"As a Thalmor Commander, it is your duty to set an example for your troops in a time of need," The Grand Justiciar had told his student as the two made their way into a lavish temple, "Despite what you may believe, this principle surpasses all other aspects of your position."
"I don't understand," The new Commander turned his head to look up at the towering mer, "As a Justiciar, it was my duty, it always had been my duty, to track down those who commit heresy. I had never needed an example - you just need to get your information, and make your kill. Why is it that I must set an example now? It seems rather unneeded, sir."
The taller elf extended a hand, gesturing for the younger man to follow him down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor, and their forms cast shadows upon the sun-kissed stone. Attendants of the temple stepped out of their path as they passed, respectfully bowing their heads. As they approached the mighty statue of Auri-El, the Commander felt a new sensation overtake him. It were as if his troubles had melted away, much like the rain removes the filth from the world, and had left him as a single, pure being. No longer did he hold blood on his hands, or guilt in his heart - almost as if he had been baptized by the sacred sensation was awe-striking, and he doubted that any tongue, be it men's, mer's, or beast's alike, could ever truly express the aura that was housed within the walls of the temple.
The Grand Justiciar turned, and smiled at him. It was a warm, comforting smile, that one might expect to find on a priest, "You felt that just now, did you not? Auri-El's eyes fall upon this particular cathedral, and any mer of pure blood can sense it. You have been here before, have you not?"
"Yes," He responded slowly, not yet ready to interrupt the sense of purity that bathed the area, "This is where every soldier of the Aldmeri Dominion takes his vows to serve." He glanced up at the towering statue, and memories from only years prior filled his mind - memories of what it was like to have been green to war, to be a child, carefree and happy. Those years felt as if they had been a lifetime prior.
"It is not by chance that we bring every initiate here to recite his or her vows," He told his student, "This is the heart of Alinor, the heart of our very people. It is the most inspiring location any Altmer could possibly visit. This statue, this holy relic, instills such happiness, and such desire to share this indescribable feeling of harmony and peace with the rest of the world.
"This is why we fight. Through the Great War, and now to more troubling areas of the world that still need guidance to experience the peace we know as a people. It is true that they will never experience this as we do, for our blood is pure, and their's is tainted, nevertheless it is our duty as the superior people to guide them to the closest shard divinity they could ever know.
"However," His tone grew darker, sterner than the Commander had heard since the Great War had ended, "There are many soldiers who forget this when they leave Alinor. They are driven not by the desire to share our greatness, but to simply harm the lesser races for the crime of existence. They would fight a man who's weapon had been bound, and the capital offense: take the coward's way out of trouble by surrendering, as they had in Hammerfell. They bring shame to the Dominion, shame to mer everywhere - be they Altmer, Bosmer, or even the barbaric Orsimer. They stoop to the same level as the simpletons and heathens. Too many of our troops have been surrendering. They grow so weary of fighting, or they are intimidated after the incident in Hammerfell. It makes us weak as an army, and as a people."
The taller man placed a strong hand on his student's shoulder, and stared into his eyes, an intense passion laying behind his own honey-colored irises, "This is what you must change. I know you are capable of it, which is why I am sending you to Skyrim. You have a way of inspiring troops, and they could learn from your tenacity.
"Do not let your soldiers shame themselves and us by forgetting this-" He raised his arm, gesturing the peaceful temple around them, "-their home. Alinor is the source of pride for our people. It is beautiful enough to protect and defend, and stunning enough to share with the rest of the world."
The Grand Justiciar then paused and frowned, "Tell me, Commander, do you know how we are superior to men?"
"Superior to men?" He almost laughed, as if it were a rhetorical question, "We are bred to be superior. Our culture is far more civilized than the barbarians of the mainland, we dress-"
"Wrong." The paladin interrupted, "We are superior to those you will face in combat, it is true. However, contrary to common belief, it grants no combat advantage. We are only superior in that we are closer to divinity than the lesser races will ever be. Auri-El smiled upon us, he communicates more directly to us than any Aedra known to Tamriel. He communicates only to us, and it is to lead us into the same divinity he knows. And that, my dear student, can easily be changed by the smallest of actions. If you let your troops forget this, then they are no greater than the men that defy us. Auri-El will turn his gaze from them, and they will be nothing more than beasts.
"It is your place, your duty, to remind your troops every moment of every day of this fact. You must carry yourself in a manner that your men would envy, and strive to rival. Your courage and dedication must be unwavering. If it falters, even slightly, the Dominion will have no further use of you."
"I... I think I understand, Sir." He nodded hesitantly, "This position is weightier than I had initially assumed." He peered up at the Grand Justiciar, and frowned when he felt a droplet of water fall onto his head. Was the roof leaking?
"I know this," The taller man nodded, "And I have no doubt that you are up to the challenge."
Another droplet fell, this time onto his nose, and another on his ear. They were becoming more frequent, and he could see his superior slowly becoming damp because of it. He didn't seem to notice.
"Remember this day, Commander." He spoke calmly as the water soaked his regalia, distorting the golden colors of his armor, and the deep reds of his uniform.
The drops had quickly become a stream, cascading down the windows of the chapel, and flooding the holy ground. It didn't take long for the water to cover his body, and form a puddle at his feet. His eyes widened in horror as the attendants of the temple began melting - Becoming one with the water, as if they had been made of ice from the beginning.
The Commander jerked backwards, but found that he had been unable to move, as if restrained by an invisible force. He raised his arms, and attempted to shoot a frost spell at the windows - Any method possible to calm the chaos that had erupted. The water-fall like mass tore through the spell effortlessly, an unstoppable force that defied even his strongest magics. He let out a horrified scream, but to no effect other than successfully forcing the water down his throat. He inhaled instinctively, the horror of the moment overwhelming him, and coughed violently, only just able to raise his head to meet the other man's eyes.
The Grand Justiciar then smiled at him, the same tranquil, priest-like beam that had comforted him only moments before. He was quickly melting, much as the attendants had, and held no terror or panic in his tone, "I have faith in you, Ondolemar. I know you will teach them well."
Ondolemar woke with a jerk, and coughed violently. The pelts littering his bed, which had once scavenged what little warmth could be found, were soaked through with ice water. Thought that was hardly his primary concern - The two hulking Nords in his bedroom were. One was pinning him to his stone bed, his hands in the same areas of his shoulders that the Grand Justiciar's had been. The second of the two had been holding a bucket, likely where the ice water had come from, that looked too close to Ondolemar's chamberpot for comfort. The man was staring at the wall of the mer's chamber, as if admiring it.
"The knife-ear even casts in his sleep," The Nord admired the frost spell that had been cast out of desperation only moments before. He then glanced at Ondolemar, and nodded to the door, "Get the thing up so we can bring him to Thorald."
The Altmer glared at the two. He had been in Markarth for many years, and never before had he been woken in such a manner, few of the city would dare to anger the Thalmor Commander. Through his exhausted, newly awoken eyes, he could make out the colors of their uniform. Their scarf-like tabards weren't green, like the rest of the city guard, but rather a dark blue.
He growled weakly, not only at the men, but himself as well. He glared at the uniform of the men - the simpletons of the damnable country identified their hold by color, and there were two which were blue. He knew both of the factions to ally themselves with the rebellion, however, making their origin simply an extra detail he'd have to put into his report. Now his primary concern was correcting the situation, and attempting to forget the embarrassment of being ambushed in his sleep.
Before he could break free from the Nord's grasp, the husky man forced him onto his feet, swatting the back of Ondolemar's head when he stumbled. For reasons of both defense and comfort, the Commander always wore his robes, even when he slept. His charges had laughed at him for it, yet, as always, he had proven to be the wiser.
With the Nord restraining his wrists, casting was difficult, if not impossible. He glared at his keeper, unwilling to surrender to him so easily, and shoved the heel of his boot down onto the fat man's toes.
His captor howled with pain, his hold loosening for only a moment to soothe his bleeding foot. That was all the Commander needed. Ondolemar broke free of his grip, and raised his arms toward the man. Within seconds, his drenched fingertips had erupted with flames that licked away at the Stormcloak's exposed skin.
Before he could retaliate, the mer turned, and began sprinting down the stone hallway of the keep. He needed to find his bodyguards, and quickly. He would have loved to end the fat man's excuse of a life, and would have had it not been for the other soldier who had likely heard their skirmish, and had gone to investigate.
Torches flew past him, illuminating the stone corridor. His eyes narrowed upon seeing the exit in sight, and slowed his pace, panting, and pressing himself to the wall. The stone was cold against his soaked silken robes, and sent chills up his spine.
He panted, his breath forming in front of him in the form of small tufts of steam. Aches and cramps burdened his unexercised physique. He couldn't stop to rest, he knew well, as his charges could be in danger. However, at the same time, only a fool would rush into battle before knowing the situation.
He peered into the doorway, and took in the scene before him, a strong feeling of dread quickly tearing at him. Stormcloaks of similar uniform as his captor littered the halls, though they did not seem to be patrolling. Instead, they were speaking with another group, one that Ondolemar recognized as the Jarl and his attendants.
He picked out the apparent leader of the cutthroats, who's name he assumed was Thorald. He donned a leather kilt of sorts, with a large, furry pair pelt draping over his head and shoulders. Through the bear's brown fur, his strands of silver hair stood out like the moon against the night sky, though he did not look to be terribly old. Mature enough to sire a child, of course, yet too young for his hair to have lost pigment.
He appeared to be a strong, proud man with incredible bulk to match his tremendous height. However, one what skin was exposed, he could make out intricately laced scars that weaved up his arms, neck and face. He frowned. Lightning scars - it was a telltale sign that he had been tortured at Northwatch Keep, considering how many mars he possessed. Diplomacy would be impossible.
His ears perked as the sound of footsteps behind him met his ear. Two sets, one even, the other sounding lopsided. The mer cursed under his breath as a new feeling of urgency overtook him. The fat man and his comrade were going to discover him unless he moved quickly.
Ondolemar bit his lip, and quickly looked out at the main corridor once again, desperately looking for his bodyguards. Through the many faces of fair and tan skin, he could make out no golden hues of Altmer. Panic bolted through him, stemming from his center, and reaching even his numbed fingertips. What if they had been executed, or worse, surrendered to the Nords?
Before his fears could overtake him, the sight of bright red hair caught his eye. He turned, and much to his surprise, saw a Bosmer woman beckoning him from inside the blacksmith's workshop. He recognized her as a scout for the Aldmeri Dominion, though her name escaped him. Under normal circumstances, he would be hesitant to place his life in the hands of a Bosmer. These were no normal circumstances.
Falling into a crouch, he slowly began making his way toward her. His cloth made virtually no sound as he moved as stealthily as he could manage, and he clung to the Shadows as a child would do his mother. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, he walked toward the mysterious scout.
She wasted no time, covering his mouth, and pulling him inside. Her large orange eyes stared up into his own jade irises - There was a certain spark in her's, a fire hidden in her petite body. He wasn't quite sure if he liked that. Flames, while useful, were uncontrollable and unreliable.
"Commander," She greeted quietly, speaking just above a whisper. Her voice, while feminine, was husky, and filled with the excitement and arrogance of youth.
Ondolemar nodded in greeting, though didn't trust himself to speak quietly, as panic and adrenaline coursed through his body at a rapid pace. He turned his head, searching for his underlings, and let out a relieved sigh when his two bodyguards stared back at him. He swallowed, and just barely managed to croak, "What's the situation?"
"The Stormcloaks have taken control of Markarth," The wood elf reported as she began to dig through the blacksmith's chest for clothes that would fit the drenched Altmer, "Though I'm sure you gathered that. Even if you didn't, you Altmer folk are too proud to admit to ignorance," She smiled to herself. She then pulled out a long-sleeved brown tunic, and a simple pair of white trousers.
When she handed the items to him, he gladly took hold of them, eager to be out of his drenched robes. He walked behind a tanning rack, a feeble excuse for privacy, and glanced warily at the mer before him, "Do the Nords know that you're here?"
"They do," She nodded, "I was sent here by Lady Elenwen to negotiate a surrender."
Ondolemar's eyes widened in fury, "Surender?!" He squeaked in a feeble attempt to stay as silent as possible, "We are the Aldmeri Dominion, we do not surrender!" His jaw clenched. Elenwen. She had no right to interfere in his area - She was a diplomat, not a Commander. Her place was to silently watch as he led his Justiciars and handled their affairs, though as of late it seemed as if their roles had been reversed. It was not the first time she had planned out the fate of his Justiciars without his consent, and he knew better than to think her intentions were out of kindness and mercy.
"Commander," One of his charges spoke up. He was a dutiful man, though had found it difficult in the past to hold his ground against Ondolemar, "We're outnumbered twenty to one, at least. There are four of us-"
"Three; I'm not fighting them," The Bosmer snorted.
"Three of us, and an army of the enemy. We can't hope to win against them."
Ondolemar found himself glaring at the man. He pulled the dry clothes over himself, much preferring the style of his robes to the simple commoner's clothing they had scavenged, "Child, this is not about survival. It is of honor, which Elenwen wouldn't recognize if it slapped her across the face."
He stepped out from behind the tanning rack, taking several wide steps toward the elves, "I could never expect the Bosmer to understand this, but you, you are an Altmer. We are the closest thing to perfection Tamriel knows. Perfection does not surrender, or compromise. Perfection is assertive, and holds its ground. Do you think Auri-El would smile upon us if we laid out weapons down to barbarians?"
"I think I would rather take my chances with Auri-El than the Stormcloaks." His other bodyguard mumbled as she crossed her arms, and avoided her superior's gaze.
"Let me make one thing clear to you both right now. If you make it out of here alive without gore coating your armor, the Grand Justiciar will have you executed for compromising your post, and embarrassing the Dominion. Surely you knew this. What, did you plan on living outside Alinor once this was all said and done?"
The pair shifted uncomfortably, still unable to look the man in the eye.
His jaw clenched. Typical. His bodyguards had never been trained under him as Justiciars, they had instead been trained by his supposed ally in the Thalmor Embassy, and given to him as a token of good faith.
"You are sickening," The Commander muttered, "You would sooner surrender your lives than stand up to children playing at war?"
"I'd hardly call those trolls out there children," The woman frowned, glancing out at the Nords who had now taken notice of their position, and were silently watching.
Ondolemar turned, and among the many faces, Thorald's stood out to him. The man's shoulders were set back, seemingly in a default position, and his hard grey eyes pierced into Ondolmar's. The man's gaze seemed as sharp as the blade carried at his waist.
After staring at each other for what seemed to be hours, Thorald broke into a smile; a mocking, beckoning smile, daring the Commander to meet him in the open. He extended his arms, and called in a voiced that echoed like thunder, "Come, elf, I'll even give you the the first shot." He pounded a fist to his chest, marking himself as a target, all the while a grin rested on his face, bearing a striking resemblance to that of a snarling wolf.
"Don't attack him," The Bosmer warned, taking hold of Ondolemar's shoulder, "What good do you think would come of it? You'd kill yourself and your guards."
"Bah, let the thing make his own choices, woman." The Nord laughed, "He's no whelp. Come, elf, let's settle who-kills-who like true men."
Ondolemar hadn't heard the woman, instead, he and simply begun walking toward the officer. His jade eyes never leaving the silver glare of the warrior. He would fight. He would provide the ideal example of a Justiciar: Wise enough to lead for years, cunning enough to avoid confrontation for all that time, and proud enough to die for the cause he had been leading, rather than surrendering to the mercy of simpletons.
"Fools," He growled as a soft arcane glow glazed over his skin, bestowing onto him the scent of oak, and the flesh of the forests. His fingertips crackled with storm magic, which quickly engulfed his body. With no allies, a cloak was his only form of a true comrade, "You could have known our greatness."
As a Thalmor Commander, it was his duty to set an example for his troops. His final lesson would speak of martyrs. He could only pray, briefly, that his students could learn from his death as much as they could his lectures.