2 - For All Things, an Appointed Time...

Early Morning, 4th of Second Seed (May), 4E 175

The slam of the iron-bound door behind Ondolemar was all but drowned out by another crack of thunder as the heart of the storm continued to roll over the city.  The last handful of hours had been spent in conference with Commander Aelthor in the garrison's headquarters at Rosethorn Hall - pouring over maps, scouting reports, any scrap of intelligence they had at their immediate disposal to try and pinpoint the exit to the sewer tunnels that could lead reinforcements into the city. What no one present could say for certain, was whether or not Lord Naarifin had knowledge of this route, if Auri-El felt the need to humble them all and make an escape from Imperial forces necessary.

The thought of such a setback now… now...after all the blood and sacrifice it took to get this far left a truly foul taste in his mouth. Although truth be told, there was a far more troubling matter that weighed on him at that moment.  After all, while this rally by this laughable excuse for an 'Empire' was thornish and frustrating, the Thalmor had never failed their people.  Not when disgusting human folly had covered the land with daedra and death, they certainly would not do so now.

"Arelya!" he bellowed, stripping off his gloves and beginning to undo the buckles of his Thalmor robes. The first year or two in this Divines-forsaken shitpile of a country had been uncomfortable, but bearable. Now? Everything about this place, the dull colours, the oppressive weather, the bland slop that passed for food, and the humans... the unending assault of their sights, noises, and stench against his senses often drove him to what felt like the brink of madness.  Many times he ached for home.

As if that was not enough, the powers that be all seemed to conspire and had dropped her in his lap. Surely Auri-El would not have stricken a loyal son as he was with such affliction.  Still, which conspiratorial, fate-altering powers had, he wouldn't guess, though Sanguine had crossed his mind as a suspect - humiliation and debasement were that Oblivion Prince's signature after all.

The petite, mild mannered, but simple Bosmer woman he had summoned hurried down the steps to the foyer. Her hair was streaked with a few slivers of grey one could see whisping out from under her cowl. Deftly and without needing to say a word, she took his gloves and his wet outer robes, draping them over one arm.

Ondolemar's posture was still extremely tense and his voice snappy and irritated as he poured himself a glass of heavy wine. "Where is she?" he asked.  He was aware Arelya probably knew more than she should about the biggest roots of his discontent, having been his servant wherever he went for many years now - and his father’s before him. One blessing was how well she had come to be able to anticipate his needs, often before he was fully aware of them himself.  That, and her impeccable sense of discretion.

"The usual place sir. I laid out a dry set of your evening clothes in the study."

Turning from her master, she began up the stairs before pausing, and turning back to look down at him. When he turned his eyes up and noticed her gaze, he took a gulp to finish off his cup and promptly poured another. He arched an eyebrow somewhat disdainfully.

“Well?”

Not just a common housekeeper, Arelya was a skilled healer.  Any time not spent tending to the needs of his household, she spent in the military hospital set up for their wounded Aldmeri troops behind the front lines.

She considered her words carefully.  “Wasn’t just her shoulder Felindral twisted a pretty number on. Broke both her ankles ta pieces.  Knees and hips weren't quite so bad, but still going to need a lot of rest. I don’t mean to overstep my bounds sir, but if she isn’t handled real delicate-like for a long while… “ she paused, unsure of how to exactly say it.

“Spit it out Arelya, I’m tired.” he hissed.

“She might not walk right again sir.” she said hurriedly, pinning her eyes to the ground to avoid seeing whatever reaction her master would have. “...if she gets treated any sort of the same rough way again soon.”

The complete absence of any sound from him was more frightening than if he had yelled or thrown something.  His silence, unlike his rage, was unpredictable. Quickly she ducked her head in a bow. "Sir." And with that was off in a flash with the wet robes.
----

Ondolemar sighed with a bit of relief as he stripped off the rest of his tight, damp clothing.  The fire in the study cast a warm glow over the room. Walking past the table where his night clothes were laid out, he poured himself another cup of wine - letting the radiating heat from the fireplace warm his backside.

It was always so oppressively cold in this country. The fact that there were inhabited lands even further north - some parts of it eternally buried in drifts of snow and ice - almost disturbed him.  It had always sounded dreadful, and Ondolemar could only be grateful that he wasn’t likely to displease anyone enough to end up stationed in that sort of hell hole.

But Freya’s eyes would glitter and shine with a spark of energy he could not recall seeing at any other time, when she would describe her homeland. She could make the untamed, feral woods of Falkreath, or the rocky plains of Whiterun sound almost interesting. Almost.

Downing his third cup of heavy wine, he ran a hand through his short, few inches of hair.  Always one of the more austere of his colleagues, he used to keep the silver, honey streaked mess shorn down to nothing.  He frowned, remembering the afternoon he caught her staring at him as if daydreaming - before wondering aloud how it’d look if he would let it grow, even just a little.  He rationalized his change in grooming habits as his own curiosity and choice.  Hadn’t ever given it thought - it had simply been what he’d always done.

Huffing in frustration he grabbed only his night robe, shrugging it over his shoulders and tying the belt loosely across his hips.  Everything in his environment was always so constraining, regimented, and tight - he saw no real reason to deny himself at least a brief respite from it all.

After all, what harm would it do?

By now the undiluted drink had eased a good deal of the most wound and tense bits - mental and physical.  Always after he’d remind himself it was a disturbing habit to form in one so superiorly bred, rather than being able to simply will away his own stress.  Self punishment and castigation would come later. For now, he wanted to see her.
-----

The moon had long since climbed too high to shine through the bedroom windows.  What light there was in the room was given off by candles.  Arelya had laid Freya in his bed, clothed with a sleeveless white linen shift, silk lacing holding the front of it together.  Laying on her right side, her back was too him - sides rising and falling slowly, but evenly as she slept.  He sighed as one who could not help himself and let his gaze wander.

Her thick hair laid against her back in a long, simple plait.  The sheer linen draped over her hips and legs, making her skin look as if it were glowing gold in the candlelight.  Sometimes in moments like this one, only so often, Ondolemar found he had forgotten not who he was looking at, but what.

He sat on the edge of the other side of the bed, ghosting his fingertips over her bandaged and slung shoulder.  Despite the combined efforts of himself and his Bosmer servant, there were still ugly bruises, shackle cuts, and whip marks on her skin. Both feet were splinted and bound with strips of cloth from her toes to just beneath the curve of her calves. Even Mer bodies could only handle so many potions, or so much magic at once, regardless of its nature, without becoming sickened or poisoned. There was simply no way to replace time when it came to healing such injuries.

Eventually Ondolemar stretched out on his side next her. Running his fingers over her braided hair, he draped it over to the other side before placing that arm over her waist, and his nose at the base of the back of her neck.  Drawing in a breath, he could smell wisps of magnolia and lavender from what Arelya had used to bathe her. She always smelled so sweet and warm...almost like home.

 That she had been so thoroughly abused and might well have been killed in his absence angered him in a way he couldn’t - or simply did not wish to understand.  Trying to think it was because the Thalmor would have been out a perfect, already stringed marionette to install in the White-Gold Tower after all this unpleasantness was decided felt obscure and petty. This was a more primal, possessive, and distinctly male anger.  He did not understand it, and trying only made it worse - so he just...didn’t. He would focus instead on ways to make Felindral’s death look like an accident.  An extremely painful one.

Freya stirred, turning her head slightly. Ondolemar rested his head on his right hand and moved just enough to let her roll onto her back. She smiled sweetly as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Hello…” she murmured sleepily.  Her heavy lidded, slightly unfocused gaze made it obvious just how heavily dosed she was for pain.

He responded by leaning down and giving her a kiss.  She opened her mouth to his probing and insistent tongue, fingers trembling as they grasped for his sleeve. Abruptly, he batted them away and grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You lied to me." he whispered, their foreheads lightly touching and his unblinking eyes cold as he waited for her answer.

Freya's brow furrowed and her look was confused. Her lips began to form a soundless 'What?' before understanding came to her. Pursing her lips, she jerked her chin away from his grip and focused on some distant point across the room.

"I did not." she said curtly. It was the truth, but only from a certain point of view. She’d been in the South East tunnel, yes, but only in the City’s side - a by way to the sewers under the Arena where vampires often convened and needed periodic removal. It was a petty omission, but she knew him well enough to know he would not be satisfied without forcing every last secret from her if he thought she had any.  Could he not give her just this one, tiny thing that only in the most bizarre of circumstances be of any consequence?

He wasn't entirely sure if this abrupt mood was her own spirit or false bravado bolstered by the pain killing, but still mind-altering concoction she'd been given. It didn't matter really.

"I don't believe you." he hissed, forcing her to look back at him and placing his hand firmly around her throat. He loomed over her now, one knee wedged between her thighs, emerald daggers boring directly into her eyes.

“Do I need to remind you of the consequences when you lie? Especially if that lie costs any time or lives?"

She trembled under his grip, uncertainty and unabashed fear apparent in her entire expression.  It twisted something painfully in him when she gave him that look.  It happened anytime Ondolemar went away and his eyes, his kisses, his touch, were replaced by the merciless, obedient soldier the Thalmor had conditioned him from birth to be. He didn’t want her to be afraid - not of him, but he held his stony countenance no matter how uncomfortable.  She made him weak enough in his own thoughts, his own will, and in panic, he felt he could not let the last vestiges of his resistance crumble, no matter the cost.

He would look at her and feel love!  He would do things just to see her smile. He would miss and yearn for her touch, the tight warmth of her body around him when he laid with her, whenever his duty kept him away. He would be gnawed and consumed by a painful, paranoid fear at the thought she might be taken from him - a fear made markedly worse with the sudden turn in the tides of the War’s fortunes. He loved her. By Auri-El and all the rest, she had made him love her, and he hated her for it!

“P...please..” she whimpered, her one good hand grasping weakly and in vain against his wrist. “Please, I didn’t…”

Ondolemar’s hand tightened ever so slightly, but the constancy of his grip wavered. The dim light obscured the pained look in his eyes.  They burned, and he forced them closed, unable to maintain his resolve if he had to look into her eyes for a moment longer.

“Ondolemar, please…” she gasped, her voice small, terrified, and pleading. “...you’re hurting me.”

At that moment, the tears pooling in her eyes slid down her cheeks and landed in drips on his fingers.  His hand snapped back as if her tears had burned him. Falling back to sit on his knees, he looked at his hands and could not stop them from shaking.  

The sounds of her pained wheezing as she struggled to catch her breath drew his eyes back to her face - tear stained and red. It broke something in him that had not been broken before.  When had he become the same utterly soulless wretch his father had been? He withdrew his knee from between her legs and laid down beside her. Moving his arms to fully encircle her waist, the high-elf laid his cheek against her chest, stumbling over his words as those last precious vestiges crumbled, and he whispered frantic apologies and desperate pleas for forgiveness.

Freya sniffled and shivered, deep throbbing pains having been roused from their slumber. The sounds danced on the tip of her tongue but her words failed her. Instead she laid a light kiss on his head and stroked his cheek clumsily. She closed her eyes, her head spinning, every inch of her body feeling heavy and tired.

Eventually she felt Ondolemar rise, sitting her up long enough to settle behind her. Gathering her in his arms, he eased her back against his chest. Freya was on the petite side for a Nord - even with her head tucked neatly under his chin, the tips of her toes barely reached the halfway point of his calves.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered again in her ear after a length of silence. Holding her a little tighter, his voice dropped - barely audible - speaking what he'd often thought, but had never before said. 

"I love you."

His only answer was her soft, slow breathing as she slept.