The Nord looked small, frail, weak. It was a stark contrast to how he had been in the previous weeks, wagging his tongue and snarling that the Thalmor would never be able to prove their "wild" accusations. Rather, Ogmund looked the very picture of mortified when he was escorted to Understone Keep and practically thrown into the war room. His eyes were like those of a wounded rabbit as he caught sight of the gleaming trinket dangling from Ondolemar's fingers.
He could only smile from his seat on the table, swaying his prize like a pendulum. The chain clinked with every swing, the axe-head pendant gleaming in the flickering glow of the Dwemer gas lights.
"I understand you're missing something," the Thalmor chuckled, lifting his face so his eyes just barely peeked from beneath his hood. "Fortunately for you, somebody had the presence of mind to turn it in to an authority figure. How considerate of them."
The old skald was silent, his good eye never leaving the Amulet of Talos in Ondolemar's hands. His tongue seemed dry and his voice became mysteriously absent as he opened and shut his mouth repeatedly, like a fish drowning in open air. Leather boots scuffed on the floor as he shuffled closer, hand lifting weakly to grasp at his confiscated necklace.
Ondolemar smirked and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the amulet up into his palm and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. No sooner was it out of sight did Ogmund snap out of his trance. He blinked, his aged face tilted upward, and in the span of seconds he progressed from one stage of grief to the next.
Denial became anger. He fumbled for words at first and then lunged, fingers once reserved for his lute now tangled in the collar of Ondolemar's robes. The Altmer only grinned wider, damn near wolfishly, and his grip on the amulet tightened.
"How in the nine hells did you manage to get that?" Ogmund growled, giving a good, hard shake. Ondolemar hadn't expected an old, retired bar singer to have much in the way of strength, but he felt his brain rattle with every thrashing. Still, his ego fed off of Ogmund's hatred like a starving vampire. The reaction just cemented his belief that he had won.
"Answer me, for the love of Talos!"
Anger began to deteriorate into grief. Understandable, given how vicious Thalmor tended to be with Talos worshipers. They attacked anyone with an amulet on sight, they butchered men who could not confess to what they did not know, they locked people away for years upon years and watched them wither and die. There was no such thing as "I don't know" and no concept of innocence. If the roles were reversed, Ondolemar would be shook up enough to begin preemptively grieving his own death as well.
Ondolemar only watched wordlessly, swaying with Ogmund's increasingly frail throttling. The man was breaking even before being taken into custody, even before being told his fate. It was fascinating, if not sad, to see a man so respected and strong crack like a warbler egg. He could even claim there was some feeling of smug joy in seeing the old bastard tremble after how much trouble he had put the justiciar through.
After a while, Ogmund let go and stumbled away. He looked lost and confused, more disoriented than a khajiit after a bad sip of skooma. The poor fellow seemed like he entertained the idea of fleeing but they both knew that, beyond the heavy metal door, there stood two heavily-armed Thalmor guards who were just itching to run him through.
Which was why Ondolemar had to speak. He had to keep him inside, to keep him from meeting his end on the tip of a bodyguard's blade. After all, what use would Ogmund be in a box in the Hall of the Dead?
"I have friends," he answered dryly. "Cowardly friends desperate to make nice with the Dominion, willing to do whatever a man in a black robe asks so long as they are led to believe it will ingratiate them with us. In this case, an opportunistic sell-sword with no morals beyond what he's paid to have."
Ogmund's edge came back, a furious look of hatred growing across his weathered face. He inched towards the door and prepared for the worst, but was stopped when Ondolemar pitched his amulet into the middle of the floor. Both men stared at it, the Altmer encouraging the old skald with a nod although Ogmund was understandably hesitant. His hands twitched and his feet danced as he shifted closer and snatched it up, looking very much like a man pulling fallen food from a campfire.
"You must be planning to kill me now," Ogmund muttered. Ondolemar looked away, focusing his gaze on a flag-marked map of Skyrim draped over a table to the side of the room.
"I'll kill you if you tell anybody I just did that."
"What game are you playing, elf?"
Ah, the ever-popular "elf" insult, thrown about by the barbaric Nords as though they believed merkind had a reason to be ashamed. He briefly wondered what would happen if he had reduced himself to snarling the word "human" at the man. Perhaps Ogmund would be offended, or perhaps he would realize just how idiotic his people's insults had become.
"No game," he answered, standing from the table and brushing off his robes. "I'm just delivering a message, albeit creatively."
"Well, I missed the meaning," Ogmund replied, back practically pressed against the door. Ondolemar's head whipped around, his eyes gleaming in anger as he gestured Ogmund closer with a paternal wag of his finger. Surprisingly, the Nord listened. Whether it was out of curiosity or fear, he could not say.
"The meaning is simple. You've been pardoned. Nobody will have to know about what you do in the privacy of your own home so long as you agree to do a favor for me."
"Bah, I'd never—"
"Ogmund, I am warning you. I have just barely proved what I am capable of. I can make or break you. I am the difference between another meal at that blasted inn or your final meal in an isolated prison!"
"You have no bargaining chip," the skald snickered, displaying his blasphemous knick-knack proudly. "You gave it back."
"Yet I got it in the first place. Rest assured that there are more people out there willing to sell an old man out for a couple of coins than there are kind, gentle people who support your heretical cause. Even if there's not, I cannot lie and say I don't have the knowledge necessary to get into any house in Markarth."
The stunned expression on the old man's face prompted a chuckle from Ondolemar. Robes billowing around him like a shroud of pure night, he paced from the well-lit center of the room to the shadowy edges, practically disappearing as he slipped himself between Ogmund and the door. In the darkness, only his face was visible, yellow eyes glinting like gold.
"What do you want?" Ogmund demanded furiously. Despite his anger, his voice shook with concern. Ondolemar could understand this as easily as he could understand his emotional reaction to getting caught. Torture was sometimes preferable to the schemes of the Thalmor. He knew that much from experience.
The elf chuckled and leaned against the door, the metal creaking under his weight. He pounded his fist once against it, a low boom echoing through the room and the dank halls of Understone Keep. After a few moments, he was answered with two from the other side. A smile crept across his lips. Initially, he had developed the signal as a way of letting his guards know interrogations were going smoothly.
Now, it was quite handy to figure out if those twits were still there.
Slipping closer to Ogmund, before the old man could protest, Ondolemar slipped his fingers around the man's jaw and leaned in uncomfortably close. The look of abject horror on his face and the rosy coloration that filled the old man's cheeks revealed just how uncomfortably close. The Nord was frozen, waiting for the worst, anticipating it all the more when a smile became a smirk and a breathy laugh hissed out from between Ondolemar's teeth.
His lips pressed against the old man's ear. Ogmund's eyes clenched shut and he started to pull away, held firmly in place by the surprising strength of the Altmer who dug his free hand into the chest piece of his leather armor. His heart skipped a beat, he offered a hoarse whisper of protest, and was stopped only by the sound of Ondolemar's voice.
"Quiet now. They're just outside."
Ogmund swallowed hard. He shook. He said nothing.
"You are at the inn often, yes?"
A small, weak nod.
"Good. I have a request of you, then. Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. I need eyes outside the Keep. I cannot leave."
Ogmund blinked and his body relaxed slightly. He still clenched his jaw like a corpse, however, and Ondolemar could feel the muscles tighten beneath his skin.
"You will work for me and you will never be forced to walk the shameful walk to Northwatch."
"What is it?" Ogmund demanded, his voice cracking. "Do you want me to bear testimony against the fellow worshipers of Talos? To tell you where the temple is hidden in Markarth?"
"You mean the one in the alley beneath the Temple of Dibella?"
Ogmund's eyes went wide and he attempted to turn to face his captor, stopped by the death grip Ondolemar had on his jaw. His gaze struggled at the very least, eyes straining to see the elf better in order to gauge his expression.
"So long as you obey my orders, I plan on doing no harm to the temple, or you, or any of the other whelps who decided to deem a man divine."
"Then would you finally tell me what you need?" Ogmund growled, fighting against his panic.
"I need you to watch the gates of Markarth for me."
"That's it?"
The incredulousness of Ogmund's voice was amusing, and the tone and look of exasperation was enough to let Ondolemar know the man had been stunned out of his state of fear. Brows furrowed and head quirked to the side, the old man gazed up at the Altmer with an expression of utter bewilderment. Ondolemar, however, grew serious.
"You will let me know if you see Stormcloaks. They are the least of my concerns, but I'd prefer to not die cornered in a craggy deathtrap in the middle of a frozen waste. More importantly, you will let me know if you see agents of the Dominion."
The confusion intensified and Ogmund shifted his weight uneasily. He was obviously weighing in his mind whether this was some manner of set up. It likely seemed like it, but he hoped the skald was either too trusting or too stupid to doubt his promise of amnesty in exchange for the task.
"Why the bloody hell do you want me to tell you when your own kind gets here?" he finally sputtered.
"I am under no obligation to explain myself. You will watch for Thalmor—hell, for any Altmer who comes waltzing in, asking questions—and you will report to me immediately. You will speak to nobody of this, not even my guards. You will do this, or I will ensure that you spend the remainder of your pitiful life wishing you had."
Against Ondolemar's will, a hint of desperation became apparent in his voice. It was the one hint Ogmund needed to realize that something was not entirely right. Hatred and confusion were replaced by curiosity, his fury and grief forgotten although the wariness remained.
"Who are you?" he finally asked after a lengthy pause. "If I am going to sell my soul to the Thalmor, I ought to know that much."
"I am Ondolemar, head of the justiciars in Skyrim. Rest assured, you are not selling your soul to the Thalmor."
With a burst of bravery, the bard stepped closer, ramming a finger into Ondolemar's chest. The aggression was returning, but it was fueled less by hatred than frustration, evident by the fact he still kept his voice respectfully low. Low enough, Ondolemar hoped, to be missed by his guards.
"Don't you go yanking my chain, elf," he spat. "Who are you really? No 'head of the justiciars' would live in fear of his own men. You should be untouchable!"
The elf grinned. Ogmund was a clever one, and it was out of respect for that that Ondolemar felt the need to oblige him. Slipping closer, his eyes better fitting a hungry wolf, he offered a low chuckle and a twisted smile. Despite his haughtiness, he found it difficult to raise his voice above a dead whisper, panicked that the echoing halls would carry his confession to ears that shouldn't know.
"I am Beautiful. We are everywhere."