering, like she was dizzy. And Ondolemar! His face was contorted in a grimace of pain, anger, frustration, and his normally golden skin was almost as pale as Äelberon’s. His right hand, still holding the fucking saber, was pressed against his collarbone, as if holding it there would ease the pain.
None of them were in the best shape.
But they were Altmer, full of pride, so they came at him. And he welcomed it. No adversary, save the dragons, ever had such beautiful gall than his own people.
And both live inside me, he thought, as he blocked Ondolemar’s sabre that was aimed for his neck. He then quickly slashing down with the Bleak Walker’s blade, blocking Lareyne´s blow towards his knee. He moved to the right, the blade alongside his body pointing down with the pommel near his head, blocking another thrust from Ondolemar. He took a few more quick steps to the right, trying to get to Ondolemar´s weak side, making the Justiciar block Lareyne´s path.
He swung his sword, which Ondolemar locked with his sabre and with a twist of his wrist, he redirected the bastard’s momentum away from him, following it up with a quick slash from his saber. Äelberon blocked it with his forearm in the last second, seething through his teeth when the blade cut deep into his flesh, but the blow got him near enough to Ondolemar and he jabbed his elbow hard into the Mer’s face. Ondolemar shifted his weight, and Äelberon’s elbow missed his face, but found his shoulder. He screamed in pain, his breath hot, and Äelberon heard how the broken collarbone´s ends ground against each other.
Then Lareyne came around the Justiciar, launching a series of quick cuts and Äelberon had problems blocking all of them. “Fei-” he started, but Lareyne suddenly jumped into air after slashing at his knee and her boot hit his face. He took several steps back, stunned, trying to shake away the bright lights in front of his eyes. When he did, Lareyne was getting back on her feet, but Ondolemar was already at him.
The Justiciar slashed with his blade and Äelberon blocked taking one step back—
And slipped.
As he fell to the snow, he felt Ondolemar’s blade slash his side and a burning pain tore through his ribs, making him gasp. He landed in the snow, trying to get up.
Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He mouthed ‘no’ over and over again, felt hot tears on his face. Defeat. He was defeated, yet again. No! His mind seemed to take forever to process the information as he lay in the snow struggling. Äelberon’s tried to push off again of the ground again, like a crippled bird. One more time, Auri-El, please, but stopped his prayer mid-sentence. Truth, they are better than you, stronger, younger. You engaged them in fair combat, letting them dress even, knowing they had just fucked, and they beat you. You got a second chance from him and what did you do with his grace? Continue on your path like you were supposed to? No. You did not even stop to see if she lived, so consumed you were with vengeance.
No regrets.
His first thoughts when he entered Skyrim riding in a cart as a prisoner and he released a bitter chuckle, though it sounded more like a strangled cough. I certainly have regrets now. He could feel both their stares when he suddenly stopped struggling and settled back into the snow, just focusing on his breathing, the sharp pain, the in and out of the air, the whistle in his lungs as air blew through them. If he had the energy, he would’ve tried to guess the pitch. The whistle had a pitch. ‘Twas somewhere between…
“I have waited over a century for this moment.” Ondolemar sneered, causing Äelberon to shift his eyes towards the lanky Mer who was hobbling towards him, the blade of his saber dripping with his blood.
“Me too.” He croaked, his laugh lines wrinkling. “Only it did not go as I planned.”
“Waited for the moment where the Dusken Dog would fall to my blade.” The old windbag was clearly not done, his gaze upon Äelberon reflecting his disdain at being so rudely interrupted and Äelberon grinned at the Justiciar, tasting the blood in his mouth. I am sorry, did I interrupt you? Aelberon nodded. Where are my manners? Do go on, Ondolemar. “Where the Thalmor would triumph over your inferior ways. Your death will prove our superiority. That we are the right course for Alinor—“
“Just kill him already.” The girl barked.
Auri-El’s blessings, my child. You have a lick of sense and are great with a blade. How the fuck did you end up with this bungler?
“Agreed.” Äelberon coughed. “Bastard always ran his mouth.”
“Enough!” Screamed Ondolemar, inching closer, fingering the hilt of his weapon. “I want him to beg for mercy. I want him alive when I scalp him.”
“Then swing the blade already, you fucking Zealot!” Äelberon growled, his eyes widening in rage, blood-stained spittle splattering over his beard. “Do it! Take my hair and use it to wipe your scrawny, Thalmor ARSE that’s so full of shit that you canna even walk straight!” His lungs cried out in agony with every hoarse outburst, but cry out into the mountain pass he did. Let the Gods hear my defiance from their very spheres! “But NEVER will I beg of YOU!”
“Lareyne, hold him down.” Came the command while Ondolemar began to roughly loosen Äelberon’s hood, exposing his sweat-soaked hair, his eyes focused on the job at hand. Gods, it was freezing. The girl straddled Äelberon, holding his arms securely against the snow and for a second he noted the expression on her face, the now funny toothless smile when she pressed herself seductively against his crotch, beginning to slowly rub, puffing out her chest. Was this what she did to Erik and Decimus? He answered her “offer” the best way he could, pulling back the way Decimus showed him at Potema’s Catacombs, his wounds making him good and congested.
Just for you, Old Blade.
A frothy wad of blood-stained spit struck her square in the cheek with a thwack that would have made the Old Blade jealous. “I have refused far better than you!” he gnashed like an angry dog. It was worth the stars that flashed before his eyes when the back of her hand struck his face and his brows hooded his eyes. “Hece quelnassi!” He roared in defiance. She understood some Altmeris, it seemed, for there were more stars, making him close his eyes from the blow, the smart of tears too strong to ignore, and he felt Ondolemar pull his hair savagely.
“Let’s see how much you wag your tongue when your tie is severed.” Ondolemar teased, wiping the blade of his saber with Äelberon’s hair, staining the silver-white red. “This should’ve been done long ago, when we cleansed Dusk of its filth. You never deserved his blessing in the first place, dog. Never...”
Äelberon’s opened his eyes to the sky at Ondolemar’s words, seeing the beginnings of a light snowfall. The crystalline flakes dancing in the grey of the air. Swirling, flying, but insignificant. Like wings sailing over Keizaal, under the fiery sun of creation…
“Zu'u los ni dok, lir.” He heard himself speak. Like a rumble of thunder in the silence of the mountain pass.
“Cut his hair, Ondolemar. Hurry.” Lareyne warned curtly, her voice urgent, but far away to Aelberon as he continued to watch the dragons dance in the sky. Were they dragons?
“Zu'u los bruzah do dii bormah, ol vozahlaas ol tiid, lir.” He continued.
“Fuck, I’m trying.” Ondolemar snapped, his voice raising in pitch, his eyes flickering back and forth between Äelberon’s hair and his eyes. Nervous. Lareyne growled and the older Mer responded to her impatience. “You have two hands, you do it, you bitch! Or are you just happy straddling the dog? Disgusting whore! I saw the look—“
Her blade flashed in Ondolemar’s face, making the Justiciar flinch backwards.
“Do you know what I sacrificed for the hair of this Son of a Bitch? What I had to fuck? What I let inside me?” She screeched, beating her chest. “Give me the blade. I will cut his hair, you impotent piece of shit. You don’t have the cock for it!”
“How dare you!” Ondolemar hissed, his face reddened with rising blood while he pulled his weapon away from her. “I will be respected! Emissary Elenwen will hear of this! You will pay for your insolence.” He yanked Äelberon’s head towards him and he felt some hair tear, the pain in his scalp. More words from Potema’s tomb then flashed through Äelberon’s mind, said as Decimus kicked over the corpse of a draugr. They were having an almost philosophical conversation on the ethics of battle while they worked in secret to cleanse the catacombs for Jarl Elisef, hacking away at both draugr and vampires. He, Decimus, and Belrand. The old Nord was with them. Funny what you talk about while you are killing. And Äelberon had argued for honor above everything. When he finished, he could hear Belrand’s chuckle, but Decimus was more serious, spitting as he looked him right in the eye.
“At the end of the day, Old Mer, there are only two things that matter in a fight. That you are still standing and the other fucker is lying face down. How you got there doesn’t fucking matter.”
Well, Old Mer, this is where honor has gotten you. Though the Old Blade fared no better by his creed. Both of you will be dead soon.
“How you got there doesn’t fucking matter…”
Live or die?
Äelberon began to resist Lareyne’s hands on his arms, feeling himself struggle against her. Feeble at first, but gaining strength. She held him fast, but had to now throw her full weight on him. She jabbed her hand into his side, right where Ondolemar’s blade had sliced, and he gasped in agony.
“Auri-El’s Bow, Ondolemar! Cut his hair! Now!”
“Zu'u los ok bruzah, ahrk Zu'u hind wah lahney.” He said calmly. He met Lareyne’s gaze, their faces pertans apart, their breathing heavy, steaming in the cold. “Hi fen mah wah zey, lir.” Äelberon hissed before shutting his eyes to put something else in his mind while he struggled against her. She was so young and strong. He was old, his best days long gone. A sad relic of a forgotten time and it was taking everything to fight her. It was a losing battle, his muscles shaking with fatigue, weak from blood loss, the whistling of his breath…
He then saw her face in the moonless, aurora nights high in the snowy mountaintops. Star-fire in her eyes, paleness framed by ebony. I am trying for the hope of us. Faint in the distance, the glimmer of it. Please, live for me, love for me, fe’angua Maira mafre.
Äelberon opened his eyes again toOndolemar raising his blade to slice, pulling his hair to make it taut. “For the Aldmeri Dominion!”
“NID!” He suddenly roared, lurching upwards with every last angaid of strength he had left, almost throwing Lareyne off him. She cried out and raised her blade to plunge into his heart, while Ondolemar tried to recover his footing so he could cut his hair. Her eyes blazed like the green fire of Trinimac’s glory.
“NAGARE, ALDA KAHN!” she shrieked violently, bringing the blade down. (Die, old drum.)
“FUS! ROH!” he screamed in response, from a deep place within his soul. The thu’um surged through the mountainside, making the narrow pass vibrate, sending Lareyne through the air above him, her blade hitting the ground to his right. She screamed during her entire final journey, the sound abruptly cut-off when she struck the mountainside, replaced by the crunch of a fractured spine and frail moans of pain, feeble golden lights trying to emanate from her hands as she flailed helplessly. She knew what was coming.
No regrets.
Liar… you will regret this.
There was the deafening rumble of thunder barreling towards them and for a split second, Äelberon and Ondolemar’s eyes locked.
I cheated.
The Justiciar’s pointed jaw was wide open, the blade trembling in his hand and the look on his face was one of absolute horror, the light-green eyes paralyzed with fear. Understanding now what had been done. None of them were able to utter a word and the last thing Äelberon saw before he closed his eyes was a white ceiling closing in fast upon them.
“Feim zii…” he then whispered weakly, the cheat complete, the cheap trick, a tiny smile forming on his face as he faded into a blue ethereal. Ondolemar must have seen that because Äelberon heard the scream, a sound of comprehension. He then made an enraged noise as if he was starting to speak, but the mountain came, and she had no qualms interrupting Justiciars. The Snow-Throat came to Äelberon’s aid, answering the call of his thu’um, no better than the dragon at Windhelm now.
Deceptive and dirty. Cheater, trickster. Vothni zin, without honor, like a serpent, like a Dovah.
Snow-Throat came, bathing them in her cleansing purity, while the terrified screams of his people rang loudly in his ears. Still your people, despite everything they have done to you. While limbs next to him snapped, dashed against rocks. While blood gurgled from wounds. While hearts finally stopped. But his closed eyes only saw the tall smoke billows and the orange flames rising against a black, moonless night like a bloodmoon. The wooden spires of the Temple burning quickly, the glass exploding. A crystal sea red with blood. Myrtle trees burned to a crisp. Their black-robed grins while they slew their own Elven kin, like jackals upon the newly-born fawns of springtime. The wails of Dusk. Gods, his own Night of Tears, weeping as Ysgramor did that night under a shower of golden lachryma, the one who bore him cradled in his arms, lifeless. The father he loved damned for eternity. Only you will never have your Song of the Return…
It is why you wield ebony.
The manifold regrets of the Last Knight of the Crystal Tower...
A final blast of cold air washed over his fevered skin.
And he was glad in it before he faded to Oblivion, the smile still etched on his face.
Fasendil tossed a piece of charred skeever he was munching on to Olaf the Dog, who caught it with a snap of his massive jaws, the spittle dripping from the large oaf’s short, stocky muzzle. A pink-black tongue smacked, and Fasendil was rewarded with an enthusiastic wagging from that curled tail. Any meat was meat and welcome, especially in this beast of a winter. The large-boned, hairy beast of a mastiff eyed him with a sleepy amber eye, issued a grunt, and then settled back on the floor of the tent with a heavy sigh and a fart, making the Imperial Legate wrinkle his nose at the stench. That being said, they were beginning to resemble each other, minus the shaggy fur. Fasendil took another bite of skeever meat, and then set it down. Even your fatness has certain standards, he grumbled to himself, patting his belly over his armor with a golden hand. He knew what he really wanted. Mead.
“You are bored, eh Olaf?” Fasendil asked. Another sigh from the animal and the Legate shrugged, throwing his hands in the air in mock-surrender. He was getting nowhere with work today anyway. Too many distractions. “Well? Go make yourself useful, ya fat arse, and watch that camp over by the ruin.” The dog rolled onto his back in response, exposing his tan underbelly. He looked like a hibernating bear. Clear you are not moving your arse today, Fasendil smiled, setting his paperwork aside.
His eyes found the opening of his tent. His men, wrapped in heavy furs and sporting thick woolen trousers and shirts under their standard Imperial uniforms, had been on the ready since early Morning Star, rotating sentries watching the developments unfurl at the small Dwemer ruin over the course of two weeks. The bandits previously there were slaughtered and a camp was set up. They noted the arrival of others and the party seemed to be a Hodge podge of every mercenary Tamriel’s northernmost province had to offer. With more mages than Fasendil was personally comfortable with.
But it was this morning’s earthquake that really shook the camp. Literally, Fasendil thought with a wry grin, letting his laugh lines crease. They were still picking up after it. And some could still not tear their eyes away from the large white stoned, golden-roofed Dwemer tower that now appeared out of nowhere. He even joined his men on several watches, crouching behind rocks in the freezing border between the Rift and Jerrals, observing the camp from a distance. Some wanted to investigate, but that was not their job and they respected his desire to remain cautious. If they harmed old Froki in his cabin—which reminded him, he needed ride up there soon and check on how the old man and young Haming were doing—or one of the outlying farms, that was a different story, but this didn’t look like a typical bandit party. They were after something. Let these adventurers fuck themselves up and leave the Legion out of it. Their job for the Empire was clear. Aid the citizens of the Empire and watch the roads, especially the mountain pass that led into Falkreath Hold. That led into Imperial territory. He knew there was a hidden Stormcloak camp stationed somewhere at the end of the pass.
How did he know? Because sometimes men sent from his camp to Fort Neugrad to replenish supplies from Cyrodiil never returned. And those that did survive, only needed to say two words for him to know what had happened.
Sun-Killer.
A fine soldier, a fine man, good to his troops, one of the great beasts of The Red Ring, and his dear, dear friend, but now on the wrong bloody side. Legate Fasendil sighed, his Altmer eyes leaving the opening of his tent to study the map of Skyrim in front of him. If only the Stormcloaks understood who the true enemy was. Elves understand things Men do not and for a moment, images of desert avenues engulfed in green fire passed through his lined orange eyes. Put it away, you old Dusken.
A low growl from Olaf brought Fasendil’s eyes to the tent opening again, his hand finding the hilt of his sword. A soldier is always prepared. One of his men, a new recruit from the last sojourn to Fort Neugrad. Poor fool was squirming.
Olaf did that to people.
“Olaf…” Fasendil chided. “He’s a friend.” He ordered. The dog blustered a bit, showing off his black ruff, and paced around a few steps to let the soldier know who really commanded the Imperial camp before the animal settled on his haunches. The second fart was for extra emphasis.
“Legate Fasendil.” The new recruit saluted. His straight back, shiny weapons, and a face smoother than a baby’s arse did not go unnoticed. Granted, Nord babies were practically born with axes in their hands, but that they were already being tossed into the Legion was getting a bit ridiculous.
“Take the pole out of your arse, boy. You are new here, yes? Name?”
The lad stared and swallowed. A young Nord. It was hard to take orders from an Altmer, Fasendil knew that. Hard answering to an Elf. “Haris, sir.”
“Adjusting well, Haris?” Fasendil asked. Of course he knew exactly how his new recruits were adjusting. It was the coldest Winter Fasendil had ever seen in his time in Skyrim and he didn’t lie to himself, keeping an eye on Justiciar Ondolemar wasn’t the only reason he wanted to be assigned to the Reach when General Tullius stationed his most trusted Legates in Skyrim. The weather there was far more cooperative. Tullius, however, wanted him at the Rift, watching the mountain pass, watching the border to Morrowind, watching Sun-Killer, whom they both knew well. It made sense, Fasendil was used to mountains, used to Elves and used to old Sun-Killer.
So, he got the Rift, surrounded by Nords who were sympathetic, at the very least, to Ulfric’s cause, and downright nasty at the worst, setting fire to tents, beating soldiers who were caught alone on patrol. His own men even started off distrustful of him, but through hard work and his oodles of Dusken charm, they now counted him as both leader and friend. And how did he know?
You know you are a Nord’s friend when you spend a winter with them and they do not try to kill you, eat you, or fuck you.
“Yes, Legate.”
“Good.” He managed a reassuring smile which seemed to relax the young Nord. “What is it then?”
“Another rider has been sighted taking the mountain pass.”
“Oh?” Fasendil raised his eyebrows.
“Looks like a big Nord, Sir. Dark armor. Scouts think he may be after the two Altmer we saw take the road earlier.”
Fasendil sighed. Ah shit, here we go. Another vigilante targeting Altmer. By Henantier’s axe! Not every Altmer is Thalmor, you know. “Did he come from the ruin too?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Horses ready?” He didn’t really have to ask, but might as well.
Haris nodded. “Yes, Sir. Are you giving us leave to pursue and question?”
“No, son. I think this is a matter that will require my direct involvement. I will join you.” He gestured to Olaf as he tightened the chain that secured his brown bearskin cloak. Old and a little tattered, just like he was, fur bare in spots along the hem. It was his cloak. If they knew how old that fucking cloak was…. Fasendil rolled his eyes at the furry lump on the floor that was his mastiff. “Come on, fat arse. Time to earn your keep.” He chuckled when the dog huffed in protest, all his previous bluster gone. “Gah! A fat snowberry you turned out to be! Intimidating Eton Nir Mountain Dog, my arse.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Haris grin, far more comfortable with him. See, that Dusken charm always works. Fasendil could be an asshole when he wanted to be, but it wasn’t needed as of yet today. His men knew his asshole mood well enough by now.
“Come on, Bear. An extra bite from my ration if you go.” The young Nord stooped, putting his hands on his knees to encourage the dog, making Fasendil’s heart swell with pride. Bear was their pet name for Olaf and it was clear that Olaf was doing his part to boost soldier morale with his bravado. They needed it and he needed his troops frosty, with open minds. A Nord pursuing two Altmer was cause enough for Fasendil to be uneasy.
“If he doesn’t go, he’ll end up on the menu!” Fasendil quipped.
“Ah, Legate don’t do that to old Bear.” Haris protested, he then turned to Olaf and clapped. “Come on, boy! Maybe we’ll catch a stray deer on the pass!” He rubbed his stomach which made the shit smack his tongue and wag his tail. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, venison…” Olaf huffed, blowing air from his nostrils, which sent dog drool flying everywhere, but Fasendil saw the dog’s muscles twitch and he was up at the Nord’s words.
Fasendil laughed, patting the boy on the shoulder. “I won’t, I won’t. Bastard knows I’m too much of an old softie. Let’s go, son, and may the Divines guide us.” He’d show the lad the ropes today.
The sound of the avalanche made Fasendil pull in the reins, slowing down Ysgramor. The dapple grey snorted, quivering his nostrils, and pulled on the reins hard wanting to go forward. Of all the obstinate animals, but Ysgramor was his, every last stubborn angaid of him, though Fasendil often swore he was part mule. His men then followed suit, halting their horses immediately or stopping in their tracks, far more cooperative than the ornery gelding was.
“Careful.” He warned with a hard whisper and a direct look over his broad, bearskin-cloaked shoulder. They felt the residual rumble of snow slide down the pass. “Be prepared to retreat.” He glanced around, his eyes scanning up the high walls of the pass, trying to discern any fresh tremors or breaks in the mountainside and immediately hated his helmet all over again. You hated it when you first wore it over one hundred fifty years ago, you hated it during the Great War, and you hate it now, but you need it to protect your fat head. Especially if this snow comes crashing down on us.
They could feel the rush of icy air and they all knew. Shit, the pass wasn’t supposed to be closed yet. He had one more trip to Neugrad planned before they themselves would seal the pass with their war horns, protecting the citizens of both the Rift and Falkreath from the threat of the Snow-throat’s rumblings. He wasn’t surprised, however, that the avalanche happened. The lights and noises that came from the pass would have reopened the very Gates of Oblivion with their commotion. The Nords in his company were especially nervous. All had heard the strange language shouted from further up the pass.
The Dragonborn…That was no Nord who followed those two Altmer.
It was whispered behind his back. The Dragonborn. They did not know much about him, Tullius preferred to keep such details under wraps. Only that he was not a Nord and many suspected that he was, in fact, much to Fasendil’s surprise, an Altmer. Gods preserve the poor sod’s soul if that was indeed the case, for Fasendil knew his race well. The General did issue orders for his troops that the Dragonborn would be allowed to complete his work unimpeded and on that Fasendil was grateful. He remembered seeing his first dragon last year, circling the Tower near Froki’s ‘stead, the camp’s combined concern for the old Nord tracker great. He almost sent a group to evacuate the Nord, knowing full-well that the old man would never leave his ‘stead. Never leave the mountain. Something about being near “Kyne’s winds.”
Then he rode towards the Tower a few days later. The Dragonborn. On a huge mare, black as night and armored. Not a single one of his men looked away from that battle near the Tower that then ensued, including himself. The flashes of lightning. The fire from the beast. The Dragonborn riding away victorious in the distance, tall on his war horse, the image of him sending shivers up Fasendil’s spine that he didn’t want to dwell on. All too familiar images. Silver, silver armor shining like the morning sun. Just like the books he read to his children, his grandchildren, his great and now great great grandchildren. Keeping the hidden legends of their homeland ingrained in their hearts. Your family had their share of them. The Dragonborn in his silver armor had done a service for his men that day.
The Dragonborn was now in that pass and the mountain had fallen. Shor only knew if the other two Altmer were with him. What were the circumstances? His curiosity was getting the better of him and it was borderline careless. He looked back as his men. Ah fuck it, they were as curious as you are, he smirked.
The rumbling snow became silent, its path halted, and Fasendil heard his men murmur behind his back, heard the shifting of horses. He straightened his back on his saddle and drew his sword from its scabbard. You forgot your bow, you dumbarse. Blah, that’s not your weapon. You are happier with a sword, or better an axe. Where’s your axe? You left your axe back at camp. Fasendil, sighed. Stop talking to yourself. You’re nervous. Straighten your back more, you are an Altmer and your men expect you to be calm even though you feel like a whole colony of ants are crawling up your legs. He took a deep breath and turned slowly to face his men.
“Wait here.” He whispered. A few of his Nords visibly scoffed at his words, but he flashed his now famous Dusken scowl and immediately put them in their place. “That’s an order.” He growled softly. “Olaf. Haris.” The dog perked up, a steely glint in his amber eye and the young Nord advanced his animal forward, his own weapon drawn, an axe. I like you already, boy. “Come.” Fasendil gave the reins a gentle slap and old Ysgramor ventured deeper into the narrow pass with mountain walls that reached the very sky without any fear, finally happy that he was going to risk his horse’s hide. The trio left the rest of Fasendil’s men behind. Always, he first, men second. It is the way of honor.
“Ysmir’s beard!” Haris exclaimed under his breath when their horses rounded a corner.
Fasendil and Haris were greeted by substantial domes of snow, ice and battered rocks. Fuck, pass would be gone until well into the Spring, he sighed. That was not what his men needed. They would have to make plans to begin scouring for game. Send hunting parties. Investigate dens for hibernating bears. A fat boar bear would feed his men for a good long while. Leave the sows and their cubs. They could also go ice fishing in Lake Geir. Olaf made a strange noise, causing Fasendil to eye the dog, while Haris continued scanning the walls of the pass, the steam passing through the young Nord’s open mouth.
“What do you see, Olaf? I just see snow, angaids upon angaids of snow.” He furrowed his light, greying blond brow, hooding his pale orange eyes against the glare of the white all around him. Alright one advantage of the blasted helmet, he conceded. Alright another, it kept his ears warm too. Another cold night like last night and Olaf will be sleeping on your head. What would I be without my knife-ears?
Olaf quickly rushing forward towards the piles of snow brought Fasendil out of his thoughts.
“Sir!” Haris whispered. “Bear!”
“Olaf, get back here!” The old Altmer growled. And of course, was promptly ignored. The dog began to sniff around a particular spot and Fasendil cursed. “Shit.” Dog found something. The Altmer’s stomach sank when he saw the dog begin to dig in earnest. Don’t be the Dragonborn, the Altmer prayed silently. That would not be good. He had heard the roar this morning. They all did. Haris muttered a prayer to Talos under his breath. I won’t begrudge a young lad his god, not today, Fasendil thought sadly. Olaf began barking loudly as he continued to dig and Fasendil’s eyes widened when the powerful beast plunged his head deep into the snow and gave a good tug.
Out from the snow came an arm. Fasendil blinked and Haris gasped. An arm. An arm just came out of the snow. An arm is now in your dog’s mouth and Olaf seems to like his new chew toy. Without thinking, Fasendil sheathed his weapon, dismounted and gave Haris’ horse a slap on the rump, making the animal jump to attention. “Haris! Go! Go! Go! Tell the men to get their arses here! We need diggers! NOW!”
“Aye, Legate!” the young Nord cried, whirling his horse around while Fasendil ran towards Olaf, his armor clanging with every step, tight against his belly, his breathing matching the heavy pounding of his feet.
“Olaf, drop!” He ordered.
With a sound shake, Olaf dropped the limb and then happily returned to his digging. Fasendil heard the horses behind him. Fuck, they were following behind all this time. No way, Haris got to them that quickly. I hate my men, I love my men. He stooped to pick up the arm and groaned in revulsion as he wiped the excess snow away.
It was already stiffening from the cold and he knew his race well enough that he immediately recognized it as an Altmer arm. A male’s, thin, but toned, the tattered remnants of a jacket of fine leather and scarlet silk, now wet from the snow. A right arm and he turned it to inspect the hand.
He dropped it, there was a ring. No, wait two, shit. He squinted against the glare of the snow, not paying attention to Olaf’s continued digging. He could hear his men stop their horses and dismount, the grumbles of his men to tell others to head to camp and bring more shovels. Pick up the arm. Fasendil gingerly retrieved the broken, almost pulverized limb, the golden skin bruised and swollen from pooling blood. This is what snow can do, he marveled, gazing briefly up at the mountains high above him. We are so utterly small in this world… He was surprised the arm still had fingers. Aye, two were missing and the thumb, ripped from the knuckle, the rings were holding the other two in place. He immediately recognized the first ring, his face hardening to a scowl. The all-to-familiar geometric eagle in gold against the shiny black enamel.
Only Thalmor justiciars of substantial rank had such rings. So, Thalmor, eh? Why are you not in your robes, you puny shit.
Yells from his men. A broken dagger was found, but Fasendil focused his attention on the hand. The second ring…
A signet ring and Fasendil’s sucked in his breath.
“It can’t be.” He murmured. “Ysgramor’s axe… it can’t be.” He knew the ring, remembering the Elf that bore it. His cruel sneer. His light green eyes blazing. The green fires of Sentinel. The screams of the dissidents. Bullshit, they were not dissidents, they were just refugees. Their only crime was not agreeing and wanting to leave to make a new life for themselves away from Alinor. Just like your own family had when the Blessed Isles became something not so blessed. Fasendil remembered how the Elf mercilessly ran his saber through Fistelle’s chest. He murdered my sister. The look on Lord Larethian’s face when he arrived a moment too late. I will remember those apple green eyes forever, Fasendil thought. The shame. And the look on his cousin’s face. The pain. I had told you to get out, to get your family out before it was too late.
In the year 98, when no moons graced the skies, it was too late.
“Sir?”
“Haris?” His voice broke and he saw his tears fall upon the snow. Fasendil swallowed, attempted to control the avalanche of emotions, but to no avail, and he let himself weep silently while he knelt. Time slowed as it does for Altmer when they finally release and let the emotions come. You are weeping in front of your men and you don’t care. There was justice today for the Night of Green fire. The mountain took your butcher, Fistelle. He could only kneel for a spell, letting it sink in. He was dead. In a twist of fate that Fasendil could not comprehend, he was staring at the arm of Ondolemar, Lord of House Gaebinder. The very reason why he wanted the post in the Reach was… here. Dead.
“There is another body,” Haris interrupted, breaking Fasendil from his thoughts. He looked up to face the Nord. The young Nord sees your face, Old Mer. “Legate?” Nord’s voice was different now, unsure. Compose yourself, Legate Fasendil of the Imperial Legion. “Why are you just kneeling? It’s cold…”
“Kneeling here?” Fasendil whispered, beginning to straighten his back. The time for sorrow was over. You have work to do. They found another body and you will have to be strong for your men when if it turns out to be the Dragonborn. “I am alright.” Fasendil replied with a grim nod, setting the arm down. He cleared his throat and stood, brushing the excess snow off his knees. “I will explain my behavior to all the men when we settle by the fire after our work here is done.”
“Another story, Legate?”
Fasendil managed a small smile. “Aye, another story.” It was time to tell them about that night in Sentinel. He saw the glimmer in Haris’ eyes. You are new and already my men have been telling you about my stories, eh? He forgot his grief as his smiled broadened a little. That’s it, bounce back. It is the Dusken way, like the waves of the rolling sea. Sometimes up, sometimes, down, but always there. He excelled at telling stories. All his family did. They spun more yarns in his clan than the weavers did. He told them for entertainment around their campfire, but each always had a lesson, each would subtly educate his men, to make them understand that things were not always black and white. Why his horse was named Ysgramor, why his dog was named Olaf the Dog. At first, they had thought he was mocking Nords by naming his animals after their great Atmoran heroes. They were then incredibly surprised to hear that an ancestor of his was Harbinger of the Companions. “But we have work here first. So, another body you say?” He continued.
“Yes, Legate. Another body has been found. A She-Elf.” Fasendil barely masked his sigh of relief that it wasn’t the Dragonborn. Shit, he was Harbinger over at Jorrvaskr too, that they also knew. Haris continued. “We think badly broken too, in pieces, and we may have found the rest of the Mer. The same torn leather on the body. Pieces of horse too, things to set up camp and one of the soldiers found a package, looking like weapons wrapped in fur. But it’s going to be a mess to dig them out… Oh shit! Legate! Look!” Haris pointed towards Olaf. “Bear! Stop messing around back there! What if the snow falls on him—“
Olaf’s frantic barking cut Haris off and both turned to the dog. He was at a different pile of snow, focused on digging, his tail wagging like it did when the old snowberry smelled Fasendil around. The beast was sticking nearly his entire body in the snow and they could see him pull at something hard, his shaggy black and tan patterned coat shaking with effort, the powerful muscles bulging and straining. Prepare yourself for another arm, the way he’s pulling, or damn, something even heavier. Olaf gave a final, mighty tug and a form, large, limp, armored, and dark was dragged from the pile of snow. Two arms, two legs, one head, all accounted for. The other bodies were in pieces. This one was whole. Impossible, Fasendil narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, shit, Legate, another body!” Haris gasped. Olaf sniffed at the body, talking to himself about his new prize, while Fasendil and the lad caught up.
“Olaf, away!” Fasendil commanded, but the dog was not listening. Instead, the dog was licking enthusiastically at what looked like the head; covered in a hood. The tail still wagging away. What the Oblivion are you smelling, boy, that’s got you acting how you act when I come home from patrol?
The mastiff started when a gruff moan came from the body, but Olaf’s excitement got the better of him and he continued to lick the body. A gauntleted hand weakly shoved Olaf’s muzzle away, making the mastiff grunt with delight, mistaking the action for play. “Stop it, Core, leave me be. Damn snowberry…” The voice was weak, semi-conscious, and Fasendil shook his head. There was a familiarity to it. The accent was so familiar. Core? Who was this Core? Olaf head-butted the body and it slowly turned, letting out another groan, the bear paw of a hand that pushed away Olaf’s muzzle going limp.
Fasendil froze when he saw the scarred face, his mouth open, but unable to form words. A scar that started just below the left eye and ended on the right cheek. Fasendil remembered seeing that scar, remembered the Mer that bore it. His skin as pale as a ghost.
The Mer he thought was alive was now dead. And the Mer he thought was dead was now alive.
“Have something to drink, Legate.” Said Haris, holding a tankard for Fasendil. He should be sending the lad away, but no, how could he? So long as his men kept their constant interruptions quiet and allowed the Mer laying in Fasendil’s bed to sleep, the Imperial Legate didn’t mind the intrusions. They eased his own nerves, displaced his shock.
It’s not every day the dead come back to life.
And it’s not every day that the dead become Dragonborn or Harbinger of the Companions. He was the one, Fasendil’s instincts when he saw the silver armor at the Tower a year ago were correct. His gut telling him when his mind refused to believe. Of all the Altmer on Nirn, it was him and Fasendil was as anxious to speak to him as his men were, but for entirely different reasons.
That he was the Dragonborn of their myths was the last of them.
The Mer was still sleeping, the camp healer deciding, with a look that betrayed her trepidation, that what he really needed was sleep rather than her intrusion. Fasendil didn’t blame the woman for not trying her magicks on him. Who would want to risk a mistake on the Dragonborn? Better to let the Mer sleep his wounds away. Fasendil regarded the Mer in his bed, watching him sleep. The way he tossed and moaned. Restless. Not all wounds heal with rest.
The years had been terribly unkind to Ronnie. Well, wasn’t it far better for life to be unkind than for death to be nothing? Looking at the Mer, Fasendil wasn’t so sure. Alive, after all these years, Fasendil shook head in disbelief, taking the tankard. “Thank you, Haris.” He grunted. He didn’t hear Haris’ footsteps leaving the tent. It was that way whenever somebody walked into the tent with orders for him to sign, bringing food, since they rescued the Mer, bringing him to their camp. They would perform the task and then stare.
Not knowing that they were staring at Fasendil’s own cousin. You know me as Legate Fasendil, but my name is Fasendil of Dusk. And the Dragonborn’s name is Äelberon of Dusk, son of Kahleron, my favorite uncle, older brother to my father. The Altmer moaned again, as if in the throes of a nightmare, beads of sweat forming on his lined forehead. No, the years had not been kind to poor Ronnie. It was not that he looked infirm. On the contrary, Ronnie’s bulk had increased significantly from when they saw each other last. You’re just fat, Fasendil, but he’s all muscle. Well, a little fat too, the old Elf conceded. Ronnie’s body looked strong, hale despite his advanced years. The beard full and practically Nordic. A beard to envy in the heyday of the old Southern clans. You certainly couldn’t grow one like that.
The scars, the lines, the dark circles under the furrowed silver brow, the fresh wounds, however, Fasendil sighed. They told the story of a life wrought with suffering. A life Fasendil didn’t know still existed. Fasendil’s family were told that he had died back in 98. The year Dusk died. Were they lied to? It raised so many questions and Fasendil wanted the Mer awake, awake to answer them.
He looked down at his tankard to drink, no, really to distract himself from his own thoughts—fuck—tea. I hate tea. “No mead?” He asked Haris, knowing full-well the boy was still there.
“Ran out yesterday, Legate.” The lad replied, his young eyes on the sleeping Mer.
“Xarxes’ arse.” He cursed, taking a sniff of the liquid. He made a sour face. Canis root, gross. Olag wagged his tail at the curse. He loves that one, Fasendil let a smile creep over his tired features. More distractions are always good. “Xarxes’ arse.” He repeated gruffly, his eyes widening, watching the dog tense up and move his mouth in excitement, almost ready to bark. “Shh.” Fasendil warned. The dog issued a low huff of protest and his head again lowered onto the Legate’s feet. Best foot warmer in all of Tamriel.
“Zarkzeez arse? What does that mean?” The boy whispered.
“Spend enough time with me, son, and you’ll find out soon enough. It isn’t good.” The old Mer grumbled. “How much Ale do we have?” He yawned. Did they even have coffee? Coffee would be better than this shit. Why do Nords always think Altmer like tea? I hate tea.
“Uh…” The lad looked away. Ah shit. An Imperial troop comprised mostly of Nords, Imperials, and one alcohol-loving Altmer without any ale or mead was bad off. That was what that last trip to Neugrad was going to get you. That and a bit more moon sugar for your smokes, only that’s not going to happen now. Fasendil sighed, resting his chin on his palm, letting the flesh squeeze, distorting his face. He certainly didn’t have enough of that to last the rest of the winter. His eyes fell on the bag on the rough wooden table he used to plan this camp’s survival for the duration of this Civil War. Bound in an animal skin with leather strips, he could make out the shapes of two weapons. A bow and a bastard. His men didn’t dare open it. Good, because he would have tanned the hide of the fool who dared touch his cousin’s weapons. He knew they were his. They had to be. Not the ebony bastard with the red and gold on the hilt that they found near where Olaf pulled the Mer.
That belonged to a Bleak Walker and Ronnie was no Bleak Walker. Another question to ask him. So many…it would take years to answer them all.
Next to the package rested that blade, Ondolemar’s saber, his rings, and the dagger. The dagger was broken, but the saber survived. Intact. He fought hard the urge to snap the thin, pitiful excuse for a blade over his knee or to melt it in his smith’s forge. The weapon that killed his sister. But Fasendil needed to know what happened first.
Best to learn it from the Mer whose Order forbade the telling of lies. Do not bear false witness… To do so is to invoke the wrath of Auri-El, or some shit like that, Fasendil didn’t remember. His idea of a Sundas well-spent was to sleep in, get drunk, have a smoke, and be happy that he and his men survived another week of Stormcloaks. Or dragons, or trolls, or wolves, or bears, or vampires, or bandits, or cold, or disease. The list went on and on.
“How is he?” Haris asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Fasendil yawned. “Same. Still sleeping.” You are going to have to take a sip of that disgusting tea if you want to be awake when the old Eagle wakes up. His homeland’s name for him. The Eagle of Auri-El or the Pale Elf on account of his coloring. He yawned again. Blast! Fasendil widened his eyes and blinking in an attempt to stay awake. This is what you get for keeping vigil, sitting on a chair next to that bed for the rest of that day and all through the night.
It was morning now, a grey morning. A light snowfall dusting the camp, like sugar dusts an orange cake. Orange cake, memories of his Homeland. The seventeenth of Morning Star. They saw the old serpent wandering the sky the night of the sixteenth and that made Fasendil uneasy as fuck. He hated omens. An Altmer Dragonborn, his own cousin, the poor sod. Aye, their family had deep ties to Skyrim through the Outsider, but still.
“Your tea’s getting cold, Sir.” Haris pointed out.
I hate tea—
“Tea?”
Both Fasendil and Haris jumped at the voice and Olaf began a series of deep, booming barks. There were cries outside the camp, the clamor of armor rushing towards his tent. Fasendil snapped to attention. “Haris, go outside. Tell the men to wait. Wait for my orders.” He stared at the barking dog. “Auri-El’s bow and take Olaf outside. Have one of the men walk him. He’s being so loud he’ll bring Sun-Killer himself!” He ordered, scooting his chair rapidly towards the side of the bed. He winced when he heard it crack, but continued scooting. Oghma’s tits you are such a fat arse. Watch you fall on your chair to the floor before you even reach him… He looked over the bed and held his breath.
The red-orange eyes locked with Fasendil’s, still glazed from sleep. Gods, those eyes were always something else. “Ata? Is that you?”
Fasendil bent his head, closing his eyes briefly to quell the onset of emotion. His father often said there was a strong family resemblance between he and his uncle. Ah, shit, he’s so out of it, he thinks you’re his Ata.
“No, Ronnie.” He said softly, putting a hand on the Mer’s forearm, relieved to hear that Haris had followed orders and the camp was quieting down, Olaf’s barks growing fainter. He needed the silence to think.
“Ata, it is you. So many years… I wanted.” The Mer started, but was unable to finish, the wetness accumulating in his world-weary eyes. Fasendil swallowed hard, putting aside his own grief, his own confusion, his own burning questions to bring the Mer out of his. Bring him out of the pain. He hastily wiped the wetness from his own face with the back of his beefy hand, happy that his men were not there to see him fall apart a second time in one day.
“My father always said that uncle and I looked alike, but no, Ronnie.” His voice cracked. Ah shit, he swallowed again, feeling snot in his nose. “I am not your father.”
The eyes blinked, a tear releasing from the corner of one of them, and the brows furrowed, the glaze gradually leaving the longer he stared. When did we see each other last? Over one hundred sixty years ago. Shit, Fasendil cursed to himself. Would you even recognize me, Ronnie? Do you remember who I am? The narrowing eyes and opening mouth gave Fasendil his answer. “Sendil?” The Mer finally croaked after a few moments. The eyes then widened. “Sendil?” He repeated, understanding.
“Aye, cousin.” Fasendil nodded. His older cousin extended his arm and clasped Fasendil behind the neck. A Nord greeting. Their family’s greeting, brought over eons ago by their greatest.
“You still live?” Ronnie asked wealky, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You still live.” Fasendil stated warmly, clasping the hand behind his neck tightly.
They were like that for a few moments, just together, before Fasendil tenderly took his cousin’s hand and placed it back over his chest, choosing not to dwell on the dried blood that covered his armor of reinforced leather and dark metal, choosing not to dwell on the small stab wound on his chest, the size the blade precisely matching Ondolemar’s weapon. They were too nervous to touch him, to make a mistake with his armor, that they put him on the bed just as he was.
Fasendil broke the silence. “But where are my manners. You had asked for tea.”
And there it was, Ronnie’s familiar smirk. Tired and tiny, but present through his blood-crusted, untrimmed mustache. “Still an Altmer.” The older Mer quipped, bringing that hand up to rub his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Fasendil stood to retrieve the tankard. It was probably cold, but Ronnie wouldn’t care and at least, he wouldn’t have to drink it. He winced when his arse found the chair and it cracked yet again. The Mer glanced up at him, his expression confused. “Since when do you drink tea? You hate tea.”
Fasendil sighed and shrugged. “I don’t. Still hate the shit.” He gestured towards the opening of his tent. “I don’t know why, but my men seem to have this notion that all Altmer drink tea.”
“Most do.” Ronnie replied, now trying to sit up in the bed. Fasendil almost dropped the tankard in his attempt to help the Older Mer, only to be met with a look that clearly said, you help me, I’ll skin you alive. And despite the stab wounds, the cuts, the bruises, Fasendil didn’t doubt that he probably still could.
It was better to just hold the tankard and wait for the Mer. “I don’t know why, it’s disgusting.” He continued. A few more grunts and groans and Ronnie managed to get himself to a seated position, his back resting against one of the support beams for the tent. Fasendil handed him the tankard and they resumed being Altmer, the intensity of their first encounter now past. Altmer now engaged in their race’s deep passion for small talk. Just enjoying being cousins again, until they built up the strength to discuss the darker things in life.
The older Mer scanned the tent as he sipped his tea. “Where am I? An Imperial camp? In the bloody Rift?” He raised his eyebrows. “Sendil, you have a death wish? This is Stormcloak territory.”
Fasendil leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Ah, Ronnie, you know how war works. The Empire has camps everywhere.” He brought up his ankle to casually rest on his other thigh, choosing to ignore the further cracks he was hearing from the blasted chair. The older Mer eyed, studying him.
“You got fat.” Ronnie pointed out, completely tossing aside their current subject.
Fasendil looked at his bulging gut. It was mostly ale and mead in there, but he could still make a Nord pale the way he wielded an axe. “Aye, I got fat and I don’t see you fitting into your Tower garb any time soon either.”
“True.” His cousin conceded.
“You have lost your touch for small talk too, we were talking about Imperial camps, not my expanded gut. I know it is there, thank you very much, as does my smith, who constantly gripes when I bring my armor to expand it to fit it.”
“Imperial camps.” Ronnie reminded, a silly twinkle in his eye.
“Aye, Imperial camps. They are everywhere. Besides, Ulfric doesn’t know where I am.”
“Yet.” Ronnie grumbled, eyeing his cousin.
“You going to tell him?”
Ronnie let out a gruff laugh, which led to coughing. He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea. “Not with my current bounty, no thank you.”
“Bounty?” Fasendil asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. This was Ronnie! The no stealing, no crime Ronnie! “You have a bounty in the Eastmarch?”
His cousin knew exactly what he was thinking and made a face. According to his Ata, Ronnie had been little better than a hooligan before he joined the Order. “No, I did not turn to thieving. I still keep to my Tenets, well…” He sighed, the eyes flickering with sadness, before returning to normal. “Most of them. A dragon had attacked Windhelm.” He looked up, thinking. “On the first day of the New Year. Destroyed the docks, lives were lost. Bastard couldn’t be arsed to keep his own people safe while he sat protected in his stone palace. An insult to Ysgramor’s legacy, if you ask me.” Fasendil didn’t ask, but he let the older Mer fume. It was incredible to watch again. He’d learn about all this Dragonborn and Jorrvaskr business later. “Even the bloody court mage stepped up and helped me. Good man, though a wee bit creepy. When Jarl—“The red-orange eyes suddenly lit up and a broad smile brightened his features. “When Jarl Farts-under-cloak—“
If Fasendil had tea, it would have been sprayed all over his cousin’s face and he swore their laughter could be easily heard outside the tent. Whey they calmed down, Ronnie continued. “Well, when he called me to the palace, I punched the fucker in the nose. By Henantier’s bloody axe, I am not ashamed to admit I relished hearing the crunch of it breaking. Well, evidently, the Dragonborn is free to break Jarl Fart-under-cloak’s nose for exactly two thousand, five hundred septims. Was worth every cent, even if I haven’t paid it off yet. I will, though, a Dusken always pays his debts.”
“Verily?” Fasendil’s jaw dropped.
“Verily.” His cousin answered, taking a polite sip of tea. “So, your location is safe with me.” He sighed and looked out the tent, watching the soldiers move. “I am not yet involved in the war.” The tone became bitter and the eyes distant. “I have my own.”
The small talk was over with those words. Fasendil watched his cousin sip tea for several moments.
“Ask me Fasendil.” The older Mer spoke.
“How?” It was the first question. A single word, but Ronnie understood immediately.
“You know how, Fasendil. You were right to warn me and I…” He swallowed. “We loved our land too much to leave when we should have.”
“It was a Purge wasn’t it?” Fasendil asked, feeling heat build over his face, the anger. “They claimed they never did them, lying to the Emperor, but they did them, didn’t they? The letter to my father said vampires—“ Ronnie laughed a strange, bitter laugh that caught Fasendil off-guard. “But that can’t be true.”
“It was a purge and Ondolemar led the slaughter.” Ronnie admitted, though Fasendil felt that he wasn’t getting the whole story from his cousin.
“I knew it.” Fasendil growled. He looked at Ronnie. “They said you died.”
“A part of me did die that day. But, no, I was captured.” He said, quietly swirling his tea. “I had retaliated. After I had found my parents murdered, my home burned, I heard the cries of my city and I retaliated—“
“The Point is gone!” Fasendil exclaimed. No, no, no, this was the place they all loved as children. Its wild beauty. Where their family gathered for celebrations. Where their family escaped the Daedra. Gone? He shook his head.
“No.” The Elf quickly interjected, only to frown. “Well, yes, the home is gone, yes, but the grotto still stands, her memory there…” He let his voice trail off, his eyes faraway for a moment, but they then found Fasendil and continued “Let me finish, Fasendil. I want to talk to you, I want to rejoice that I have found family of my blood again, but…” His eyes again wandered to the tent entrance and Fasendil wondered why he kept doing that. It was like—“I cannot stay here long.”
“Why?” Fasendil then lowered his brow. He was a Legate. His empire was working with the Aldmeri Dominion, allowing them to enforce the White Gold Concordat. Aye, he hated the Thalmor with every fiber of his being, but he was a Legionnaire first, his family staunchly loyal to the Empire while Ronnie’s family remained loyal to old Summerset. He was compelled to ask. “Ronnie, did you kill Ondolemar?”
“He had taken everything from me again, Fasendil. I had started to rebuild my life in Skyrim. Finding a new family, finding Jorrvaskr.” He blinked. “I even found love—After one hundred years.”
“One hundred years of what, Ronnie? They had said you died.”
“One hundred years of exile. In Cyrod.” He let the weight of his words hang and faced the tent entrance, bracing for it.
Ronnie knew his cousin well.
Fasendil rose rapidly from his chair, knocking it over in the process. “Exile? You were exiled, to Cyrodiil?” He grabbed his cousin by the shoulder and made the Mer face him, tearing his eyes away from the grey morning. “My family agonized about you, about our kin back home for decades and you were at our doorstep all this time and said nothing? One hundred years and you said nothing?”
He got up just as quickly and loomed over Fasendil. Fasendil was big among Nords, but Ronnie was big among his people. He trembled with emotion. “And do what, cousin?” He hissed, speaking through gritted teeth. “Let them know where you were? Walk up to your family’s doorstep in Anvil, pat your children and grandchildren on their heads, with a squad of Thalmor at my heels? With Ondolemar, Vingalmo, and Ancano ready to purge you to? All because you call me kin? Is that what you wanted?” Fasendil looked away, but the older Mer growled and roughly pulled Fasendil’s face meet his glare again. Gods, he knew they were in Anvil. “Staying away from Anvil was the greatest gift I could have ever given your family then.” His features then softened, the eyes almost begging. “Tell me, please, that you and your family lived a happy life in your new city by the sea, Sendil, and it…” his voice broke and a tear streaked down his dirty cheek, making Fasendil close his eyes. He knew both now both saw in their minds the boardwalks of Dusk, the old Temple, the floating flower gardens. “And it would have been worth every day of that terrible loneliness.”
Fasendil opened his eyes, nodding slowly, now understanding what his cousin did for him. “We are happy.” They had been spared.
As quickly as he expressed sorrow, his cousin’s features lit up and the bear paw that was his hand fell upon Fasendil’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I am blessed in that knowledge.”
“Did you kill Ondolemar?” Fasendil repeated. Did you give me this gift too, my cousin? Did you slay the monster who murdered my sister?
“As much as my heart wanted to. As much as my body struggled to for his many crimes against me and my family.” He started, sitting wearily upon the edge of the bed. “No, I did not kill him.” He looked back at the entrance and Fasendil sensed with a heavy sadness that his time with his cousin was indeed growing short. “At least not in a way that befits the honor of our ancestors. Not in the way I wanted to.”
“Huh?” Fasendil shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“He bested me, Sendil. He and his powerful Fist. They bested me in fair combat and I, like a spoiled Dovah, my pride wounded, refused to yield to honorable defeat.” His voice was full of disgust. “I have shamed my family and myself, using a gift gotten by from just the accident of being born.”
“How?”
His cousin chuckled, rising again stiffly. His eyes fell on the bag and the items on the table. “That my gear? I need to go.” He didn’t answer Fasendil’s question.
“Yes, that is your gear, which you’re free to take, but, Ronnie, what do you mean? We saw the flashes of light from the magicks they cast. You are no destruction mage. You had to defend yourself. You earned the right to his weapons, his rings.”
He made to grab his gear and Fasendil could tell by the body language that he was closed off to him now. Ashamed. “I called myself a Knight-Paladin, but I am no such thing, a dishonor to the Mer who taught me. I am nothing but a trickster, a snake in the grass.” He muttered. It was all the Legate got out him while he watched the Mer strap on his gear, his motions stiff and worn from his injuries. He left Ondolemar’s things, but he noticed Ronnie took the Bleak Walker’s weapon.
“Stay a few days and heal, cousin.” Fasendil offered. Where he was going to dig up the food needed to feed that beast of a Mer for a few days could be addressed tonight by the campfire.
“No. I need to go.”
“Where?” Fasendil asked, placing his hands on the table, leaning against it.
“I go to see if I have a future.” He replied sadly. “If all isn’t lost.”
He let Ronnie’s words hang and gestured to Ondolemar’s blade. “Take his things with my thanks and blessing, cousin to cousin. As the Mer who stood by me in Sentinel.”
“She still died.”
“It doesn’t matter. I know how you and Lord Larethian tried.”
“Forgive me.”
“Ronnie, there is nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, there is.” He said bitterly. “No one is without sin.” Ronnie then focused on the insignia on Fasendil’s uniform, the Imperial banners on the walls of the tent and that great silver brow furrowed. “And the General?” The older Mer became grim. “The Dragonborn has killed a Thalmor Justiciar. Committed a crime against a defender of the White Gold Concordat.” His voice dripped with acid and he couldn’t help the dirty spit that escaped his lips upon saying those words and Fasendil understood. The intense cruelty of that dark day. When we won and at the same time, we lost. “I have fucked up both sides now.” He shrugged with a poignancy that Fasendil couldn’t ignore. “I should be placed under arrest. It is right to place me under arrest.”
Fasendil looked his cousin right in the eye. My turn to give a gift, Ronnie, because Duskens love their gift-giving. “The way my men and I see it.” He began. It was the Dragonborn. It was the Harbinger. There was no way. “An avalanche on the mountain pass to Helgen killed Justiciar Ondolemar and his female companion. We only found their remains, nothing else.” Ronnie opened his mouth to protest, but the Legate stood firm. “Nothing else, because they were robbed. Probably bandits, we have some problems with bandits. Or a troll, trolls are a pain in the arse and like shiny things for their lairs and Altmer just pack a lot of useless shiny shit with them when they travel, like beacons screaming ‘rob or eat me’... We then acted as proper soldiers of the Empire would, salvaging their bodies. Unfortunately, a supply horse wandered off during the salvaging efforts…” Fasendil turned to the entrance and barked. “Haris!”
The lad poked his head in the tent. “Yes, Legate?”
“Ready a horse, the Dragonborn has urgent business, you know, dragons and all that. Pack enough food, supplies, tea, because I fucking hate it anyway, and…” Fasendil took a deep breath, feeling a little whine creep to his throat as he made a sour face—aye, sacrifice that too. He looks like he needs it a lot more than you do—before going to his nightstand. He retrieved the precious satchel and held it for a moment, like he was hugging his favorite great great grandchild, before handing it to a puzzled Haris. He ruffled the boy’s sandy blond hair. “and a little moon sugar—“
“Cousin—“ Ronnie interrupted. Fasendil pointed at the older Mer and widened his eyes.
“Shh, you shh, not a word from you. Do not refuse an old Mer his gift-giving, or did your lenya not show you proper manners? I knew your lenya, she did, though maybe you were an idiot and didn’t learn them.” Ronnie was silent again and clearly moved. He cleared his throat and turned to Haris again. “I thought so. As I was saying. Enough for four days. That clear?”
“Yes sir.” Haris nodded.
When the lad disappeared, Fasendil continued with his ‘report’. “My men and I will then ship them off to the Embassy to be returned to Alinor for proper rites. May they rot in Oblivion forever, good bye and good riddance, Thalmor scum. And when this Civil War is over, if I survive, I will then journey to Alinor myself, dressed in a funny man’s outfit and dance on their tombs singing old songs from Dusk. I may not add the last part to the official report.” He managed a smirk. “Then again, it’s Tullius, I just might. He’d eat that up.”
“Why?” Ronnie asked. “Why help me?”
“You fucking took too many bumps to the head in that century away, or something?” Fasendil shot back, putting his hand on Ronnie’s back to begin leading him out of his tent, out into the grey morning. He didn’t know if Ronnie would make to where he was going, but he was going to give him every advantage. “Because I want something from you, cousin.”
“What?” Ronnie asked, turning to face Fasendil. In the harsh grey light outside, Fasendil almost regretted his decision. Ronnie looked like Death, and he could see that the wounds on his chest still oozed. Am I sending you to your death? Am I doing more harm than good? He gazed into his cousin’s eyes and saw the deep shame in them, but he saw something else. The spirit of survival with a little hope mixed in.
“Promise me.” Fasendil asked. “Give me that Knight-Paladin’s promise that you’ll do what I ask of you.” He saw the shame flash in his cousin’s eyes again. No, I don’t care that you think you are dishonorable. “It’s worth more than gold.”
“Alright, I promise.” Ronnie sighed.
“I want you to come back to this camp and greet me as cousin.” Fasendil started. “Greet me as family. I want to share a meal with you in front of my men in the light of our piece of shit campfire. There, I want you to tell us the stories of that building over there. The stories of your many adventures. And I want to show you letters from my family in Anvil. From my nagging wife and more great great grandchildren than I can remember sometimes. Their stupid drawings they send me, which you know I have kept because I am Altmer. Like you. I want to tell you about all the things you have given me.” He nodded, feeling his eyes water. “And…” He cleared his throat. “You need to meet Olaf.”
“Olaf?”
“Don’t ask, only come.”
“Alright.”
They then clasped necks in farewell. It was the Nord way. It was their way.
Translations
“Hece quelnassi!”
(Go fuck yourself)
“Zu'u los ni dok, lir.”
(I am not a dog, worm.)
“Zu'u los bruzah do dii bormah, ol vozahlaas ol tiid, lir.”
(I am a shard of my father, as immortal as time, worm.)
“Zu'u los ok bruzah, ahrk Zu'u hind wah lahney. Hi fen mah wah zey, lir.”
(I am his shard, and I wish to live. You will fall to me, worms.)
fe’angua Maira mafre.
(my Winter moon)
“NAGARE, ALDA KAHN!”
(Die, old drum.)
Olaf the Dog is modeled after the Tibetan Mastiff and yes, that is a real name for one of Ysgramor’s 500. A berserker.
Comments
“When Jarl [Farts-Under-Cloak]—“ (Should be capitalized)
[When] they calmed down, Ronnie continued.
Well, evidently, the Dragonborn is free to break Jarl [Farts-Un... more
At the end of the day though;
Victory needs no explanation; defeat allows none. After all, he is alive... more
As to the term 'reeducate' I think I'll stick to 'Mr.Wolf and his cave'.....
Edit: No, it isn´t. The two pictures are tied together for some reason and when I change one it changes the other one two...tusking chicken... This... more
Edit: No, it isn´t. The two pictures are tied together for some reason and when I change one it changes the other one two...tusking chicken... This is a rebellion!
Your honor will be your undoing.
The relationship between Aelberon and Ondolemar is complex. There are clear ties, the use of the "familiar" name for each other, ... more
You shall always be remembered as the Mer who was caught with his pants down... twice.