She should have killed him when she had the chance.
Elenwen knew when she sat at the table in the freezing, forsaken hall—this man would have to die. This Dovahkiin, with his brute Nord's face but something in his eyes. She sat at a stone table and fought down bile at the crudity of it all, wondering how they could have considered these Greybeards a threat—but there he was, at the head of the table. Half of his face was obscured by a great black stripe, paint or tattoo she couldn't tell. He looked like a savage taught to sit up straight and bark, furious as only a barbarian can be. But they listened to him. And as he spoke, as he turned all the hate in that drafty room towards peace, she knew.
For the Empire and the rebellion to stop their war, even for a moment? Dangerous. Very dangerous. Tullius was no friend to the Dominion, and if he and Stormcloak ever had a chance to talk frankly, to compare their feelings on the Thalmor without their own animosity in the way…well. The Empire was still useful, and the Dominion was not yet entirely recovered from the setbacks of the Great War. It was not quite time to finish the work. And here in Skyrim, in this frozen den of animals, the Thalmor were very much outnumbered.
The Dovahkiin would have to die, before he could push plans any further awry. She left High Hrothgar in a brooding silence that even Tullius knew better than to interrupt, trying to decide whether to capture the Dragonborn so she could interrogate him personally, or simply have him murdered and buried in the woods.
And it should have been easy—he was one man, and they were the Thalmor. But finding him was impossible. They always knew where he had been afterwards, it was impossible to miss—but by the time they reached the overrun fort or the exhumed dragon grave, it was too late. Every Imperial-held city, and most of those occupied by the Stormcloaks, had Thalmor spies; but they never managed to spot him until he was leaving, if then. He was being sheltered by the locals, protected by the rebels, and he would kill without hesitation or mercy. The Thalmor could not catch him.
They hadn't killed him. And Elenwen suspected that it might be too late.
The entire Thalmor Embassy seemed to shudder for a moment; it sounded as if a body had slammed against the front doors. Screams and clashing swords echoed from the front yard. Quickly but thoroughly, Elenwen sorted through the last stack of papers on her desk. The most important documents had been in her solar and had already been disposed of, but the Embassy itself still had information which couldn't fall into enemy hands. She set a few to the side, those she needed to take with her; the rest, unnecessary or too valuable to risk being found, she cast directly into the fireplace.
There hadn't been time to flee Skyrim. By the time it became clear that the Empire was going to lose, that the Stormcloaks would win their freedom, it was too late—Solitude fallen, Tullius dead at the Dragonborn's hand, the Imperial army routed. The news hadn't reached the embassy until almost a day later, and even though Elenwen had begun preparations to flee immediately, they had still taken time.
And then he came, as she had known he would.
Her guards shifted nervously in the doorway. The fight was still raging outside. The barracks must be emptying. Hopefully they would keep him busy. "My lady—" one of her guards said.
"I'm done," she snapped, feeding the last page into the fire. "Out the back."
They were still on the stairs when the screams outside fell silent. A moment later the first blow struck the front door—not the solid thud of a body this time, but the sharp chop of a blade. A handful of soldiers and battlemages stood in the lobby, waiting, weapons raised and hands crackling with power.
"With them," she said to her guards. "Hold him back."
They stared at her, uncomprehending. "Hold here!" she snapped at them, and strode down the hall—not running, she didn't need to run, but moving quickly. She didn't look back as the door shook again. The guards would slow him enough. They would. All she had to do was get to her solar and out through the tunnel. She would be escaping the Dragonborn the same way he had once escaped her. She would appreciate the irony later.
A single justiciar was waiting at the Embassy's back door. He saluted as she approached. "The horses are saddled and waiting where you wanted them, my lady," he said.
"Good. You're coming with me. If he breaks through, you will hold him off until I can escape." The justiciar nodded—no argument, no hesitation. They were so useful. She hoped he survived; it would be a waste for him to die here.
He opened the back door, and at the same moment, they heard the front door splinter and break. The justiciar darted outside and Elenwen followed him, into the courtyard blinding-bright with snow—
There was a rush of wings overhead. A shadow fell across the snow. "YOL TOOR SHUL," thundered a voice as deep as the world, and snow and shadows vanished; a pillar of flame enveloped the justiciar. Elenwen threw herself back under cover, flinging a spear of ice blindly upwards. She tried to scramble back inside as the dragon landed, shaking the ground, looming over the fused, smoking armor of the justiciar like an animal over its prey.
Eyes bigger than her head pinned her to the ground. The spell she was trying vainly to gather fizzled out of her fingertips. The dragon stared at her, rolling its rust-red shoulders, claws shattering the courtyard flagstones as it flexed its wings.
"Dovahkiin!" it bellowed. "Your prey is here!"
There were crashes and screams from inside the embassy. She couldn't retreat. The dragon was in front of her. Elenwen pulled herself up the doorframe to her feet, eyes darting to the covered walkway along the courtyard's edge. There was a fence and a long, steep drop on the other side, but if she could manage to keep her feet when she landed…
The dragon saw her looking and turned its head and spoke fire again, flames lashing the walkway, scouring away snow and blackening stone. The metal fence sagged like wax. It looked back at her, eyes sharp and bright.
"What do you want?" Elenwen said. She could try. All things had their price. She took a step forward, and then another. "Why do you serve him? He kills your kind, he murdered your lord. Why help him? Tell me what you want. I can help you."
The dragon laughed, deep in its throat, and began to back away. She felt an instant of triumph, until she realized that the fighting inside the embassy had stopped.
She turned. He was there, filling the doorway. The Dragonborn.
He wore armor and shield made from dragons' bones. His sword shimmered as if viewed through furnace heat. Blood dripped and ran down his arms, across his chest, puddled around his feet as he stared at her.
His face was just as she remembered it. Half-hidden by a black stripe like a burn. Grim and hard as stone. Furious eyes the color of deep water, bright and sharp and hungry. Dragon's eyes.
He rolled his shoulders and came for her. She had a moment of understanding—this was why they hadn't been able to catch him. His eyes, the way he moved—this was only the body of a man. He had more in common with the dragon behind her than with his fellow Nords.
She should have killed him when she had the chance.