Stories of Skyrim

Ondolemar (3)

Syrene feels time ticking away. Faking sick had gotten her past the blind Khajiit in the kitchens, but Malborn had lost the battle of wills against Ondolemar. Swooping in like some golden prince ripped right out of a children's story, scooping her into his side and dismissing Malborn with a wave, Ondolemar had wasted no time in tending to Syrene's imaginary ills.

Her heart squeezes with guilt because now she's dragged him into it, and she had cursed the Gods who put him at Elenwen's stupid party. She'd wanted to keep the shithole of her life away from Ondolemar, to protect him as best she could.

"Who's bedroom is this?" she asks, fingering the fine sheets. She's never felt anything quite so soft before.

Ondolemar kneels in front of her. He's holding out a cure-all potion, looking so sincere and concerned that she wants to kiss him. Or cry. Probably both. "Mine," he says, with a gentle smile at the flicker of surprise. "Or at least, it is the one I am allowed for this charade."

"I see," Syrene says. Casting about for a new topic, feeling awkward; it's never been awkward, in Markarth they could talk and flirt and banter, but in the Embassy the stakes are so much higher that it's killing her to look at him. "What's in this?" she asks, and his brow furrows.

"Hawk feathers and skeever hide," he says, slowly. "It's safe for you." She looks at him, surprised, and there's a faint colouring on his cheeks. "You follow the Green Pact, do you not? I assumed..."

"You assumed correctly," Syrene assures him, her smile more genuine than she wants it to be. His thoughtfulness will be her undoing; what she is about to do might backfire horribly, she prays he won't be caught in the crossfire. "I'm just... people don't usually think about that when it comes to me."

Ondolemar lowers his head. "I do," he admits. A pause, in which he notices she doesn't drink the potion, and then he says; "I also think you're hiding something from me."

She flinches as if he'd struck her. The hurt in his eyes confirms it; he knows she's up to something, and she's just told him exactly that. Some spy she's turned out to be. "Ondolemar..." she says, and he clenches his fists. He's still knelt before her, his head bowed over her lap, and Syrene feels dirty as she tilts his head up and offers him the tiny, seductive smile she knows he'll fall for. "How else was I supposed to get you alone?" she whispers.

He blinks at her. Realisation trickles into his mind and he exhales slowly, shaking his head. "You play a dangerous game, Syrene."

"I know," she says, her fingers walking beneath the neck of his robes. "But I didn't expect to see you here. And when I did, I knew I couldn't just approach you, but I so hoped you'd follow me out..." Liar, her mind screams, the guilt eating her alive. Ondolemar falls for it and that's what she wanted, him to forget she'd been sneaking away and fall into the illusion she's weaving for him.

"And now we're alone," he says, musing on it.

Syrene leans in, teasing a kiss, leaving the next move up to him. "And now we're alone," she whispers.

She barely finishes before he's kissing her, a domineering force pushing her back onto the bed. Ondolemar kneels between her knees, pushing the emerald-green dress up above her waist. Her nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on his robes; she's undressed him enough to know this pattern by heart. Syrene can't shake how guilty she feels but she knows she needs him to not suspect her.

He surprises her when he crawls off the bed, pulling her dishevelled self after him. "Fantasy," he explains shortly, lifting her against the wall. There's a rail meant for clothes and Syrene grabs hold of it in one hand, her other arm stretched above her head as he wriggles his way between her legs. Spread-eagled against the wall, pinned by his hips and his mouth, Syrene is completely at his mercy. It's hot and dirty and they fuck against the wall; she clings to his shoulders, sucking bruises into his neck and uttering his name in broken little sobs.

Afterwards, they're straightening themselves out and Syrene pulls a vial of a potion from a hidden pocket. Ondolemar isn't stupid and won't drink it if she offers, so she coats her lips and pulls him down for a kiss. Her natural resistance to poison means it doesn't affect her, but it takes him. The effect is almost instant. He goes rigid, paralysed, and she barely manages to lower him onto the bed.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her forehead against his, eyes closed against the burning rage she can see in his frozen eyes. "I'm so sorry. I wish I had time to explain but I don't. I can't have you following me either. I'm so sorry, Ondolemar."

She tips the rest of the potion into his mouth, and she watches the rage turn to betrayal. She feels like dirt as she hurries through the mission; the potion will last only a few minutes, then he'll raise the alarm, the Embassy will be on alert, and she'll have a hell of a time getting out.

Syrene is shocked when there is not an alarm. Nothing until two guards bring Malborn to the torture room; she escapes with him, Etienne, and the dossiers, racing through a frozen forest to Delphine. No pursuit. No alarms.

Ondolemar had said nothing. Syrene wonders if it's embarrassment; he didn't want to admit to sneaking off and being tricked by a pretty face and the promise of a good fuck. Syrene wishes she hadn't let him have her, but the selfish part of her says she'd had one last tryst because he'll never let her touch him again.

She knew the relationship was doomed from the start; Syrene surprises herself with how much losing Ondolemar hurts. Still, it's better than dying as her friend. People close to her end up dead; she'd learned that the hard way, over and over, enough to make her realise she can't have nice things. She'd take losing his favour any day, because at least he's still alive to hate her.