Your Truth Cannot Stand
A Skyrim Fanfiction
Chapter 10: Gods and Pawns
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1: Descent into Darkness
Chapter 2: Strange, Meet Stranger
Chapter 3: Enchanted
Chapter 4: A Dragon, a Daedra and a Justiciar Walk Into a House…
Chapter 5: Oh No, She’s Relatable
Chapter 6: I Need to Speak to the Thalmor’s Manager
Chapter 7: All I Should Have Been
Chapter 8: Paralysis Analysis
Chapter 9: It’s the End of the World as We Know it
Chapter 10: Gods and Pawns (you are here)
Chapter 11: I Was Like You, Once
Chapter 12: Solace from the Sky
Chapter 13: Awakening
Chapter 14: Second Chances
Chapter 1: Descent into Darkness
Chapter 2: Strange, Meet Stranger
Chapter 3: Enchanted
Chapter 4: A Dragon, a Daedra and a Justiciar Walk Into a House…
Chapter 5: Oh No, She’s Relatable
Chapter 6: I Need to Speak to the Thalmor’s Manager
Chapter 7: All I Should Have Been
Chapter 8: Paralysis Analysis
Chapter 9: It’s the End of the World as We Know it
Chapter 10: Gods and Pawns (you are here)
Chapter 11: I Was Like You, Once
Chapter 12: Solace from the Sky
Chapter 13: Awakening
Chapter 14: Second Chances
“Hey, you! You! Knife-ear!”
A vague, distant voice reached Ondolemar’ ears, like the mutters he’d heard in the keep. Bitter comments they thought he couldn’t hear, reminders of how much he was loathed by the people whose land he strove to make clean.
He’d held onto the idea that someday they’d understand. That when those who rejected wisdom were gone, those who were left would see how the true gods blessed the land in the heretics’ absence, and they would thank him, or at least accept his presence. And even if they didn’t…
Pain tore through his side, wrenching him back to the present. A strangled wail raked across ribs that felt like knives in his chest, through a throat that ached from days of thirst, and into a mouth that tried to crush the show of weakness, only to feebly half-smother the cry as it passed his broken jaw.
Tears stung his bleary eyes, and they roamed dazedly around the room, seeking the source of the agony that had dragged him from fitful semi-consciousness to the sharper misery of wakefulness.
A second stab made his whole body clench, and he glanced to the side to see a pale blur that was probably a Nord, shackled to the wall beside him.
“Knife-ear, are you listening?”
Go away. He knew the man couldn’t, but he wished he could. The last thing he wanted right now was conversation – not that his shattered, swollen jaw would allow him to speak.
The Nord’s foot rose again – it seemed that unlike the highly trained Justiciar, this prisoner wasn’t deemed dangerous or resilient enough for his limbs to stay constantly broken. His toes reached for the Altmer’s side, and Ondolemar tried to twist away.
The movement sent spears of pain through every broken bone, and with his wrists chained and so little of his body working, the torment only bought him a few precious inches.
“So, you’re awake,” the other captive observed, and to Ondolemar’s relief, he withdrew his foot before it could make contact again.
I am now, you bastard. The injured elf glared at his latest tormentor, turning his head to face the annoyance more squarely and wishing Carnaril had at least left his jaw intact.
To his relief, the human seemed to recognize the injury that silenced him, and nodded. “Looks like you won’t be much for talk. More’s the pity. I’d love to know what it’s like for a piece of Thalmor scum to get a taste of his own medicine.”
Ondolemar’s jaw reflexively clenched, and he instantly regretted it. The burning sting of tears threatened to fill his eyes anew, and with fierce desperation, he held it back. Do not show weakness! Set an example of dignity and strength – it’s your responsibility as a member of a superior…
The thought died in his mind, and in its ashes, the memories of yesterday stirred like ghosts. The truth could hurt our cause.
Surely there must be some mistake. He’d misunderstood, misinterpreted. He’d jumped to conclusions.
There was simply no way his whole life could be based on a lie.
The Nord, of course, misread the distress that was no doubt carved into on his face. “Serves you right, you know. I hope you rot in here like all the others you sent to their deaths.”
His vision was finally starting to clear, and Ondolemar looked around the room, forcing himself to analyze his surroundings.
Blood stains on the floor. Knives, maces, and twisted embalming tools lying around, no doubt in an effort to intensify the dread of the people whose bodies would soon be subjected to them. A skeleton, still hanging from the shackles on the wall opposite him.
Was it placed there before or after its owner died? Will I end up like that?
Do I deserve to?
The fact that he was still hanging from shackled, broken limbs, instead of lying in a cell, was a grim sign. Such abuse could lead to permanent injury – not something they normally inflicted on prisoners they wanted to survive.
And a live prisoner was in the cell with him and the skeleton, also against standard protocol, apparently armed with the knowledge of who Ondolemar was. They want him to help them break me, don’t they? It’s probably the one thing he’d be glad to help them with.
The skeleton’s hollow, accusing stare seemed to bore into his mind, and Ondolemar closed his eyes. He knew he should be schooling his face into a picture of serene confidence, but the foundation of that certitude had just been cracked, and the structure on top of it insisted on shaking no matter how hard he fought to keep it steady.
“So, what are you in here for?”
Long-ingrained reflex told him to look at people when they spoke to him. Exhaustion and inner turmoil told him to keep his eyes on the floor.
His gaze flicked briefly to the Nord, then fell.
In the corner of his eye, that cursed foot was rising again, reaching to prod his broken ribs. He shifted away as best he could, probably hurting himself more in the process than the human would have, and glared at his persistent antagonist. “A m-”
Pain ripped through his jaw, crushing the attempt to speak and folding his face into a cringe. But maybe if he could get the whole word out, this barbaric nuisance would leave him alone. “Mithsundathtandin,” he managed, wondering if the word was even remotely recognizable as the misunderstanding he was trying to voice.
To his relief, the man seemed to successfully interpret the attempt. “So, a false accusation, huh? Funny – that’s exactly why my cousin died. Damn knife-ears thought he was worshiping Talos, just because he complained about them dragging his next-door neighbor away, and because he didn’t agree with them fast and loudly enough.
“Turns out, he got rid of his shrine shortly after the White-Gold Concordat was signed. Not that they believed him, even after they tortured him to death.”
“Isn’t that what Thalmor do? Kill whoever doesn’t agree with them quickly and loudly enough?”
Kierska’s words echoed through his mind, and his stomach clenched so hard that if he’d been allowed to eat the day before, he might have thrown up. I was careful to only arrest proven heretics, but how many of my colleagues weren’t?
And were they really heretics, if the truth- The thought lodged like a rock in his throat, and for a moment, he thought about letting it die. Then he forced himself to complete it. Were the people whose lives we destroyed really ignorant, barbaric heretics?
Or were they rational people who believed the same proofs Kierska brought to me, that I have yet to refute?
“What’s with that look? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling sorry for us, now that you’ve spent a few days in our shoes.”
Sorry for them. What a small, inadequate whisper of the storm that was raging inside him. Ondolemar let his eyes squeeze shut, no longer caring how he looked.
And then the cell door clicked open.
A tall, stern figure strode inside, arrayed in the same elegant robes that had once made Ondolemar feel such pride. Now, he finally understood the disgust and dread his own presence used to inspire.
Carnaril stepped aside, and the former Justiciar’s swollen jaw tightened as Elenwen sauntered into the cell. “Ondolemar,” she greeted him with gratingly false sweetness. “I trust you’re enjoying your little chat?”
He normally knew better than to scowl at a superior officer. Especially one who had him chained to the wall.
But she’d just asked an incredibly stupid question, and even by the Thalmor’s strict standards of decorum, she’d more than earned the burning glare he aimed in her direction.
“I’m most sorry to interrupt,” she continued. “I just thought you should know that we intercepted a courier who had just visited Whiterun, and he said you’d sent a message to someone there. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about the contents?”
Damn that faithless traitor! He knew it was unrealistic to expect a mere courier to withstand Thalmor interrogation techniques, assuming the man had even tried, but panic sent the words racing through his mind all the same.
Despite his attempt to make his message seem innocuous, there was no way a person as cunning as Elenwen wouldn’t be suspicious. If his fate hadn’t already been sealed, this might be the final nail in his coffin.
Still, he couldn’t afford to let his terrified anger show in his face. It would only cement his tormentors’ certainty that he was hiding something.
Carnaril’s hand extended, embraced by swirling golden light, and Ondolemar’s eyes tightened as the fragments of his jaw began to shift back into place. The fingers on his unbroken hand clenched, and it took everything in his exhausted body to hold back a scream.
When the lower half of his face finally felt normal again, he blinked away the tears he had failed to hold back, then responded as smoothly as he could between gasps, “I’m sure he already told you what I wrote.” Assuming he read it. Do Skyrim’s couriers do that?
“Why don’t you repeat it for me?” Elenwen intoned, her voice like silken sugar laced with poison, and Ondolemar nodded.
I’ll assume they already know what I said. Better that than be caught lying.
“As close to verbatim as I can recall, I said, ‘Thank you for warning me to leave Markarth. I’ve relocated to Solitude, but unfortunately, it seems that some of my colleagues disapprove of our research.
I’ve received word that I will be taken to a facility where they will attempt to learn more about my research methods, and possibly correct them if they find them to be in error. Should you wish to visit me again, you will have to ask my superiors to tell you my location. I hope to see you again soon.’”
“‘Signed, O’,” Elenwen finished for him. “Is there a reason you were trying to conceal your name?”
“I merely used an informal signature. The Khajiit are not a particularly formal people, as their religious inclinations have often reminded me, and I thought it would promote a sense of familiarity that might encourage her to be more cooperative.”
“So you’re sure it wasn’t because you learned you were going to be arrested, and sent a covert message to the Dragonborn to entreat her to rescue you?”
“Of course not! If that had been the case, wouldn’t I have told her the location in which I was going to be held?”
“That would hardly be possible,” her damned lilting croon observed, “since you had no idea where we would be taking you.”
Curse her, she was right. But he wasn’t out of ammunition yet. “And since she has no way of knowing without getting that information from my superior officers, clearly she would need your permission in order to come here.”
“And what makes you think we would want her to do that?”
“I doubt you would, so clearly the letter’s only tangible effect will be to let her know why I will not be available to share the results of my research. And speaking of our research…” He fixed his accusing stare on Elenwen’s eyes. “I am frankly disappointed by Carnaril’s reaction to it.
“I would have thought the most intelligent and rational race in Tamriel would be more logical when examining the research conducted by one of their high-ranking officers and a potential source of additional information.”
“Even if that research was clearly heretical in nature?”
“Especially if that research could indicate why this heresy is proving so resilient, how to disprove it once and for all, and how to gain magical resources that could prove highly valuable to the Aldmeri Dominion!”
“And praying at a shrine of Talos contributed to that research?”
The Nord was gaping at him now, and Ondolemar didn’t care. “Kierska informed me that the shrines could cure physical illnesses, much like the shrines of true Divines. So I got myself infected by one of the local beasts, and then tested the shrine to see if her report was accurate.”
And the power, the sense of stern rebuke, the consternation that had flooded through him as the shrine burned the disease from his body as decisively as flame burns the flesh from the bone… he had no idea how to convey that without damning himself.
“And do you think it matters if the report was accurate?”
Elenwen’s words struck him like a slap to the face, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at her.
“Of COURSE it does,” he finally managed, letting his exasperation show in his voice. “For one thing, as I told Carnaril, if the source of the magic is not divine, it could potentially be replicated for the benefit of the Dominion.
“And if it is divine, we may need to…” This is going to get me killed. But they probably already know I’m going to say it, and failing to say it would be cowardly. “…rethink our stance on Talos worship.”
Every eye in the room went wide, and Ondolemar braced himself. I’m on the edge of the precipice now. Either they’ll agree to pursue the truth despite its possible costs, or they’ll throw me off the cliff to save their own worldview.
“Those sound,” Elenwen said slowly, in a voice like crystallized poison, “like the words of a heretic.”
“They are the words,” Ondolemar growled, “of someone who wants to know the truth, even if it requires us to reassess our own assumptions. To try to define the Divines and their choices by our own preferences, while ignoring the evidence of their actual decisions, is itself a form of heresy.
“Furthermore, if we are going to harm or kill people for being heretics, we had better be sure that their actions truly are heresy. Otherwise, we’re no better than murderers, killing innocents over a disagreement.”
“A short-sighted assessment,” Elenwen rebuked him, “and hardly befitting a member of the Thalmor.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the Thalmor changed our stance on Talos after so many gave their lives to see his heresy extinguished, the resulting controversy could turn a dangerous number of people against us.
“Those who oppose our methods and goals would have new ammunition for their recruitment efforts, those who once believed in us might start to question our wisdom and reliability, and those who lost family in the First War might believe that we’ve wasted the lives and deaths of their loved ones.
“A consistent and united front is necessary for the Aldmeri Dominion to flourish. If the Thalmor suddenly change our stance on such an important and controversial subject the way we forced the Empire to, we might see the same kind of unrest in our own lands that we’re currently seeing in Skyrim.
“All in all, this line of research is not beneficial to the Thalmor or the Dominion, so it must not be pursued.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, trying to make her words sink in.
When that failed, he finally stammered, “Your… political explanation makes sense, but… you are asking me to accept the idea that our cause would be undermined by the truth about the Divines.”
The thought was a blur of impossible unreality in his reeling mind, but slowly, horrifically, he was being forced to grasp the fact that it was true.
“You’re asking me,” he continued, his voice beginning to rise even as his tightening chest left him struggling for breath, “to commit an act of heresy by prioritizing politics over understanding and serving the Divines, even as you’d have me hunt and punish others for heresy in the name of the same Divines you use as tools in your political games!”
Carnaril’s mace slammed into his stomach, but even as he yelped and coughed, the rising fire in his mind kept flinging words from his mouth. “Kierska warned me about you,” he snarled. “She said the Thalmor she’d encountered before me were brutes who tried to kill anyone who disagreed with them.
“They didn’t investigate, didn’t seek proof, didn’t care about the truth… they used accusations of heresy as an excuse to murder anyone they didn’t like, and they used violence in place of logic like a pack of damn barbarians.
“And now, here you are, PROVING HER RIGHT! How are we supposed to gain the locals’ cooperation if that’s what they see when they look at us?!”
Carnaril’s mace rose again, and a haze of rage and pain burned away Ondolemar’s fear as he glared at the weapon and its wielder. Go ahead, kill me! Prove my point! I have nothing more to lose!
A gesture from Elenwen paused the attack in mid-swing, and her cold, dark-rimmed eyes fixed on the enraged prisoner’s. “You still seem to assume that persuading the populace is a relevant point.”
“Of course it…” No. His voice faltered into silence. She wouldn’t be saying that if it was.
“I’d been led to believe that it was,” he said slowly, trying not to allow his voice to shake. “How else are we supposed to get them to cooperate with our mission to purge this province of heresy?” If it even is heresy.
“We don’t need all of them to cooperate.” Elenwen replied smoothly. “In fact, it is best if they’re divided on the subject, and fight among themselves. The more of them fall to each other’s swords, the fewer there will be to oppose us during the next war.”
Cold realization dropped through him like a rock, settling its crushing weight in his empty, aching stomach. The Justiciars who attacked Kierska on the road… they weren’t performing their duties incorrectly. They were SUPPOSED to find excuses to kill people and stir up controversy.
The more death and destruction they cause, the more people they anger enough to drive them into the arms of the Stormcloaks, and the longer this war will drag on… causing more death and misery in the process.
My subordinates have been eroding our image of rationality, civility and morality this whole time – not in service of the gods, but to deliberately drive people into a faction that will encourage them to worship the same being whose worship I was sent here to stop.
And he’d been oblivious to all of it, playing his part like a good, stupid pawn. Kierska’s words rang in his ears, torn by tearful pain as she demanded that he justify the devastation the Thalmor had caused. Devastation he’d once thought he could justify.
Saviors of Mer. Enders of the Oblivion Crisis. Guardians of the Aldmeri Dominion. That’s who I thought the Thalmor were. That’s who I told other people they were.
How much of that is true, and how much is just more politically convenient lies?
And how many innocent people have been killed by the people to whom I’d sworn my loyalty and my life, just to suppress truths that would otherwise destroy something that might very well deserve to fall?
Saviors of Mer. The phrase he once took such pride in felt like bile in his throat. What kind of saviors killed the people they supposedly saved?
“It was never about heresy, was it?” he asked dully, knowing the answer, but needing – and dreading – to hear it out loud. “The religious aspects of our mission – my mission… the supposed approval of my zeal for preventing people from being diverted from the true Divines… it was all just a strategy for prolonging this civil war.”
“The elimination of heresy remains a worthy goal,” Elenwen responded smoothly. “But the long-term tactical and political gains are by far the more significant concern.”
“Even if it means driving more people into a faction that will encourage them to worship Talos?”
“If it serves our long-term goals, yes.”
“And even if it isn’t confirmed that Talos isn’t a god?”
“I believe I’ve made our position clear.”
She had. And now, it was time to force his mind to accept it. His body slumped hollowly, the last of his strength draining through the hole she had torn in his world, leaving him too exhausted to raise his voice above a hoarse, defeated whisper. “You never told me.”
“You did not need to know. Besides, your job includes mixing with the leaders of Skyrim, and you’ve shown little ability to keep your opinions to yourself, even when it’s in your best interest to do so. It was best that you weren’t distracted by information that wasn’t required for your job, and that we didn’t want you blurting out.”
Then I truly was just a pawn. The weight of the realization pushed his chin to his chest, leaving him staring with unseeing eyes at the blood-stained ground.
“Why me?” he asked numbly, unable to lift his face. “Why not send someone who would fully agree with what you were doing?”
“We needed someone who could match the Nords’ stubbornness, and your zeal and relentlessness made you suitable for the task. Also, your ability to get along with the locals better than the other candidates meant you could function as a liaison with a Jarl, even if your diplomatic skills were barely adequate. Unfortunately, your recent embrace of Talos means your suitability for this duty is at an end.”
“My embrace of-” His strength returned in a rush of rage, and his head snapped up. “You’re the ones who are deliberately driving people into his arms!”
If Elenwen heard him, she gave no sign. She kept on talking, as if his words no longer mattered. “Our assessment concludes that you are a heretic-”
The words shattered over his mind like a mirror, cracking the world into sharp, nonsensical fragments. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m not a heretic, I could never be…
“...and you will die a heretic’s death. Your corpse will serve as an example to any Mer who’s thinking of abandoning their principles.”
My corpse? …Oh. Cold reality washed over his mind, merging the shards of his world into certainty as hard and inescapable as the steel around his wrists.
“That isn’t why you’re killing me,” he returned, his muted voice steady and grim. “Just like my mission – this isn’t about heresy. It’s politics. A Justiciar who questions your beliefs is politically inconvenient…”
Should I continue? My next words are a death sentence.
An instant later, the foolishness of that question struck him. I already have a death sentence. I have nothing left to lose.
“Like the Justiciars who tried to kill Kierska on the road, you can’t tolerate people who question your claims, because when it’s questioned…”
He gritted his teeth, and then threw himself into the fire. “Your ‘truth’ cannot stand. So you kill anyone who approaches the truth, because for you, lies and the slaughter of innocents are more politically convenient than reality.”
Carnaril’s hand tightened on the mace, and the fear the sight should have inspired didn’t come. Dread pooled in Ondolemar’s gut, but he faced it head-on, grounded by the peace that came with accepting the inevitable.
Elenwen nodded, and the weapon swung.
Pain exploded through the stricken elf – not from his head, but from his left arm, and the sound that tore from his throat was as much a wrathful roar as a cry. “If you’re going kill me, just do it! You can finish mauling me when I’m dead!”
The cold moonstone slammed into his jaw, and his voice was reduced to straining moans and the whisper in his mind.
So this is how I die. Not in honorable battle, in service to the gods or a cause I believe in, but in chains and rags, at the hands of my own former colleagues.
I always thought I’d be proud of my life and death. But now…
A rib snapped, and his cry withered into a cough that sprinkled his legs with blood. I just found out my life was wasted. Worse than wasted – while some wastrels do nothing, I actively did harm. And now I’m going to die, before I can use that knowledge to do anything worthwhile.
The gods must hate me. And I can’t blame them.
He let himself go limp, jolting and swaying beneath the force of Carnaril’s strikes, no longer caring how he looked to the inhabitants of a world he was about to leave.
As if the dying elf’s fire had passed to him, the Nord lunged against his chains, and his roar of “LYING COWARDS!” sent Ondolemar’s fading mind reeling with gratitude and fear.
Don’t anger them… please… standing up for me isn’t worth it. They’ll kill you.
Play along. Lie to them, like they lied to us. Survive. Please.
Don’t become my last regret.
Another blow. Another. Another. The world was nothing but dull impact noises and sharp bursts of pain, all sinking slowly into bottomless darkness.
It went on for so long that he wondered if his body had forgotten how to die, leaving him trapped in this horrible moment forever.
And then it stopped.
The only sound was the fading murmur of his heartbeat in his throbbing head, and the only sensation in the roaring dark was the beacons of agony that blazed in broken bones.
Something shifted on his wrist, and a few of the beacons burned hotter as he swung to the side and dangled from one arm. Then the other shackle loosed, and he slumped to the ground, as limp as a broken doll.
Golden light flared briefly through him, repairing arteries that had been torn by jagged, displaced bone, and as his failing heartbeat strengthened slightly, hope fluttered in his clouded mind. Rescue? Kierska… are you…
“Take him to the courtyard.”
No… That cold voice wasn’t Kierska’s. It was Elenwen’s. The courtyard? Why?
Oh… Horrible realization sank in, like a slow blade in his throat.
They were going to make an example of him. It wasn’t enough for him to die; they wanted the other Thalmor to see him die.
They wanted to make sure that all willingness to question them… all resistance to their worldview… all freedom of thought died with him.
Rough hands clamped around his arms, and Ondolemar closed his eyes.
A vague, distant voice reached Ondolemar’ ears, like the mutters he’d heard in the keep. Bitter comments they thought he couldn’t hear, reminders of how much he was loathed by the people whose land he strove to make clean.
He’d held onto the idea that someday they’d understand. That when those who rejected wisdom were gone, those who were left would see how the true gods blessed the land in the heretics’ absence, and they would thank him, or at least accept his presence. And even if they didn’t…
Pain tore through his side, wrenching him back to the present. A strangled wail raked across ribs that felt like knives in his chest, through a throat that ached from days of thirst, and into a mouth that tried to crush the show of weakness, only to feebly half-smother the cry as it passed his broken jaw.
Tears stung his bleary eyes, and they roamed dazedly around the room, seeking the source of the agony that had dragged him from fitful semi-consciousness to the sharper misery of wakefulness.
A second stab made his whole body clench, and he glanced to the side to see a pale blur that was probably a Nord, shackled to the wall beside him.
“Knife-ear, are you listening?”
Go away. He knew the man couldn’t, but he wished he could. The last thing he wanted right now was conversation – not that his shattered, swollen jaw would allow him to speak.
The Nord’s foot rose again – it seemed that unlike the highly trained Justiciar, this prisoner wasn’t deemed dangerous or resilient enough for his limbs to stay constantly broken. His toes reached for the Altmer’s side, and Ondolemar tried to twist away.
The movement sent spears of pain through every broken bone, and with his wrists chained and so little of his body working, the torment only bought him a few precious inches.
“So, you’re awake,” the other captive observed, and to Ondolemar’s relief, he withdrew his foot before it could make contact again.
I am now, you bastard. The injured elf glared at his latest tormentor, turning his head to face the annoyance more squarely and wishing Carnaril had at least left his jaw intact.
To his relief, the human seemed to recognize the injury that silenced him, and nodded. “Looks like you won’t be much for talk. More’s the pity. I’d love to know what it’s like for a piece of Thalmor scum to get a taste of his own medicine.”
Ondolemar’s jaw reflexively clenched, and he instantly regretted it. The burning sting of tears threatened to fill his eyes anew, and with fierce desperation, he held it back. Do not show weakness! Set an example of dignity and strength – it’s your responsibility as a member of a superior…
The thought died in his mind, and in its ashes, the memories of yesterday stirred like ghosts. The truth could hurt our cause.
Surely there must be some mistake. He’d misunderstood, misinterpreted. He’d jumped to conclusions.
There was simply no way his whole life could be based on a lie.
The Nord, of course, misread the distress that was no doubt carved into on his face. “Serves you right, you know. I hope you rot in here like all the others you sent to their deaths.”
His vision was finally starting to clear, and Ondolemar looked around the room, forcing himself to analyze his surroundings.
Blood stains on the floor. Knives, maces, and twisted embalming tools lying around, no doubt in an effort to intensify the dread of the people whose bodies would soon be subjected to them. A skeleton, still hanging from the shackles on the wall opposite him.
Was it placed there before or after its owner died? Will I end up like that?
Do I deserve to?
The fact that he was still hanging from shackled, broken limbs, instead of lying in a cell, was a grim sign. Such abuse could lead to permanent injury – not something they normally inflicted on prisoners they wanted to survive.
And a live prisoner was in the cell with him and the skeleton, also against standard protocol, apparently armed with the knowledge of who Ondolemar was. They want him to help them break me, don’t they? It’s probably the one thing he’d be glad to help them with.
The skeleton’s hollow, accusing stare seemed to bore into his mind, and Ondolemar closed his eyes. He knew he should be schooling his face into a picture of serene confidence, but the foundation of that certitude had just been cracked, and the structure on top of it insisted on shaking no matter how hard he fought to keep it steady.
“So, what are you in here for?”
Long-ingrained reflex told him to look at people when they spoke to him. Exhaustion and inner turmoil told him to keep his eyes on the floor.
His gaze flicked briefly to the Nord, then fell.
In the corner of his eye, that cursed foot was rising again, reaching to prod his broken ribs. He shifted away as best he could, probably hurting himself more in the process than the human would have, and glared at his persistent antagonist. “A m-”
Pain ripped through his jaw, crushing the attempt to speak and folding his face into a cringe. But maybe if he could get the whole word out, this barbaric nuisance would leave him alone. “Mithsundathtandin,” he managed, wondering if the word was even remotely recognizable as the misunderstanding he was trying to voice.
To his relief, the man seemed to successfully interpret the attempt. “So, a false accusation, huh? Funny – that’s exactly why my cousin died. Damn knife-ears thought he was worshiping Talos, just because he complained about them dragging his next-door neighbor away, and because he didn’t agree with them fast and loudly enough.
“Turns out, he got rid of his shrine shortly after the White-Gold Concordat was signed. Not that they believed him, even after they tortured him to death.”
“Isn’t that what Thalmor do? Kill whoever doesn’t agree with them quickly and loudly enough?”
Kierska’s words echoed through his mind, and his stomach clenched so hard that if he’d been allowed to eat the day before, he might have thrown up. I was careful to only arrest proven heretics, but how many of my colleagues weren’t?
And were they really heretics, if the truth- The thought lodged like a rock in his throat, and for a moment, he thought about letting it die. Then he forced himself to complete it. Were the people whose lives we destroyed really ignorant, barbaric heretics?
Or were they rational people who believed the same proofs Kierska brought to me, that I have yet to refute?
“What’s with that look? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling sorry for us, now that you’ve spent a few days in our shoes.”
Sorry for them. What a small, inadequate whisper of the storm that was raging inside him. Ondolemar let his eyes squeeze shut, no longer caring how he looked.
And then the cell door clicked open.
A tall, stern figure strode inside, arrayed in the same elegant robes that had once made Ondolemar feel such pride. Now, he finally understood the disgust and dread his own presence used to inspire.
Carnaril stepped aside, and the former Justiciar’s swollen jaw tightened as Elenwen sauntered into the cell. “Ondolemar,” she greeted him with gratingly false sweetness. “I trust you’re enjoying your little chat?”
He normally knew better than to scowl at a superior officer. Especially one who had him chained to the wall.
But she’d just asked an incredibly stupid question, and even by the Thalmor’s strict standards of decorum, she’d more than earned the burning glare he aimed in her direction.
“I’m most sorry to interrupt,” she continued. “I just thought you should know that we intercepted a courier who had just visited Whiterun, and he said you’d sent a message to someone there. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about the contents?”
Damn that faithless traitor! He knew it was unrealistic to expect a mere courier to withstand Thalmor interrogation techniques, assuming the man had even tried, but panic sent the words racing through his mind all the same.
Despite his attempt to make his message seem innocuous, there was no way a person as cunning as Elenwen wouldn’t be suspicious. If his fate hadn’t already been sealed, this might be the final nail in his coffin.
Still, he couldn’t afford to let his terrified anger show in his face. It would only cement his tormentors’ certainty that he was hiding something.
Carnaril’s hand extended, embraced by swirling golden light, and Ondolemar’s eyes tightened as the fragments of his jaw began to shift back into place. The fingers on his unbroken hand clenched, and it took everything in his exhausted body to hold back a scream.
When the lower half of his face finally felt normal again, he blinked away the tears he had failed to hold back, then responded as smoothly as he could between gasps, “I’m sure he already told you what I wrote.” Assuming he read it. Do Skyrim’s couriers do that?
“Why don’t you repeat it for me?” Elenwen intoned, her voice like silken sugar laced with poison, and Ondolemar nodded.
I’ll assume they already know what I said. Better that than be caught lying.
“As close to verbatim as I can recall, I said, ‘Thank you for warning me to leave Markarth. I’ve relocated to Solitude, but unfortunately, it seems that some of my colleagues disapprove of our research.
I’ve received word that I will be taken to a facility where they will attempt to learn more about my research methods, and possibly correct them if they find them to be in error. Should you wish to visit me again, you will have to ask my superiors to tell you my location. I hope to see you again soon.’”
“‘Signed, O’,” Elenwen finished for him. “Is there a reason you were trying to conceal your name?”
“I merely used an informal signature. The Khajiit are not a particularly formal people, as their religious inclinations have often reminded me, and I thought it would promote a sense of familiarity that might encourage her to be more cooperative.”
“So you’re sure it wasn’t because you learned you were going to be arrested, and sent a covert message to the Dragonborn to entreat her to rescue you?”
“Of course not! If that had been the case, wouldn’t I have told her the location in which I was going to be held?”
“That would hardly be possible,” her damned lilting croon observed, “since you had no idea where we would be taking you.”
Curse her, she was right. But he wasn’t out of ammunition yet. “And since she has no way of knowing without getting that information from my superior officers, clearly she would need your permission in order to come here.”
“And what makes you think we would want her to do that?”
“I doubt you would, so clearly the letter’s only tangible effect will be to let her know why I will not be available to share the results of my research. And speaking of our research…” He fixed his accusing stare on Elenwen’s eyes. “I am frankly disappointed by Carnaril’s reaction to it.
“I would have thought the most intelligent and rational race in Tamriel would be more logical when examining the research conducted by one of their high-ranking officers and a potential source of additional information.”
“Even if that research was clearly heretical in nature?”
“Especially if that research could indicate why this heresy is proving so resilient, how to disprove it once and for all, and how to gain magical resources that could prove highly valuable to the Aldmeri Dominion!”
“And praying at a shrine of Talos contributed to that research?”
The Nord was gaping at him now, and Ondolemar didn’t care. “Kierska informed me that the shrines could cure physical illnesses, much like the shrines of true Divines. So I got myself infected by one of the local beasts, and then tested the shrine to see if her report was accurate.”
And the power, the sense of stern rebuke, the consternation that had flooded through him as the shrine burned the disease from his body as decisively as flame burns the flesh from the bone… he had no idea how to convey that without damning himself.
“And do you think it matters if the report was accurate?”
Elenwen’s words struck him like a slap to the face, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at her.
“Of COURSE it does,” he finally managed, letting his exasperation show in his voice. “For one thing, as I told Carnaril, if the source of the magic is not divine, it could potentially be replicated for the benefit of the Dominion.
“And if it is divine, we may need to…” This is going to get me killed. But they probably already know I’m going to say it, and failing to say it would be cowardly. “…rethink our stance on Talos worship.”
Every eye in the room went wide, and Ondolemar braced himself. I’m on the edge of the precipice now. Either they’ll agree to pursue the truth despite its possible costs, or they’ll throw me off the cliff to save their own worldview.
“Those sound,” Elenwen said slowly, in a voice like crystallized poison, “like the words of a heretic.”
“They are the words,” Ondolemar growled, “of someone who wants to know the truth, even if it requires us to reassess our own assumptions. To try to define the Divines and their choices by our own preferences, while ignoring the evidence of their actual decisions, is itself a form of heresy.
“Furthermore, if we are going to harm or kill people for being heretics, we had better be sure that their actions truly are heresy. Otherwise, we’re no better than murderers, killing innocents over a disagreement.”
“A short-sighted assessment,” Elenwen rebuked him, “and hardly befitting a member of the Thalmor.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the Thalmor changed our stance on Talos after so many gave their lives to see his heresy extinguished, the resulting controversy could turn a dangerous number of people against us.
“Those who oppose our methods and goals would have new ammunition for their recruitment efforts, those who once believed in us might start to question our wisdom and reliability, and those who lost family in the First War might believe that we’ve wasted the lives and deaths of their loved ones.
“A consistent and united front is necessary for the Aldmeri Dominion to flourish. If the Thalmor suddenly change our stance on such an important and controversial subject the way we forced the Empire to, we might see the same kind of unrest in our own lands that we’re currently seeing in Skyrim.
“All in all, this line of research is not beneficial to the Thalmor or the Dominion, so it must not be pursued.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, trying to make her words sink in.
When that failed, he finally stammered, “Your… political explanation makes sense, but… you are asking me to accept the idea that our cause would be undermined by the truth about the Divines.”
The thought was a blur of impossible unreality in his reeling mind, but slowly, horrifically, he was being forced to grasp the fact that it was true.
“You’re asking me,” he continued, his voice beginning to rise even as his tightening chest left him struggling for breath, “to commit an act of heresy by prioritizing politics over understanding and serving the Divines, even as you’d have me hunt and punish others for heresy in the name of the same Divines you use as tools in your political games!”
Carnaril’s mace slammed into his stomach, but even as he yelped and coughed, the rising fire in his mind kept flinging words from his mouth. “Kierska warned me about you,” he snarled. “She said the Thalmor she’d encountered before me were brutes who tried to kill anyone who disagreed with them.
“They didn’t investigate, didn’t seek proof, didn’t care about the truth… they used accusations of heresy as an excuse to murder anyone they didn’t like, and they used violence in place of logic like a pack of damn barbarians.
“And now, here you are, PROVING HER RIGHT! How are we supposed to gain the locals’ cooperation if that’s what they see when they look at us?!”
Carnaril’s mace rose again, and a haze of rage and pain burned away Ondolemar’s fear as he glared at the weapon and its wielder. Go ahead, kill me! Prove my point! I have nothing more to lose!
A gesture from Elenwen paused the attack in mid-swing, and her cold, dark-rimmed eyes fixed on the enraged prisoner’s. “You still seem to assume that persuading the populace is a relevant point.”
“Of course it…” No. His voice faltered into silence. She wouldn’t be saying that if it was.
“I’d been led to believe that it was,” he said slowly, trying not to allow his voice to shake. “How else are we supposed to get them to cooperate with our mission to purge this province of heresy?” If it even is heresy.
“We don’t need all of them to cooperate.” Elenwen replied smoothly. “In fact, it is best if they’re divided on the subject, and fight among themselves. The more of them fall to each other’s swords, the fewer there will be to oppose us during the next war.”
Cold realization dropped through him like a rock, settling its crushing weight in his empty, aching stomach. The Justiciars who attacked Kierska on the road… they weren’t performing their duties incorrectly. They were SUPPOSED to find excuses to kill people and stir up controversy.
The more death and destruction they cause, the more people they anger enough to drive them into the arms of the Stormcloaks, and the longer this war will drag on… causing more death and misery in the process.
My subordinates have been eroding our image of rationality, civility and morality this whole time – not in service of the gods, but to deliberately drive people into a faction that will encourage them to worship the same being whose worship I was sent here to stop.
And he’d been oblivious to all of it, playing his part like a good, stupid pawn. Kierska’s words rang in his ears, torn by tearful pain as she demanded that he justify the devastation the Thalmor had caused. Devastation he’d once thought he could justify.
Saviors of Mer. Enders of the Oblivion Crisis. Guardians of the Aldmeri Dominion. That’s who I thought the Thalmor were. That’s who I told other people they were.
How much of that is true, and how much is just more politically convenient lies?
And how many innocent people have been killed by the people to whom I’d sworn my loyalty and my life, just to suppress truths that would otherwise destroy something that might very well deserve to fall?
Saviors of Mer. The phrase he once took such pride in felt like bile in his throat. What kind of saviors killed the people they supposedly saved?
“It was never about heresy, was it?” he asked dully, knowing the answer, but needing – and dreading – to hear it out loud. “The religious aspects of our mission – my mission… the supposed approval of my zeal for preventing people from being diverted from the true Divines… it was all just a strategy for prolonging this civil war.”
“The elimination of heresy remains a worthy goal,” Elenwen responded smoothly. “But the long-term tactical and political gains are by far the more significant concern.”
“Even if it means driving more people into a faction that will encourage them to worship Talos?”
“If it serves our long-term goals, yes.”
“And even if it isn’t confirmed that Talos isn’t a god?”
“I believe I’ve made our position clear.”
She had. And now, it was time to force his mind to accept it. His body slumped hollowly, the last of his strength draining through the hole she had torn in his world, leaving him too exhausted to raise his voice above a hoarse, defeated whisper. “You never told me.”
“You did not need to know. Besides, your job includes mixing with the leaders of Skyrim, and you’ve shown little ability to keep your opinions to yourself, even when it’s in your best interest to do so. It was best that you weren’t distracted by information that wasn’t required for your job, and that we didn’t want you blurting out.”
Then I truly was just a pawn. The weight of the realization pushed his chin to his chest, leaving him staring with unseeing eyes at the blood-stained ground.
“Why me?” he asked numbly, unable to lift his face. “Why not send someone who would fully agree with what you were doing?”
“We needed someone who could match the Nords’ stubbornness, and your zeal and relentlessness made you suitable for the task. Also, your ability to get along with the locals better than the other candidates meant you could function as a liaison with a Jarl, even if your diplomatic skills were barely adequate. Unfortunately, your recent embrace of Talos means your suitability for this duty is at an end.”
“My embrace of-” His strength returned in a rush of rage, and his head snapped up. “You’re the ones who are deliberately driving people into his arms!”
If Elenwen heard him, she gave no sign. She kept on talking, as if his words no longer mattered. “Our assessment concludes that you are a heretic-”
The words shattered over his mind like a mirror, cracking the world into sharp, nonsensical fragments. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m not a heretic, I could never be…
“...and you will die a heretic’s death. Your corpse will serve as an example to any Mer who’s thinking of abandoning their principles.”
My corpse? …Oh. Cold reality washed over his mind, merging the shards of his world into certainty as hard and inescapable as the steel around his wrists.
“That isn’t why you’re killing me,” he returned, his muted voice steady and grim. “Just like my mission – this isn’t about heresy. It’s politics. A Justiciar who questions your beliefs is politically inconvenient…”
Should I continue? My next words are a death sentence.
An instant later, the foolishness of that question struck him. I already have a death sentence. I have nothing left to lose.
“Like the Justiciars who tried to kill Kierska on the road, you can’t tolerate people who question your claims, because when it’s questioned…”
He gritted his teeth, and then threw himself into the fire. “Your ‘truth’ cannot stand. So you kill anyone who approaches the truth, because for you, lies and the slaughter of innocents are more politically convenient than reality.”
Carnaril’s hand tightened on the mace, and the fear the sight should have inspired didn’t come. Dread pooled in Ondolemar’s gut, but he faced it head-on, grounded by the peace that came with accepting the inevitable.
Elenwen nodded, and the weapon swung.
Pain exploded through the stricken elf – not from his head, but from his left arm, and the sound that tore from his throat was as much a wrathful roar as a cry. “If you’re going kill me, just do it! You can finish mauling me when I’m dead!”
The cold moonstone slammed into his jaw, and his voice was reduced to straining moans and the whisper in his mind.
So this is how I die. Not in honorable battle, in service to the gods or a cause I believe in, but in chains and rags, at the hands of my own former colleagues.
I always thought I’d be proud of my life and death. But now…
A rib snapped, and his cry withered into a cough that sprinkled his legs with blood. I just found out my life was wasted. Worse than wasted – while some wastrels do nothing, I actively did harm. And now I’m going to die, before I can use that knowledge to do anything worthwhile.
The gods must hate me. And I can’t blame them.
He let himself go limp, jolting and swaying beneath the force of Carnaril’s strikes, no longer caring how he looked to the inhabitants of a world he was about to leave.
As if the dying elf’s fire had passed to him, the Nord lunged against his chains, and his roar of “LYING COWARDS!” sent Ondolemar’s fading mind reeling with gratitude and fear.
Don’t anger them… please… standing up for me isn’t worth it. They’ll kill you.
Play along. Lie to them, like they lied to us. Survive. Please.
Don’t become my last regret.
Another blow. Another. Another. The world was nothing but dull impact noises and sharp bursts of pain, all sinking slowly into bottomless darkness.
It went on for so long that he wondered if his body had forgotten how to die, leaving him trapped in this horrible moment forever.
And then it stopped.
The only sound was the fading murmur of his heartbeat in his throbbing head, and the only sensation in the roaring dark was the beacons of agony that blazed in broken bones.
Something shifted on his wrist, and a few of the beacons burned hotter as he swung to the side and dangled from one arm. Then the other shackle loosed, and he slumped to the ground, as limp as a broken doll.
Golden light flared briefly through him, repairing arteries that had been torn by jagged, displaced bone, and as his failing heartbeat strengthened slightly, hope fluttered in his clouded mind. Rescue? Kierska… are you…
“Take him to the courtyard.”
No… That cold voice wasn’t Kierska’s. It was Elenwen’s. The courtyard? Why?
Oh… Horrible realization sank in, like a slow blade in his throat.
They were going to make an example of him. It wasn’t enough for him to die; they wanted the other Thalmor to see him die.
They wanted to make sure that all willingness to question them… all resistance to their worldview… all freedom of thought died with him.
Rough hands clamped around his arms, and Ondolemar closed his eyes.
Author's note:
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