A/N: This chapter was a complete bear. I rewrote it I don't even know how many times, and I'm still not entirely happy with it. But it's done, and it's not horrible, and it gets me to where I'm going next, so what the hell.
The rumors lead him to Whiterun. The Civil War is steadily becoming less of a nuisance and more of a legitimate danger; although Ulfric's assault had ultimately failed, Ondolemar muses as he trudges the last few meters to the city gates, he ponders if Solitude would be able to withstand such a ferocious onslaught.
The walls are in shambles, the watchtowers destroyed and splintered along the road. The blood is still wet on the cobblestone, splattered and dripping against the crumbling stone walls, and he wonders if any of it is hers. He knows the city still stands solely because she had defended it. The whispers were flying about the holds; her dragon, her Voice, her magic. Without her, Whiterun would be nothing but rubble. He is sure Elenwen is bursting into flame somewhere.
He stops at the gate, careful to keep his face hidden inside the hood of his cloak. He has had far too many close calls in the past months due to his carelessness to believe he is as unknown as he originally thought. Innkeeper's he had never seen in his life had known him, and had died for that knowledge.
"What's your business?" the man at the gate asks, his tone and posture exhausted. Ondolemar sees the way his hands shake and wonders just how recently all the bodies had been cleared away.
"Rest," he answers, "And work." It's not exactly a lie, he thinks, since he is bone-tired and in dire need of a wash. He smells like a Nord mercenary.
The guard merely gives a nod and signals for the gates to open. Ondolemar does not thank him.
Inside, Whiterun is still smoldering. The soft light of the setting sun does nothing to blunt the cruel edges of reality. Giant potholes dot the streets, mortar and scorch marks surrounding them. Several houses have been reduced to kindling, and as he works his way up the road, toward the market, he marvels at how completely still the city is.
The stalls in the square are empty, goods scattered in the street, and as he listens, Ondolemar can hear children arguing up the stairs in the Wind District. A girl and a boy, he thinks, and with a forlorn look at the Bannered Mare, he follows the noise, desperate to see at least some evidence of life in the war-torn town.
Perhaps the most awful casualty of the battle lay in the center of the city. The great Gildergreen, once so very beautiful, is split down the middle, the wooden gazebo surrounding it bent and broken. The ancient bark of the tree is blackened and burnt, the blossoms on what branches remain gone, and Ondolemar sees the little girl and boy kneeling at its base. As he watches, she gathers what twigs she can, and her friend lifts his hand to place it on her thin shoulders.
He considers going over to them. They are only children, incapable of understanding what war entails and why this has happened to them, but while he is standing about and watching, he hears another voice, floating down on the wind from above.
Turning to face the steps of Jorrvaskr, he sees her, and his heart stutters to a halt.
Elismyra is draped in dragonscale, silhouetted starkly against the crimson sky, her red hair tangled and limp. A great horned helmet is tucked under an arm as she speaks to a tall, black-haired Nord. The children forgotten, Ondolemar stares openly at her, knowing he would find her here and yet unable to believe he has finally managed to track her down. She is not as he remembers; her sharp face is hard, smeared with soot and ash, and her armor is spattered with viscera. Her blade is sheathed but he would bet good money the bone is stained red, and she does not smile. Her green eyes are tired, tight at the corners, and the lines around her mouth deepened from her frown.
The man at her side is not much better. He is quite tall, able to look her in the eye, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His silvery, carved armor is stained black on the pauldrons and across the chest, his boots and gauntlets covered in crusted blood.
"...relief efforts," Elismyra is saying, and Ondolemar inhales sharply at the sound of her voice. "The Jarl is preparing the graves as we speak."
"We can house a few orphans," the Nord answers quietly, so soft Ondolemar's sensitive ears can only just hear him. "But not all and only for a time. We'll have to arrange for transport to Honorhall." His accent is thick and cloying, and it grates against his ears.
Elismyra sags, drawing a weary, clawed hand down her face. He watches her breathe deeply, watches her bright eyes sweep about the streets below, watches them halt on his face.
Watches them spring wide and amazed.
Watches her shoulders stiffen, her jaw clench. His stomach drops nauseatingly, and he feels cold.
Squaring his shoulders against the nerves tingling down his spine, Ondolemar throws his hood back and approaches. She watches in stony silence.
When he stops in front of her, she still has not said a word. Her eyes are stormy, shuttered and unreadable, and if he did not know her so well he would have been intimidated. But he does, and when she juts her chin out at him in that infuriating show of defiance of hers, he says, "Elismyra."
Another heartbeat of weighted quiet passes, and the Altmer can feel the Nord's piercing stare on his face. He does not look at him.
"Ondolemar," she finally says, and her cultured voice is flat. "You have impeccable timing, as always."
"I try," he answers evenly, suddenly at loss as to what to say. He's spent so long chasing her ghost he never thought through what would happen if he actually found her. "I see you've been busy."
She snorts indelicately, her eyes flicking for the smallest half-second to the man standing beside her, and Ondolemar finally turns his gaze to him. He assumes he is one of the Companions; the intricately carved greatsword and wolfish armor are rather distinct. The Nord's eyes are a pale, ice blue, sharp and cynical, and Ondolemar clamps his teeth around the urge to snap at him to take his business elsewhere; did he not know an important discussion when he saw one?
"Interesting company you keep," he tells her without taking his eyes from the man. "I always thought the Dragonborn to be above mercenary work."
The Nord snarls, pulling his lips back from his teeth as he growls deeply, but to his credit, he does not retaliate. Ondolemar's smile is a small one.
"This is Vilkas," Elismyra says simply. "Vilkas, Ondolemar."
The flicker of recognition in Vilkas's blue eyes is enough to incense. She must have told him, then, if the man's black glower is anything to go by, and the Altmer is most definitely not pleased to have this glorified thug know his personal business. Ondolemar clenches his jaw and his fists, determined to at least be civil. Until he manages to get her alone, that is.
"We were discussing what relief efforts we could employ to get the city back on its feet," Elismyra says, and the elf knows she can sense his rising anger. She steps between the two men, and Ondolemar lets her. The Nord is not worth his time. "Most of the civilians are helping the temple healers. Reconstruction will take a while."
"I'm sure," he grits. He did not come all this way to talk business, and now that she is here - where he can touch her and smell her and hear her - he finds he has little patience for her stalling. "I wish to speak with you. Alone."
Vilkas butts in. "The Harbinger is busy," he barks. "Whiterun is in pieces and she is needed elsewhere. Personal matters will have to wait."
"Harbinger?"
Piercing silence.
Then Elismyra sighs, dropping her gaze to her feet as her ire sloughs from her shoulders all at once, and she looks so very tired. If he were not so completely furious he would feel sorry for her. But she hadn't told him. Hadn't told him anything, if the months he spent chasing her were any indication. Every inn he stopped at had some different tale of her, some new facet of what she'd done that she'd never deigned to share with him. It was almost as if he had never known her at all.
And he had to find out she headed Skyrim's most famous mercenary band from one of her brutish underlings.
"Yes," she finally says. "Harbinger. That's me." The sarcastic cheer in her voice is downright poisonous. Turning to Vilkas, she says, "Head to the temple and speak with whoever's in charge, get a number on the dead. If they had children, bring me the names." When the Nord nods and moves to make off, she adds softly, "Thank you, Vilkas."
The corners of the man's mouth quirk, and Ondolemar is intimately familiar with the light in his eyes. His nails dig into his palms and he wants to scream. "It's no trouble."
When he is gone, Elismyra turns and gestures for him to follow. He does so in seething silence, grinding his teeth to dust as he follows her into the halls of Jorrvaskr. The place is empty, the gigantic hearth faintly glowing in the darkness, and Ondolemar has just enough time to think how very Nordic the place is before she disappears down the stairs.
She leads him to what he can only assume are her quarters. She locks the doors behind him and does not speak, moving to the bed before sitting with a tired groan. He watches in silence as she shucks her boots and gauntlets, unbuckles her chestplate and greaves, leaving her in a gleaming scaled tunic. She does not look at him.
He waits, calculating, measuring.
Eventually, she raises her eyes to his. "Well?"
The dam breaks.
"That's it?!" he bursts, ripping his cloak from his shoulders and hurling it from himself as he paces in front of her. "It has been six months, Elismyra. Six months since you left, and that's all you can say?" He stops in front of her, snarling. "Are you even curious as to why I'm here?"
"I can take a guess," she intones, and her indifference is galling. "You miss your bedwarmer, I'm assuming."
He wants to strangle her. "No," he hisses. "Do not play stupid with me. I've not the patience for it."
"Enlighten me, then," she snaps, her icy facade finally cracking, and it thrills the darker parts of him to see it. "Tell me what forced the great and mighty Ondolemar to the halls of pathetic Jorrvaskr, if it wasn't because he needed a fix."
"You!" he cries, ignoring the jab as he flings a hand at her, stalking about the room. "You did, you blighted, infuriating woman! You've ruined me, ruined everything!"
Her stunned silence is far more satisfying than it should be. "What?"
The laugh that claws its way from his throat is sharp and entirely without mirth. He sneers at her, crossing his arms over his chest as he barks, "Of course you wouldn't know. The only good Justiciar is a dead one, if I'm not mistaken."
"Quit dancing, you ass," she snaps, and her green eyes sharpen. "What happened? Why are you here?" And he sees the gears in her head turning, sees the epiphany sweep over her as she breathes, "Where are your robes?"
"A pile of ash in my quarters in Markarth," he tells her blandly, and savors the complete and utter bewilderment on her face. "You're not the only one on Elenwen's hit list anymore."
"You're joking," she breathes, and covers her face in her hands. "You can't be serious, Ondolemar. You defected?" She lifts her eyes to his own, and he is surprised to see the bright sheen over her green irises. "You left?"
"Yes," he snaps, because he wants to be angry and needs to fight and she is being far too soft for this. "I left. I've spent three months on the run, hiding in every obscure corner of this cesspit of a nation, chasing you down." And he approaches her still form where she remains seated, growling as he looms over her and braces his hands at her sides. "And when I finally find you, imagine my surprise to learn you're a common thug."
He is prepared when she springs from the mattress, and he throws up a ward just as a crack of lightning erupts from her palm with a savage roar. The electricity skitters over the barrier and he feels the strength of it pulse in his stomach. She had not held back.
"Fuck you, Ondolemar!" she shrills at him, and finally he knows he has gotten to her. His own magic boils beneath his skin, flickers at the tips of his fingers. It is oddly satisfying. "You dare waltz into my city, my hall, and hurl your prejudice at me mere hours after we've cleared away our dead!" She stalks forward and he leans into a crouch, snarling at her, and when her eyes turn to gold, he grins triumphantly. "You know nothing about me, you insufferable man! I can't believe your audacity, to call me-"
"No thanks to you!" he bellows, and lets the flames lick at his clenched fists. She is not intimidated. "I spent three months running from the Dominion, never sleeping in the same place twice, hunting you down! I learned things about you from strangers you had never seen fit to tell me yourself, Listener." When she pales, freezing in place, he laughs cruelly. "That's right, Elismyra. I know who you are. I know what you've done." He advances, stopping directly in front of her, and he can see her nostrils flaring, the tremors raking down her spine. "You're nothing but a lying hypocrite. You murder for gold, and call yourself noble. You accuse me of monstrous crimes, tell me I've done the unforgivable, when you do the very same things for nothing but money!"
She shoves him. Plants both palms flat on his chest and heaves, forcing him away from her. He snarls as he stumbles, and her sneer is nothing short of venomous. "Shut up," she spits. "Just shut your fucking mouth, Ondolemar. I never claimed to be a saint."
"No. You just pretended to be. You thought-"
"You want to know all about me?" she interrupts, stomping into his space so she can jab a finger into his chest. "You want to know all my dirty secrets? Fine. I'll tell you." And she looks him dead in the eye when she tells him flatly, "I killed the Emperor of Tamriel for gold. I am the Champion of nine daedric princes, including Molag Bol and Mehrunes Dagon." She turns away, ticking at her fingers. "I'm a werewolf, and happy to be so. I joined a reclusive cult of pure-blooded vampires for nothing but power alone, then betrayed their cause by choosing the Beast Blood over immortality. I'm the Guildmaster of Thieves - you knew that already - but I became so by gutting my predecessor and leaving his body to rot at the bottom of a lake." She takes a deep breath, tugs her fingers through her matted hair, and refuses to look at him. He is glad of it. "I devour the souls of dragons and enjoy it. I hear them cry out in my mind, hear them wail in my sleep, and it does nothing but sate the lust for power imbued in my very bones." When she finally looks over her shoulder at him, her brilliant eyes are dead. The fire in his palms vanishes. "That is who I am, Ondolemar. I never had any illusions otherwise."
Silence.
He could not say anything even if he wanted to; his tongue feels like lead in his mouth and it is like all the fight has been leached straight from him. Ondolemar can only stare at her, his gaze unfathomable and distant. Elismyra watches him with something akin to exasperation in her green irises.
"So there," she finally intones, when it becomes clear he is not going to respond. "That's everything. The woman you forsook the Dominion for is, in fact, a daedric pawn, a killer. And I'm not sorry for it." The she-elf looks away, and he still cannot think of a single word to say. "The need to conquer, for power, for domination," And she chuckles mirthlessly, "Is who I am. There is a reason the dov are solitary creatures; we don't play well with others."
Ondolemar cannot help the dry bark of laughter that bursts from his chest. "That is not precisely true," he rumbles, and he does not know what he is saying until after he has said it. "You choose to… barter with me, if I recall correctly."
Her smile is a sad one, and it does not touch her eyes. "I did. I shouldn't have, but I did. And I'm not sorry for that, either." Taking a deep breath, she says, "But we cannot return to that… that." When he opens his mouth to protest - aghast at himself for wanting it after everything she told him, everything she put him through, and at her for refusing him after so much time apart - she speaks over him. "I stand by what I said, six months ago. The Dominion-"
"I'm not part of it anymore," he reminds her, perhaps a tad too loudly. "You-"
"Exactly," she interrupts him again, and he wants to scream for her to let him speak, "Me. You did not leave because you had a change of heart, Ondolemar. You left because you missed me."
"No," he argues. "That is not the entirety of it. I did miss you, yes - don't look so smug - but you were right. Partially." And he cannot meet her eyes when he admits, "The Aldmer would not have wanted to see their children so divided. To see us kill each other in their name." A beat of silence. "I released Ogmund."
"What?!"
"The night I defected. I let him go."
The surprise on her face is almost comical. Elismyra gapes at him, eyes huge and jaw slack, until she manages to catch a hold of her thoughts and shakes herself back into coherence. "You still think yourself above men, Ondolemar."
"Well," he quips with an uneven smirk, "I am uncommonly handsome."
He kisses her when she laughs, and half expects her to shove him away. When she doesn't, tensing under his fingertips for half a second before allowing herself to relax against his chest, he slides his hands from her face, down her neck and over her waist, recommitting the feel of her to his memory. The scaled tunic she wears snags his own clothing and rustles with her movements, and she smells of blood and smoke, but she is Elismyra, and she is his.
He moves to her neck, gently scraping his teeth over her thrumming pulse, and when she sighs it is all he can do to keep from chuckling in triumph. But when his fingers move to the laces holding the scales of her shirt together, she freezes.
"Wait," she breathes, catching his wrists in her own hands, and her voice is hoarse and deep with want. Ondolemar does not lift his head, drawing a thin line with his tongue up her neck to the spot behind her ear he knows will change her mind, and he feels her hands clench around his own, and he smirks. "Wait. Ondolemar-"
"No talking."
"On one condition-"
"What?"
"Join the Companions."