Stories of Skyrim

Ondolemar

Ondolemar had never felt useless in all his life. But with Syrene bleeding out in his arms, his adept restoration barely stopping the encroaching shroud of death, he felt utterly incompetent. He should have seen it coming. That the bandits had seemed more organised than most- this lot managed to hold an entire fort by themselves- hadn't done a thing to alert him.

It was all going so smoothly. The fight was over within minutes; organised they may have been, the bandits still had no chance against a former Justiciar and the Dragonborn herself.

But one archer, a lone attacker that neither of them had seen, rose from nowhere in the midst of their congratulations. Ondolemar had seen it in sickening slow motion. Syrene Turned to him, grinning at their success, and the Oblivion-born arrow whizzed past his ear to embed beneath her breast. There was a gap in her armour, tiny and imperceptible, but with some dumb luck and horrible timing, the arrow had sunk into her flesh.

He whipped around, eyes searching, and the archer died before ever pulling the string back on his second shot. Ondolemar cast a detect life spell. The thought of mages competent enough to conjure Daedric weapons hadn't crossed his mind. The other magic users in the fort had thrown flames and sparks, showy spells that he'd learned before the end of his childhood. He should have checked for survivors before, but no, he had been caught up in his own hubris and now she'd pay the price.

"Syrene!" He cried, falling to his knees. The arrow was gone, blood pulsing from the wound. The ties between Oblivion and Nirn had died with the archer. He didn't need to be a healer to know it wasn't looking good. She was still breathing but there was a crackle in her breath, wheezing out of her open mouth. "Please, open your eyes, look at me," Ondolemar pleaded.

He was not an elf to beg. His heart constricted in his chest, so tight he thought he'd suffocate on it. He glanced helplessly down the road. Whiterun was still an hour away by foot, the road was likely to be littered by hostiles. He could carry her for hours if he needed to. He would carry her if it meant saving her life.

Her diminutive size belied the strength in her body- but even she wasn't infallible. Ondolemar cursed himself for ever buying into the illusion that she was.

"I need to heal you," he whispered, praying to his gods and hers that he could. Restoration wasn't a talent of his. Still, she would be dead if he didn't do something. "Please, let me heal her..." the last whisper was to the Gods.

Slowly, agonisingly, sank his healing magic into the wound, knitting together the torn and broken parts of her. It was a superficial healing at best. He could fix the skin but not everything else; and the snow around him was stained with red. A thin line of it bubbled out of her mouth. It stained her silver hair and Ondolemar forced himself to look away.

"Please," he muttered, over and over as he worked. There were replenishing potions in his bag; he rarely expended enough magicka to need them, but she had lovingly insisted he carry them just in case. He had never been more grateful for foresight. Downing potion after potion, he finally had the skin stitched together crudely. He let his hands drop, his skin blistering from overuse.

He still needed Whiterun. He gathered her in his arms, trying not to panic at the feel of her skin. It was as cold as the snow, pallid and far too still. Ondolemar didn't have the courage to check if she was still breathing. She had to be, he told himself. She would be FINE. He'd get her to Whiterun and the priestess would heal her, she'd be up and about in a day or two, back to teasing him over nothing.

The alternative was unthinkable.

What would he do in a Skyrim without her? He had sacrificed everything for a life by her side and had never regretted it until faced with losing her. The Thalmor wouldn't have him back. He'd be lucky to return to Alinor alive. Where would he go, what would he do, in the frozen land that hated the sight of him?