Your Truth Cannot Stand
A Skyrim Fanfiction
Chapter 13: Awakening
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
Chapter 11: I Was Like You, Once
Chapter 12: Solace from the Sky
Chapter 13: Awakening (you are here)
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
Chapter 11: I Was Like You, Once
Chapter 12: Solace from the Sky
Chapter 13: Awakening (you are here)
Chapter 14: Second Chances
Everything was dark and heavy. Ondolemar tried to open his eyes, straining to move eyelids that felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, but they refused to give more than the barest flicker of movement and light.
The fingers on his left hand twitched experimentally, and fire lanced through the bones in his arm, warning him not to do that again. He made no such attempt with his right hand; it felt more like a shapeless mass of pain than a functioning appendage.
His mind roamed across his body, and his face tightened. Everything hurt. He tried to swallow, only to nearly choke on the movement as his sand-dry throat rebelled. Even holding perfectly still only kept the pain from getting worse.
Will I ever be able to move again? I can’t tell, but… A sudden realization jolted through him. At least I’m not dangling from my arms anymore. Did they finally decide that they don’t need to break me?
The feeling of fur against his skin finally seeped through the fog of his senses, and a frown of confusion tugged at his brow.
Am I in a bed? No… this feels more like a bedroll on a hard floor. Not a bed, but… also not a cell.
There’s still something hard wrapped around my arms and legs, but it doesn’t feel like shackles. It’s stiff, but not as hard as metal, and it isn’t digging into me.
A moment later, realization dawned. These aren’t shackles. They’re casts. I’ve been given medical treatment – does that mean I managed to talk them down?
No… The memory finally broke through the fog in a rush of darkness and cold. They left me in the snow, to freeze to death or drown in the blood from my own punctured lung. They all just watched, and no one intervened, until… KIERSKA!
The name exploded through his mind like the roar of dragon fire, and his once-heavy eyes flew open. The dark stone ceiling was farther away than expected, the floor was strewn with the wreckage of what might have been a temple, and the walls most certainly weren’t those of the Thalmor Embassy.
He’d never liked Nord stonework. But today, the sight of it made him want to weep with relief.
She got me out. She actually got me out. I’m not in a cell, I’m not going to be tortured, and I’m not going to die – or at least, I’m not going to die right now.
It will probably take time, food and rest before my body has enough resources for her to finish healing me, but the swelling around the broken bones seems to have gone down, and… Mara’s mercy, I might actually make a full recovery.
Even if I don’t, at least I’ll live. If even a bit of my body still works, I have a chance to atone for my sins.
With a straining effort, he raised his head, searching for his rescuer and reveling in the fact that there wasn’t a single thrice-cursed Thalmor uniform to be seen.
Instead, there was just a brown Khajiit in a simple green dress, lying on a pew with her foot tucked under her head like a pillow, occasionally twitching her unadorned ears in her fitful sleep. It took him a several seconds and blinks to recognize her; he’d never seen Kierska in regular clothes before.
Is she in disguise? She must be – she took a terrible risk to save me. I hope she doesn’t end up paying for it.
It was unfair of me to invite her into this, but… in a province where I’ve earned such hate, there was no one else who might understand my call for help and be willing to act on it. She was my only hope.
And now I’m a fugitive, hated by Skyrim and the Dominion alike. And she might be, too, if word gets out that she might have endangered the treaty just to save a disgraced Justiciar.
But we’re both still alive. We’re both free. And we’re not alone.
His mind returned to their last conversation in Understone Keep, when she’d declared her determination to protect the Thalmor’s victims no matter who she had to offend, and he smiled.
Knowing her, she saved me because she wanted to. Because she isn’t afraid of the Thalmor. She does what she wants, what she thinks is right, no matter what anyone else thinks, and I have no doubt that she’d say as much to anyone who complains about what she did for me.
I want to be like her.
A soft, nearby murmuring caught his ear, and he forced his head to turn to the other side, relieved to find that the motion was easier than it had been a minute ago. A Dunmer in orange robes – Erandur, he remembered after a moment of mental searching – was kneeling before a meager shrine, speaking quietly.
Praying for healing for Ondolemar, and for safety and strength for everyone involved in his rescue. Displaying true piety, unlike the sham the former Justiciar had been wrapped in for most of his shameful life.
The priest shifted, standing briefly as if to give his knees a break, and the mace on his hip swung into view.
Ondolemar stiffened, and his throat clenched as if the weapon’s head were lodged inside it. He could almost feel the sharp malachite flanges driving into his ribs, his limbs, his face… he could feel his bones breaking, his mind going dark…
He wrenched his gaze away from the horrible reminder, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep his breathing even while his vision darkened and his head spun.
Maces used to be his favorite weapon. Now he wondered if he’d ever be able to look at one again without his body recoiling from the memory of what had been done to it.
And he’d done the same to other people. Divines forgive me. I hope those who survived recover.
And those who didn’t… His throat twisted into a burning knot, and his stomach did the same. Liquid fire stung his eyes, and his next breath shuddered as it dragged into his lungs. I thought I was protecting people from being ruined by false teachings.
Even if we waged a second war on the Empire, even if it was as deadly as I thought it would be, at least those who foolishly… no… those who made the right choice and stood against us would have died free of their heresy, and gone where the gods intended.
Or so I thought. I wish I’d known… I wasn’t protecting anyone.
Could I face my surviving victims again? Could I face the dead ones’ families? The thought made both his body and soul want to stop breathing, stop doing anything that could move him toward that unbearable scenario.
But he hadn’t become the commander of the Justiciars by being a coward. Someday, I’ll have to. I’d rather never see them again, but while I know there’s nothing I can do that could make it up to them, I still have to do what I can.
Assuming my former colleagues don’t hunt me down and kill me first. But that’s a problem for later. At least for now, I have a chance of living long enough to try to redeem myself.
His eyes returned to the person responsible for his improbable second chance, and his guilt and dread were mercifully pushed aside by a sudden glow of awe.
This strange young woman, this warrior-scholar who ate the souls of dragons, defied Daedric princes, and dared to start theological debates with a Thalmor Justiciar, had commanded a dragon. Had possibly even used the beast as a spy – how else could she have known where he was?
He could only imagine what it had taken to earn the respect of a creature so powerful and proud. Even as he began to speculate, her voice echoed in his mind. “I use my superiority to make their lives easier, one action at a time.”
How many times had she proven her superiority – not be destroying lives, but by saving them? By doing for others what they could not do for themselves, and doing it with kindness and respect, rather than haughtiness and condescension?
How many times had Erandur done so?
And how many times had Ondolemar, in all his supposed superiority, failed to do the same?
Superiority comes with responsibility.
She had proven herself his superior. As had Erandur. And as his superiors, they had taken responsibility for protecting him when he could not protect himself.
The gratitude and admiration he felt right now… would anyone ever feel that way toward him again? And if they did, would it be based on the truth?
What was the truth? After a lifetime of believing lies, would he ever be sure that he knew?
He tried to swallow again, and while his throat was still too parched to complete the attempt, the movement and what it didn’t make him feel sent realization resounding through his mind.
His jaw was healed. And the collar was gone.
It felt… symbolic. His body, his mind were finally free, and those to whom he had once belonged would never own him or silence him again.
The ‘truth’ they had taught him could no longer stand. But now he was free to discover a new one – one that would withstand every test that he and inquisitive felines put it to. And when he found that truth, he’d be able to speak it, to anyone who would listen.
No more broken jaws. The Thalmor silenced me twice before – they won’t do it again.
The next time they try to take me, I won’t go quietly. The world will know that they seek to control it with lies, and if they decide to kill me for revealing that, I’ll die fighting them.
A soft shuffling sound drew his eyes back to Kierska, and he watched in amusement as the leg beneath her head began to twitch, kicking her slightly in her sleep. A low growl vibrated in the depths of her throat, and with a sudden lunge too fast to see clearly, she clamped her teeth onto her own foot.
Her eyes snapped wide, and with a muffled, incoherent yelp, she tried to jerk away from the source of the pain, only to bounce off the back of the pew and nearly tumble off her perch.
A quick hand grabbed the backrest, and she hung suspended for a moment, her eyes bugged out and her center of balance dangling above the hard stone floor.
Trust a Khajiit to remind me of my mother’s pets.
An instant after the thought crossed his mind, Ondolemar inwardly punched himself for it. After all the centuries the Khajiiti people have spent being abused for their beastlike traits, did I really just compare my rescuer and friend to a group of dumb animals?
And the feeling that had come with the thought… the disparaging tone, and the sense of smug superiority, because of course his wise, sophisticated race would never do anything so animalistic and undignified…
It happened so automatically. Do the Thalmor’s lies still hold that much sway over me, even after everything that I’ve learned?
If so, I… Disappointment sank through his heart. I might not be as free of them as I thought.
While Ondolemar’s mind churned with inner turmoil, Kierska solved her far simpler dilemma by letting herself fall off the pew. She twisted sharply in midair, landing on all fours with her tail bushed out, and this time, the Altmer pointedly refused to compare her stance to a housecat’s.
Their stain is still there, but I won’t let it control me. I’ll purge it from myself, as surely as the flame burns the flesh from the bone.
The Dragonborn pushed herself to her feet, then the corner of her sharp golden eyes caught his, and her face darted to the side, locking squarely onto him. Her tail tip twitched as her fur began to smooth, and damn it, everything about her movements and mannerisms was so much like a housecat…
Maybe that’s not a bad thing, Ondolemar reminded himself. Khajiit are cats. And many of them are proud of it. It’s people like me acting like that’s a bad thing that turns it into an insult.
While he was admonishing himself, Kierska’s quick feet crossed the distance between them in a few bounding steps. She dropped into her familiar, feline crouch beside him, meeting his stare with relieved, worried eyes.
“Oh, good, you finally woke up. When you didn’t before my turn on watch ended, I was starting to worry that you wouldn’t before you died of dehydration.”
His first attempt to speak produced no sound. He cleared his throat, then tried again, dismayed to hear how his once-clear tones had rusted into rasping hoarseness. “Feels like I… came close,” he managed. “Do you h- kff!- have any water?”
“I’ve got a bottle right here. Give me a second.”
Thank the gods.
While she fished around in her pouch, Ondolemar briefly debated staying silent. It would be so much easier. But the words had to be said. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You didn’t… have to…”
“But you knew I would.” Her hand slipped under his head, as gently as it had in the Embassy’s courtyard, then tilted it until she could set a bottle to his dry, cracked lips without spilling the contents.
He’d never known the feeling of cool water could be such a relief. The straining tightness drained from his chest and throat, and the inner scream of his dehydrated body finally relaxed into comforted silence.
“You know,” Kierska added, a wry, chiding smirk tugging at her face as he drank, “it’s kind of unnerving to get a letter from a Thalmor Justiciar that shows that he knows exactly how smart and how stupid I am.”
She pulled the bottle away from his mouth to let him take a breath, and he managed a small smile, rallying enough strength to push the words out one phrase at a time. “Heh. That’s your fault… for making multiple… demonstrations… in front of a Mer of… my intellect.”
The flicker of amusement faded, and his eyes fell. “To be honest… I wasn’t sure… you could find me. At least… not in time.”
“We cut it pretty close,” Kierska acknowledged, and the sound of footsteps drew Ondolemar’s glance toward Erandur as the priest approached.
“Indeed,” Erandur agreed as he settled to his knees beside his patient. “If that dragon had found you just one hour later, it probably would’ve been too late.”
“Dragon… it…” He coughed again, then returned his gaze to Kierska. “Your scout?”
“Yeah. I defeated him in combat, and he agreed to serve me. He’s free to roam most of the time, as long as he leaves mortals and their stuff alone, but when I call for him, he comes to help me.
“He prefers combat missions, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, even if it doesn’t involve setting everything on fire.”
“I see. The next time you call for him… pass on my thanks. And thank you… both of you…”
A warm smile wrinkled the edges of Erandur’s crimson eyes. “You’re welcome, my son.” His hand settled gently on Ondolemar’s shoulder. “Feel free to stay here as long as you need to.”
As long as he needed to. Who knew how long that would be. And yet, he could tell that the old priest meant it.
A disgraced former tool of the Thalmor, too incapacitated to be of any use, yet still welcome and wanted. It was a strange, impossible thought. “Thank you,” he whispered again.
Erandur’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder, and Ondolemar let his eyes slip closed, focusing on the warmth of the Dunmer’s hand, and the feeling of his aching, weary head resting safe in the cradle of Kierska’s palm.
To say it aloud again would be repetitive, but the words kept echoing through his mind. Thank you, my friends. Thank you. Thank you.
Then the door to the building clicked open, Kierska’s hand quickly lowered his head to the bedroll, and both of his companions sprang to their feet, their fingers closing on the hilts of their weapons.
The fingers on his left hand twitched experimentally, and fire lanced through the bones in his arm, warning him not to do that again. He made no such attempt with his right hand; it felt more like a shapeless mass of pain than a functioning appendage.
His mind roamed across his body, and his face tightened. Everything hurt. He tried to swallow, only to nearly choke on the movement as his sand-dry throat rebelled. Even holding perfectly still only kept the pain from getting worse.
Will I ever be able to move again? I can’t tell, but… A sudden realization jolted through him. At least I’m not dangling from my arms anymore. Did they finally decide that they don’t need to break me?
The feeling of fur against his skin finally seeped through the fog of his senses, and a frown of confusion tugged at his brow.
Am I in a bed? No… this feels more like a bedroll on a hard floor. Not a bed, but… also not a cell.
There’s still something hard wrapped around my arms and legs, but it doesn’t feel like shackles. It’s stiff, but not as hard as metal, and it isn’t digging into me.
A moment later, realization dawned. These aren’t shackles. They’re casts. I’ve been given medical treatment – does that mean I managed to talk them down?
No… The memory finally broke through the fog in a rush of darkness and cold. They left me in the snow, to freeze to death or drown in the blood from my own punctured lung. They all just watched, and no one intervened, until… KIERSKA!
The name exploded through his mind like the roar of dragon fire, and his once-heavy eyes flew open. The dark stone ceiling was farther away than expected, the floor was strewn with the wreckage of what might have been a temple, and the walls most certainly weren’t those of the Thalmor Embassy.
He’d never liked Nord stonework. But today, the sight of it made him want to weep with relief.
She got me out. She actually got me out. I’m not in a cell, I’m not going to be tortured, and I’m not going to die – or at least, I’m not going to die right now.
It will probably take time, food and rest before my body has enough resources for her to finish healing me, but the swelling around the broken bones seems to have gone down, and… Mara’s mercy, I might actually make a full recovery.
Even if I don’t, at least I’ll live. If even a bit of my body still works, I have a chance to atone for my sins.
With a straining effort, he raised his head, searching for his rescuer and reveling in the fact that there wasn’t a single thrice-cursed Thalmor uniform to be seen.
Instead, there was just a brown Khajiit in a simple green dress, lying on a pew with her foot tucked under her head like a pillow, occasionally twitching her unadorned ears in her fitful sleep. It took him a several seconds and blinks to recognize her; he’d never seen Kierska in regular clothes before.
Is she in disguise? She must be – she took a terrible risk to save me. I hope she doesn’t end up paying for it.
It was unfair of me to invite her into this, but… in a province where I’ve earned such hate, there was no one else who might understand my call for help and be willing to act on it. She was my only hope.
And now I’m a fugitive, hated by Skyrim and the Dominion alike. And she might be, too, if word gets out that she might have endangered the treaty just to save a disgraced Justiciar.
But we’re both still alive. We’re both free. And we’re not alone.
His mind returned to their last conversation in Understone Keep, when she’d declared her determination to protect the Thalmor’s victims no matter who she had to offend, and he smiled.
Knowing her, she saved me because she wanted to. Because she isn’t afraid of the Thalmor. She does what she wants, what she thinks is right, no matter what anyone else thinks, and I have no doubt that she’d say as much to anyone who complains about what she did for me.
I want to be like her.
A soft, nearby murmuring caught his ear, and he forced his head to turn to the other side, relieved to find that the motion was easier than it had been a minute ago. A Dunmer in orange robes – Erandur, he remembered after a moment of mental searching – was kneeling before a meager shrine, speaking quietly.
Praying for healing for Ondolemar, and for safety and strength for everyone involved in his rescue. Displaying true piety, unlike the sham the former Justiciar had been wrapped in for most of his shameful life.
The priest shifted, standing briefly as if to give his knees a break, and the mace on his hip swung into view.
Ondolemar stiffened, and his throat clenched as if the weapon’s head were lodged inside it. He could almost feel the sharp malachite flanges driving into his ribs, his limbs, his face… he could feel his bones breaking, his mind going dark…
He wrenched his gaze away from the horrible reminder, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep his breathing even while his vision darkened and his head spun.
Maces used to be his favorite weapon. Now he wondered if he’d ever be able to look at one again without his body recoiling from the memory of what had been done to it.
And he’d done the same to other people. Divines forgive me. I hope those who survived recover.
And those who didn’t… His throat twisted into a burning knot, and his stomach did the same. Liquid fire stung his eyes, and his next breath shuddered as it dragged into his lungs. I thought I was protecting people from being ruined by false teachings.
Even if we waged a second war on the Empire, even if it was as deadly as I thought it would be, at least those who foolishly… no… those who made the right choice and stood against us would have died free of their heresy, and gone where the gods intended.
Or so I thought. I wish I’d known… I wasn’t protecting anyone.
Could I face my surviving victims again? Could I face the dead ones’ families? The thought made both his body and soul want to stop breathing, stop doing anything that could move him toward that unbearable scenario.
But he hadn’t become the commander of the Justiciars by being a coward. Someday, I’ll have to. I’d rather never see them again, but while I know there’s nothing I can do that could make it up to them, I still have to do what I can.
Assuming my former colleagues don’t hunt me down and kill me first. But that’s a problem for later. At least for now, I have a chance of living long enough to try to redeem myself.
His eyes returned to the person responsible for his improbable second chance, and his guilt and dread were mercifully pushed aside by a sudden glow of awe.
This strange young woman, this warrior-scholar who ate the souls of dragons, defied Daedric princes, and dared to start theological debates with a Thalmor Justiciar, had commanded a dragon. Had possibly even used the beast as a spy – how else could she have known where he was?
He could only imagine what it had taken to earn the respect of a creature so powerful and proud. Even as he began to speculate, her voice echoed in his mind. “I use my superiority to make their lives easier, one action at a time.”
How many times had she proven her superiority – not be destroying lives, but by saving them? By doing for others what they could not do for themselves, and doing it with kindness and respect, rather than haughtiness and condescension?
How many times had Erandur done so?
And how many times had Ondolemar, in all his supposed superiority, failed to do the same?
Superiority comes with responsibility.
She had proven herself his superior. As had Erandur. And as his superiors, they had taken responsibility for protecting him when he could not protect himself.
The gratitude and admiration he felt right now… would anyone ever feel that way toward him again? And if they did, would it be based on the truth?
What was the truth? After a lifetime of believing lies, would he ever be sure that he knew?
He tried to swallow again, and while his throat was still too parched to complete the attempt, the movement and what it didn’t make him feel sent realization resounding through his mind.
His jaw was healed. And the collar was gone.
It felt… symbolic. His body, his mind were finally free, and those to whom he had once belonged would never own him or silence him again.
The ‘truth’ they had taught him could no longer stand. But now he was free to discover a new one – one that would withstand every test that he and inquisitive felines put it to. And when he found that truth, he’d be able to speak it, to anyone who would listen.
No more broken jaws. The Thalmor silenced me twice before – they won’t do it again.
The next time they try to take me, I won’t go quietly. The world will know that they seek to control it with lies, and if they decide to kill me for revealing that, I’ll die fighting them.
A soft shuffling sound drew his eyes back to Kierska, and he watched in amusement as the leg beneath her head began to twitch, kicking her slightly in her sleep. A low growl vibrated in the depths of her throat, and with a sudden lunge too fast to see clearly, she clamped her teeth onto her own foot.
Her eyes snapped wide, and with a muffled, incoherent yelp, she tried to jerk away from the source of the pain, only to bounce off the back of the pew and nearly tumble off her perch.
A quick hand grabbed the backrest, and she hung suspended for a moment, her eyes bugged out and her center of balance dangling above the hard stone floor.
Trust a Khajiit to remind me of my mother’s pets.
An instant after the thought crossed his mind, Ondolemar inwardly punched himself for it. After all the centuries the Khajiiti people have spent being abused for their beastlike traits, did I really just compare my rescuer and friend to a group of dumb animals?
And the feeling that had come with the thought… the disparaging tone, and the sense of smug superiority, because of course his wise, sophisticated race would never do anything so animalistic and undignified…
It happened so automatically. Do the Thalmor’s lies still hold that much sway over me, even after everything that I’ve learned?
If so, I… Disappointment sank through his heart. I might not be as free of them as I thought.
While Ondolemar’s mind churned with inner turmoil, Kierska solved her far simpler dilemma by letting herself fall off the pew. She twisted sharply in midair, landing on all fours with her tail bushed out, and this time, the Altmer pointedly refused to compare her stance to a housecat’s.
Their stain is still there, but I won’t let it control me. I’ll purge it from myself, as surely as the flame burns the flesh from the bone.
The Dragonborn pushed herself to her feet, then the corner of her sharp golden eyes caught his, and her face darted to the side, locking squarely onto him. Her tail tip twitched as her fur began to smooth, and damn it, everything about her movements and mannerisms was so much like a housecat…
Maybe that’s not a bad thing, Ondolemar reminded himself. Khajiit are cats. And many of them are proud of it. It’s people like me acting like that’s a bad thing that turns it into an insult.
While he was admonishing himself, Kierska’s quick feet crossed the distance between them in a few bounding steps. She dropped into her familiar, feline crouch beside him, meeting his stare with relieved, worried eyes.
“Oh, good, you finally woke up. When you didn’t before my turn on watch ended, I was starting to worry that you wouldn’t before you died of dehydration.”
His first attempt to speak produced no sound. He cleared his throat, then tried again, dismayed to hear how his once-clear tones had rusted into rasping hoarseness. “Feels like I… came close,” he managed. “Do you h- kff!- have any water?”
“I’ve got a bottle right here. Give me a second.”
Thank the gods.
While she fished around in her pouch, Ondolemar briefly debated staying silent. It would be so much easier. But the words had to be said. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You didn’t… have to…”
“But you knew I would.” Her hand slipped under his head, as gently as it had in the Embassy’s courtyard, then tilted it until she could set a bottle to his dry, cracked lips without spilling the contents.
He’d never known the feeling of cool water could be such a relief. The straining tightness drained from his chest and throat, and the inner scream of his dehydrated body finally relaxed into comforted silence.
“You know,” Kierska added, a wry, chiding smirk tugging at her face as he drank, “it’s kind of unnerving to get a letter from a Thalmor Justiciar that shows that he knows exactly how smart and how stupid I am.”
She pulled the bottle away from his mouth to let him take a breath, and he managed a small smile, rallying enough strength to push the words out one phrase at a time. “Heh. That’s your fault… for making multiple… demonstrations… in front of a Mer of… my intellect.”
The flicker of amusement faded, and his eyes fell. “To be honest… I wasn’t sure… you could find me. At least… not in time.”
“We cut it pretty close,” Kierska acknowledged, and the sound of footsteps drew Ondolemar’s glance toward Erandur as the priest approached.
“Indeed,” Erandur agreed as he settled to his knees beside his patient. “If that dragon had found you just one hour later, it probably would’ve been too late.”
“Dragon… it…” He coughed again, then returned his gaze to Kierska. “Your scout?”
“Yeah. I defeated him in combat, and he agreed to serve me. He’s free to roam most of the time, as long as he leaves mortals and their stuff alone, but when I call for him, he comes to help me.
“He prefers combat missions, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, even if it doesn’t involve setting everything on fire.”
“I see. The next time you call for him… pass on my thanks. And thank you… both of you…”
A warm smile wrinkled the edges of Erandur’s crimson eyes. “You’re welcome, my son.” His hand settled gently on Ondolemar’s shoulder. “Feel free to stay here as long as you need to.”
As long as he needed to. Who knew how long that would be. And yet, he could tell that the old priest meant it.
A disgraced former tool of the Thalmor, too incapacitated to be of any use, yet still welcome and wanted. It was a strange, impossible thought. “Thank you,” he whispered again.
Erandur’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder, and Ondolemar let his eyes slip closed, focusing on the warmth of the Dunmer’s hand, and the feeling of his aching, weary head resting safe in the cradle of Kierska’s palm.
To say it aloud again would be repetitive, but the words kept echoing through his mind. Thank you, my friends. Thank you. Thank you.
Then the door to the building clicked open, Kierska’s hand quickly lowered his head to the bedroll, and both of his companions sprang to their feet, their fingers closing on the hilts of their weapons.
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