Stories of Skyrim

Ondolemar (2)

She hadn't wanted to say anything in front of Elenwen or anyone else, but she needs to be certain. Syrene takes Ulfric aside, pulling him into the shadows of an alcove in High Hrothgar. Markarth for Riften; it had been the deal nobody wanted to make, but in the name of the Dragonborn it had been done. All she wants now is to hear the Jarl vow that he'll leave Ondolemar alive; let him leave Markarth when the time comes.

"I can make no such promise," Ulfric tells her without regrets, a little smug as he folds his arms and stares down the Bosmer. "My men have already begun their siege."

"You what," she says, flat and furious.

He shrugs. "I attended this ridiculous farce with the intention of winning Markarth, but had you proved to be an Imperial puppet, I instructed my best lieutenants to siege the city. No orders will reach them in time now, Dragonborn."

She is deathly still. "And what orders did you give?" she asks. Ulfric, for the first time, feels a trickle of fear. Her eyes are hard, her voice is cold, and she's fingering an ebony arrow like she might want to wedge it in his throat.

Still, Ulfric is nothing if not proud. "They will take Markarth by any means necessary. If a few Imperial sympathisers and Thalmor dogs end up dead... well, one less problem to worry about."

Dead. Syrene shoves him up against the wall, dagger at his throat. "If he is dead, I will return for your life in recompense," she hisses, and leaves him staring after her in fearful respect.

She makes a beeline for Markarth. Arrives as the siege is over, Markarth is Stormcloak territory; and they've set up gallows in front of the city gates. Two bodies already swing from the rope. Syrene feels sick when she recognises Ondolemar's guards. They hadn't deserved this fate, she thinks, her heart sinking. She slips through the crowd unnoticed, finding a ledge with a decent view.

The show begins. They march Ondolemar out; bound, gagged, beaten. He looks like shit. Like he's been dragged through Oblivion. "Fucking hell," Syrene swears. They've only had Markarth for two days and they've not made it easy for him. Her heart drops but she waits. Bides her time. Pulls her ivory white bow from her back. She readies an arrow.

The show is short. They do not want to prolong it now that they've got a crowd baying for Thalmor blood; all the hatred seethes from the people of Markarth, gathered to watch the Justiciar die. Syrene can't take her eyes off of him. He cannot see her; he doesn't look up, though she can picture the grim determination on his face. Ondolemar will die as an Altmer should, proud and unaffected by the common rabble. He doesn't bow for the rope. They have to strike him to get him to bend and Syrene wants to jump to his defense. She doesn't. She swallows the fury and feels it like fire in her heart, the souls of dragons murmuring their encouragement in the back of her mind. Death and blood and glory; they can sense her simmering fury and fuel it with their own.

The hangman pulls the lever. Syrene stands as Ondolemar drops, noose around his neck, and as the rope snaps straight it's severed by an arrow. The ebony arrow lands firmly against the gallows, quivering in the wood, and Ondolemar lands in a heap beneath the trap door. There's panic and confusion and suddenly a voice above the panicking crowd; "FEIM ZII!"

Syrene, ethereal, glowing, running through people like a ghost. The Stormcloaks who rushed to recapture Ondolemar stop and stare, the word 'Dragonborn' fluttering through their lips. Her next shout knocks them all flying away from him; Ondolemar wonders at her accuracy, how she managed to keep the power from touching him. She regains a corporeal form and lifts her bow, aiming an arrow between the eyes of a man lifting a sword to kill Ondolemar. "Move to strike and I'll see what you look like with a third eye," she snarls. Nobody moves. Her gaze turns to him. "Can you stand?" she asks. He nods and does so, slowly, agonising over every movement. Syrene lowers her bow and wraps an arm around him, supporting him when his momentary strength begins to lag. Her face twists with heartbreak now that she gets a close look at what they've done to him. He feels the heat of a healing spell, as weak as it is, and smiles to himself. She didn't use magic for just anyone.

"Lady Dragonborn," a Stormcloak steps forward, braver than the rest, blocking their way. "We have orders..."

"Your orders are rescinded," she snaps. They're braver now that she's not aiming a weapon at them, but her bow isn't the only thing she carries to fight with. They've tasted her Voice and none are brave enough to openly challenge her for more. "Move," she says, to the crowd. "Or you will be moved." The crowd parts. Two soldiers linger and Syrene Shouts, once again, sending a blast of ice and power their way. They dive to avoid it and she hurries through the corridor, to a carriage.

She is silent as she pushes him into a carriage and they start driving for Whiterun- the driver seemed to know her, he offers a small smile and doesn't charge her coin. He'd been waiting, Ondolemar realises, waiting for her to return so he could carry her away. Carry them away. She's come to Markarth for one thing worth saving and Ondolemar realises it's him. Her home, her possessions, the collections of little treasures- she cares for none of it, the only thing she wished to take from Markarth was him. Syrene is crying silently as she undoes his binds, ungags him. Every cut, every bruise, every new scar, she catalogues these with her eyes and with gentle touches she doesn't seem to be controlling; every single one breaks her heart just a little bit more. She heals him mechanically, magic and alchemy combined. It's not enough to heal the deepest hurts but it does soothe the ache and lessen the sting of open wounds.

When she is done, they sit in silence as the carriage rolls on. Neither knows what to say. Apologies and explanations flutter in her mind but Syrene can't pick just one. The lump in her throat gets in the way. So she sits and stares and catalogues the changes in him since she last saw him. Ondolemar does much of the same. He can't take his eyes off her. He hasn't seen her in months, since she left him at Elenwen's reception. He has searched, though he will never admit it. Had spent more time lurking outside Vlindrel Hall than pacing Understone Keep; he had paid the beggers to watch for signs of her return. Ondolemar is far too proud to admit that he's missed her, but the jump and flutter of his heart says it for him.

It's almost dark when they stop in Rorikstead. Syrene wanders off to get a room at the inn and sneaks him in through the back door. Nobody sees them but for the innkeeper, who is wise enough to pretend he doesn't. Ondolemar lays on the bed and she brings him food and a bottle of the local vintage. It's passable, but he isn't thinking about the wine. "Why, Syrene?" He's talking about Markarth and about the Embassy.

She meets his eye, touches his face. "Isn't that obvious?" she says. He remains passive and blank, staring at her for an answer. "I... I'd rather you spend the next thousand years hating me than face a world without you in it."

Ondolemar cups her face. It's a tender touch that makes her sigh and lean into him, her eyes closed. She never thought to lay eyes on him again, much less be greeted with such outward affection. "You could have told me," he murmurs, thumb stroking over her high cheekbones

She shakes her head. "There's a bounty on my head, you know that," she says. "I couldn't put you in that situation."

"You didn't trust me," he surmises.

"No," she confirms. "Can you blame me? You're the Commander of the Justiciars. If anyone would run to Elenwen with my identity I would have picked you."

"But not anymore." He picks up on the tense she uses.

Syrene smiles softly. "You said nothing of what happened at the Embassy."

"Ah yes. I find myself unable to forget it." His mouth twists in a wry grin.

She stifles a laugh. He smiles back and she wonders why he doesn't seem angry, why he's almost flirting, why he's holding her hand and why she's ever so slightly leaning closer. "I am truly sorry for that, Ondolemar."

He lifts a brow. "Please tell me you're sorry for the paralysis and not the sex."

Syrene does laugh then, sudden and unexpected. "Definitely the paralysis," she says. Then turns thoughtful. "But I did trick you, Ondolemar. I don't expect you to forgive me for what I did, but I want you to know that I am truly sorry."

He shakes his head. "I just wish you hadn't left so quickly," he says. "If you needed information I could have taken you right to it. Sneaking unnecessary."

"No," she says. "I didn't want you involved. At all."

"It's rather too late for that, don't you think?" he replies, and gently takes her hand. As he presses a kiss to her palm, he meets her eyes and says without a hint of hesitation; "I am yours, Syrene, if you will have me."