“Brother,” Thorald exclaimed in relief, stumbling into Avulstein’s waiting arms. As the brothers embraced, Elara sat down on a nearby chair, giving them a moment before she moved in to tend to Thorald’s wounds.
“You could always just give him a few healing potions,” Onmund sidled over, reading her intentions and a little alarmed at her labored breathing.
“Magic healing works more completely, and you know that. Potions are only a quick fix. I am certain he endured torture here, and will need a deeper level of healing,” Elara responded softly. She also did not want to tell Onmund that she had precious few left, as she used as much as she dared to get through the many Thalmor that now littered the halls of Northwatch.
Elara moved quickly to Thorald’s side, fighting the slight dizziness she felt from their recent battles. She looked at both brothers, who nodded their assent. The familiar swirls of golden light encircled Thorald as Elara sought out all external wounds. She shuddered as her consciousness moved deeper, repairing torn joints and seeking out internal abnormalities, smoothing them with her magic.
Thorald stood up and swung his arms around, stretching. “They do not heal like that at the temple, brother,” the rescued Nord questioned Avulstein with his eyes.
“It’s all right. It is good magic.” Avulstein patted Thorald’s shoulder, giving Elara a shy glance of gratitude. She smiled, thankful for the skills her mother passed on to her. She avoided Onmund’s gaze, as she sensed faint disapproval from him.
“I bet you have not had a decent meal for a while,” Elara guessed. “Let’s sit down and restore our energy before we take you back to your mother.” She unpacked her satchel, tossing apples and setting out a wheel of cheese on the nearest table.
“Wait…the torture room.” Thorald pointed to a door at the other end of the room. “They left him in there when they ran out to take care of you all.”
Elara nodded and walked to the door, steeling herself for unimaginable horror. Onmund tried to hang back unobtrusively, still not happy with the way she was expending herself, but knowing it was a useless argument.
“Hello?” Elara stepped into the room timidly, adjusting her eyes to the even more dimly lit conditions. She made out a manacled figure hanging at the far end of the room. The figure stirred slightly at her voice and she rushed over, healing spell at the ready.
“You are safe with me,” Elara soothed, grasping the emaciated man by the waist as Onmund gently worked the manacles off of the prisoner’s wrists.
“Maelynne?” The man turned sightless eyes towards Elara, as she stared back, momentarily stunned.
She eased the poor man down to the ground, with Onmund’s help, distractedly weaving a healing spell through her fingertips. “That was my mother’s name,” she tried to say easily, though her hands began to shake. “I am Breton, as you must have guessed by my voice, but it is not a common name.”
“Elara.” The man reached a trembling hand out to touch Elara’s cheek. “Kyne blesses me yet again.”
“F-father?” Elara started, not certain if she was awake or dreaming.
“Orin Rammligr, as I was used to be called. But I think I remember you calling me Papa,” Orin smiled, displaying a mouth with missing and broken teeth. When she last saw her father, he was strong and tall, blond hair in braids around his face. Who was this blind, broken man with white hair and stooped shoulders? She shook her head, trying to shake out the rage and confusion crowding in so she could focus on healing the man before her.
Onmund knelt by Elara’s side, gently laying a hand on her shoulder. He saw the anger flare in her eyes, and he wanted to bring her back to the present. “You have my permission, if you need to,” he said softly, taking her left hand in his right.
Elara knew she did not have the ability to borrow Onmund’s magicka to heal the damaged man in front of her, but she squeezed his hand in appreciation of his offer. “Can you grab my satchel from the other room, Onmund?” she asked instead, and then turned to focus all of her remaining energy on the brown robed man in front of her. She instantly laid both hands over her father’s heart, summoning all she had to fight the encroaching darkness for him, for her mother, for herself. Elara’s warmth embraced the entirety of her father in a golden cocoon. Onmund watched from the doorway, humbled anew at the thought that she saved him from Falmer poison in the same way.
Elara stopped her spell suddenly, as the realization hit her. She would not be able to heal him. “You have taken away some of the pain, dear daughter, but one cannot let go of Arkay’s hand when one has grasped it,” her father murmured.
“But…but…I just found you,” Elara begged, tears threatening to spill down her face.
“I am sorry I did not look at you when I they took me away from our farm. I have thought about it so often these many years…the sparkle of your eyes and the music of your laugh. Y-you have been a constant light in my darkness,” Orin coughed. “You do me great honor, daughter.”
“Papa, you do not need to do this. I want you to rest. I want you well,” she pleaded, hoping that something would obey her words when it would not obey a spell.
“I see your Mother, Elara. She is waiting for me. I do not know how much longer we have,” Orin rasped and reached out for his daughter, who brought his hand to her lips. She watched a tear slide down his check, and envied him the vision of her mother, and the imminent peace.
“It is important that you remember this, Elara…no matter what happens, you always have a choice.” His voice faded at the end, and he resumed his slow labored breathing.
Elara would have given up a lifetime of choices if she could have her choice right now. She would have bargained with any Divine, or Daedra, for that matter, to keep her father alive and well. What choice had she ever had? Caring for her fragile mother, searching everywhere for her father and saying yes to countless people who needed help. Her choice had always been duty, and what kind of choice was that?
A break in his breathing pulled her mind back from the black hole in which her thoughts were spinning. She stroked her father’s cheek with the back of her fingertips, and she saw the corners of his mouth turn up into a slight smile. She gazed at his face, seeing the lines fade and recognizing her father for the first time. It was the face that had kissed her good night, that had laughed at her stick-sword fighting, and that told her stories and sang songs of his homeland.
“Elara?” Onmund gently placed his hand on her shoulder. She drew back a little, still caught in memories, and realized that her father no longer drew breath. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes closed. “Kynareth, please take him to my mother,” she breathed, and swallowed, allowing the darkness to wrap around her, hoping it would protect her a little longer from the sorrow that would soon envelop her as soon as she regarded the now still form before her.
The trio of Nords bowed their heads and remained absolutely still. Onmund’s hand remained on her shoulder, but he internally cursed the Elven armor that prevented any of his comfort from passing through to Elara. He sensed a light tremor from her torso, and he nodded at Thorald.
“Elara?” Onmund began again, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Thorald has some more information about your father.”
Thorald cleared his throat. “He was a brave man. They tortured him far worse than they did me as they wanted information on the Scrolls.”
Elara slowly looked upwards, his words starting to register in her mind. “What do you mean, scrolls?”
“He was a scroll priest, didn’t you know? Soldiers smuggled a small cell of Ancestor Moths into Skyrim, along with a cache of Elder Scrolls before the looting of the White-Gold Tower. Their hideout was discovered by the Thalmor, but Orin was the only one left. He insisted on staying behind to make certain that everyone made it out safely. He sacrificed himself to protect the Scrolls, the other priests and their guardians.”
Elara’s mind spun. She could barely grasp what was being said. Her hand reached up to her shoulder and clutched Onmund’s hand. This was too much for her, he realized, but maybe Thorald’s story could bring her some sort of relief, eventually. He grasped her hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. He would remember all of this for her, for when she was ready to hear it again.
“I have only put together bits and pieces that I heard through the screams and the talk of the guards when they thought I was asleep,” Thorald turned up his palms apologetically. “It was easier to occupy my mind with the story of someone else’s life than to think about the end of my own.”
Elara bowed her head again and nodded that she understood.
“It does not give me pleasure to say this, as the Gray-Manes have seen the Rammligrs as traitorous beasts, but it seems that your grandfather was the source of it all. He was a wealthy merchant, in business with the East Empire Company, and most likely in the back pocket of the Empire. He spent half of his time in Cyrodiil and became well-connected. Politics is as dangerous as war, and I think your grandfather got into some sort of trouble. Your father did not know what it was, “Thorald quickly answered the question in Elara’s eyes, “but he did know that he used his sons as commodities to pay a very serious debt.”
“Which might explain the armor and the involvement in the Great War?” Onmund asked, not wanting to take the lead from Elara, but sensing that she was using all her energy to keep from breaking down.
“But does not explain how the Thalmor knew to even look for a rogue cell here in Skyrim,” Thorald added. He saw Onmund make a stop gesture with his hands and fell silent, realizing this was not the time for added conjecture.
She knew something serious had resulted in her father’s abduction to Skyrim, why else would her grandfather have bothered searching out a third son? Maybe they were all still alive, but she shook the thought out of her head. They are not the ones that are important. It was odd to think that these two brothers, who were staunch opponents of all things Rammligr, were the repository of her family’s history.
Elara desired to stay in this tomb she had made, gathering dust with all the other bodies. She felt three pairs of eyes on her, wanting to avoid looking at her, yet inexorably drawn to her bent form and the lifeless one before her. Duty and Responsibility stepped up, her ever present helm and armor. She looked again at the beloved form of her father, memorizing and tracing with her finger every scar and scrape on his face, and stood up, eyes focused on the floor.
“How does one bury a son of Skyrim?”
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Onmund has taken the role of protec... more