Chapter Summary: Miranja returns to Ondolemar with the evidence he requested.

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Miranja's mood was quiet and contemplative when she met Erik at the inn for supper. She insisted on bathing and changing – alone – before their evening meal. Erik was curious and slightly worried, but he was afraid to say anything, since they were new to each other and hadn't developed that sort of bond yet. She didn't seem angry at him or disinterested in him; she did smile at him and joke with him a little during their meal. She just seemed… elsewhere.

When the bard got up to sing, Miranja suddenly seemed to make a decision. She called Kleppr over and paid him for a room, then told Erik she had some things to do and that he could make himself comfortable in the rented room or explore around Markarth, as long as he kept himself out of trouble. Erik agreed, and as Miranja pushed open the heavy metal door and left the noisy, stuffy taproom, Erik tried to turn his attention to the old skald near the fireplace.

"Hi there, stranger," came an attractive female voice at his shoulder. He turned to see a skimpily clad, comely young woman smiling at him, and he smiled back shyly, willing his eyes not to drop to the expanse of cleavage in his peripheral vision. His father had raised him to be a gentleman, but cautioned him that it wouldn't always be easy. This was one of the situations he'd meant, but Erik, being an innkeeper's son, had had plenty of opportunities to practice.

"I'm Hroki," smiled the golden-haired girl. "My parents run the inn."

"I'm Erik," he said, extending a hand to take hers and bring it to his lips. "Very pleased to meet you."

Hroki giggled, and despite all the brazenness her attire implied, she blushed prettily. "Couldn't help but notice a handsome stranger who seems to be about my age," she commented with a twinkle in her eye. "It's pretty stuffy in here, don't you think? Would you like to take a walk with me?"

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Miranja stood erect and opened the door to exit Ogmund's house as if she'd had legitimate business there, stepping out onto the walkway with more confidence than she felt. The guards here were too numerous, but by some stroke of luck, she happened to appear when the two nearest guards were walking away from her position. She beat a quick retreat to the stairs that led down to the marketplace, but only descended halfway. There was no one in the market at this hour to notice her odd behavior as she ascended the stairs once again in a casual manner.

She smiled politely and nodded at the guard she passed on her way toward the Keep.

"Stay out of trouble, outsider," the guard warned, but he didn't stop moving.

The sun was down and the torches and braziers were lit all about town, sending up oily plumes of smoke into the misty mountain air. Glancing down toward the main street that ran parallel to the fast-running stream, she was surprised to see Erik taking a walk with the pretty young woman from the inn. She shrank back away from the railing before they could notice her, and hurried on, the amulet growing heavier in her pocket.

She asked a guard where to find the justiciar's quarters; he asked with suspicion what her purpose was for seeing him.

"I've found something that I believe belongs to him." The lie burned on her tongue. It was a half-truth, really; she had found something he'd asked for, it just didn't belong to him.

"And you want to give it to him at this time of night?"

"It's not that late; the inn is still full of customers."

The guard, whose eyes she couldn't see, seemed to be evaluating the veracity of her claim, regarding her silently for a moment that stretched out uncomfortably. Finally, he gave her directions and a warning to mind her figurative pints and quarts and stay away from the jarl's quarters.

She had to deal with a couple more guards along the way, especially when she passed the Legate's quarters. Of all the places she'd visited in Skyrim so far, Markarth was the most suspicious of outsiders. Even Windhelm didn't have such an air of hidden secrets, and Windhelm had had a serial killer!

She knocked quietly on Ondolemar's door and waited with pounding heart for him to open it. All evening she had only been focused on doing what he'd asked and having the chance to have him inside her again and get the satisfaction he had promised. Only now did she ask herself why she wanted it so badly that she was willing to incriminate an innocent man for it. Gods, was she really such a selfish bitch, thinking solely with her crotch? And what if he didn't honor his word? What if he gave her more of the same torment he'd given her this afternoon? What if he was just taking advantage of her outrageous libido to make her a willing tool for his dirty Thalmor persecution of Talos-worshippers? What a fool she'd been… Now her heart was pounding for a different reason and she was disgusted with herself for what she'd done.

She turned to make a hasty retreat, but she'd only gotten a few steps when her shadow boldly appeared before her in the sudden spreading light from behind her as Ondolemar opened the door.

"Going somewhere, Dragonborn?" The gloating in his voice made her stomach clench.

"I changed my mind," Miranja said simply. She turned back toward him slowly, knowing that just seeing his face would weaken her resolve.

"Now, why would you do that?" Something in Ondolemar's tone told Miranja that he already knew the answer, or at least suspected it. He was actually smirking at her, and didn't seem angry at all. And that smirk… oh. He wasn't wearing his justiciar robes, but rather a loose but belted red tunic with a loosely laced collar, and a pair of loose, comfortable, brown trousers. His feet were bare, and his head was exposed to show her his shoulder-length silver hair, which had been pulled into a ponytail this afternoon but now hung loose around his face. Her mind and her body were having a knock-down, drag-out fight behind her carefully placid expression. That internal conflict made it very difficult to formulate a plausible reason to give to this self-satisfied justiciar.

Ondolemar smiled even wider, showing his even, white teeth. "Why don't you come inside, Dragonborn? I think we need to have a little talk."

"Why? So you can torture me again?" Venom. Belligerence. Not entirely false, but mostly to disguise the lust.

"Perhaps," Ondolemar acquiesced, "but perhaps not the sort of torture I'm sure you're imagining."

Had his tone softened? She believed it had. Was this a trick, a deception? As Ondolemar himself had said, perhaps. Miranja sighed and closed her eyes, resigning herself, steeling herself. Standing outside his door was too late to start really thinking and having misgivings. She'd fucked herself thinking about getting herself fucked. For the second time that day, she thought about what her parents would think of her getting into this situation. She opened her eyes, and in them Ondolemar saw that she had made her decision. He stepped aside and gestured her through the doorway.

"The evidence, if you please." Ondolemar had locked the door the moment he'd closed it, and his request drew her attention from the opulent furnishings of the room. He stood close at her elbow, and she could smell that spicy scent he'd worn earlier today. After the events of this afternoon, her emotions were tied in a knot at that aroma. It seemed that it should be impossible, yet she felt both sick and aroused by it. Perhaps, she thought, she was sickened because she was aroused. She could almost palpably feel her parents' disappointment, and she hadn't even made physical contact with this mer – yet.

"What would you do to Ogmund if I did give you this evidence you want?"

"What does it matter to you? Are you his friend?" Ondolemar moved around to stand facing her, peering intently into her eyes.

"No, I hardly know the man."

"Then why do you care? I think the question you should be asking is what will I do to you?"

"Or there's yet another question," Miranja added. "What will you do to me if I don't give you this evidence?"

A hungry look came into Ondolemar's eyes as he scanned her up and down. "I must assume that is a rhetorical question, as we both know the answer already."

Dammit, she wanted him so badly, but she was resisting the call of her body with every ounce of will power. How could she take any pleasure in bedding Ondolemar if it was at the expense of an innocent man's freedom, or even his life?

"I think you've misjudged me, justiciar," Miranja said, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze with determination. "Yes, I have an overactive libido. Yes, I enjoy certain things that are not considered normal. Yes, I want to have sex with you again. Very badly, I'll admit. But I also have a conscience, and I couldn't allow myself to indulge in physical pleasures knowing that I cost someone his freedom or his very life just – to put it quite bluntly – just to get my pussy stuffed. That man has done nothing to harm anyone."

She waited for his derision, his condescension, but to her surprise, he smiled – and respect was in his eyes. Now she was confused. She was openly defying a Thalmor justiciar, interfering with his fulfillment of his duties, and he wasn't angry? And yet, this afternoon she had not defied him but flirted with him, and he had tortured her. Well, technically, he had given her what she wanted, just not the way she'd wanted it. Again, she found herself wondering if he was baiting her. Her bemusement was plainly written on her face.

"Oh, my dear Dragonborn, how lost you look at this moment. It's rather charming."

Miranja chose not to speak, not to voice any of her swirling thoughts. She wouldn't have known where to begin, anyway. She waited, unmoving.

"Don't you see? It's really quite simple. I needed a reason to bring you back here. Talos worship be damned, as far as I'm concerned. I never wanted to be involved with the Thalmor in the first place; while I do believe that mer are superior to men in many ways, who they choose to worship is of no concern to me."

Miranja's expression grew even more perplexed. "You have completely lost me. You needed a reason to bring me back here? And you don't care about Talos-worship. How do those things even have anything to do with each other?"

Ondolemar sighed and gestured for her to have a seat on his luxurious padded bench. She did, and he joined her, angling his posture toward her as he continued speaking.

"My father got me this appointment, in a sense. He was a high-ranking wizard and – my history with my father is a long story I'd rather not get into right now. Suffice it to say that my youthful aspirations did not include enlisting with the Thalmor, but I was given little choice. I started out as a simple archer for the Thalmor, but my father got me a position working under a justiciar colleague of Elenwen's. This was before she became emissary to Skyrim. She took a special shine to me, and she took advantage of my not being in her direct chain of command and initiated an affair with me. After what the Nords dubbed the 'Markarth Incident,' the Nords here were found to still be worshipping Talos in direct opposition to the White-Gold Concordat, and by then, Elenwen was the emissary to Skyrim. She requested my presence and got me raised to justiciar ranking so that I could be her eyes and ears here."

"So, are you still having an affair with her?"

"That is none of your concern. What should matter to you is what happens between you and me. I've already told you more than I should have."

Miranja smiled wryly. "I seem to have that effect on people. But then, I also tend to share too much information about myself, so it's poetic justice, in my mind. But don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

Ondolemar fixed her with a penetrating stare, assessing her honesty and feeling doubtful about her ability to keep her mouth shut.

"Listen," Miranja told him, feeling irritated, "you know as well as I do that even if I did tell anyone about anything you say or do to me, it would be your word against mine, and no one wants to cross the Thalmor and upset the status quo. I am literally at your mercy, and I don't know how to feel about that. Yes, I could use Shouts on you, but what good would that do me? I'd rather not have an extended stay at the renowned Cidhna Inn. But you didn't answer my questions. Why did you want me back here, and are you saying that having me get this 'evidence' was just a ruse?"

"When I told you that I'd been wanting to get you alone and naked ever since the party, I was quite serious. There was – is – something about you that sets you apart from most of the human women I've come into contact with. My accusation was, yes, a ruse, so that I could get you where I wanted you. I didn't want my soldiers to question why I wanted to be left alone with you."

"Okay, so it was an act in front of your soldiers. So then, why did you not drop the act once we were alone?"

Ondolemar had the decency to look shamed. "It was only my intent to frighten you at first. You were so… belligerent, and you were obviously mocking me. It seems my time in the Thalmor has wrought some changes in me, changes I'm not proud of. But the blood…"

Miranja knew what he was trying to say before he could even explain. "The blood brought out something primal? Something aggressive?"

"Yes! It was an off-the-cuff idea, and I had no intention of causing you any serious injury. I went a little crazy. I've never done anything quite like that before. A small part of me felt guilty, believe it or not. But you seemed to be enjoying it, which surprised me. I took advantage. I played up to your expectations. And I… enjoyed violating you. I enjoyed controlling and dominating you, making you helpless." He turned his gaze to the floor.

It was Miranja's turn to scrutinize, evaluate. A Thalmor justiciar who felt guilty for debasing, hurting, and violating someone? She was having trouble swallowing it.

"If your father was a Thalmor wizard and he brought you up believing the propaganda, what convinced you that he was wrong? Or am I reading the right things between the lines?"

"I went on a mission to Hammerfell. I saw many different men and mer living together peacefully. It was rather different from home. My second night there, I was accosted at a tavern by an elderly Altmer who saw my armor and told me his family had been killed right there in Sentinel during the Night of Green Fire. His pain even after all those years was obvious to me; he said he was tired of living and didn't care if I killed him. He wanted me to know what the Thalmor had done to him, and when he had spoken his mind and told me the gruesome details, he challenged me to end his life. I found that I could not.

"He was rather drunk, and he started shouting that there must be a Thalmor agent there somewhere who had the stones to kill him. Everyone was staring, including me. When no one rose to fulfill his wish, he went outside, still yelling challenges."

"What did you do?"

"I was going to continue to finish my drink, but I suddenly heard the sound of others yelling angily outdoors, the sound of blades being drawn, and his shouting was cut short. I hurried to the door and before I could open it, some of my companions burst in, smiling smugly. I could see the old Altmer lying in the street behind them, in a pool of his own blood. His eyes stared blindly at the sky, and his mouth was working as if he had something to say but couldn't produce sound. At that moment, all I could think was that it simply was not right to kill our own kind. And I dared not go to him to offer comfort in his last moments or my companions would see my weakness. Later, after our night of carousing, and after the hangover had worn off, I thought about it more, and came to the conclusion that it doesn't matter who or what a person – man or mer – worships, but what goodness can be found in their hearts. And my comrades seemed to me to have little to no goodness in their hearts."

Ondolemar's face had darkened as he told the short tale, and the grief and guilt on his face pinched his features and added years to his appearance. Miranja believed him.

"Yet you're still a member of the Thalmor?"

"Yes, to my chagrin and shame. It's rather like the Morag Tong – you've heard of them, haven't you? A brotherhood of assassins who kills anyone who tries to leave."

Miranja nodded. "So the Thalmor would kill you if you tried to leave?"

"Yes. I would be a traitor in their eyes, no better than the Talos-worshippers we are to root out."

Miranja withdrew the Talos amulet from her pocket and dangled it before him. "Do you still want this, then?"

Ondolemar looked briefly at the amulet and then focused on Miranja's earnest green eyes. "Yes, since you went to the trouble of getting it. Thank you. It will help me look as if I've been productive. I promise you, no harm will come to Ogmund. If my superiors ask, I'll simply tell them that the body of the amulet's owner was left in the wilds for the wolves." He reached out with his hand below the talisman, catching it in his palm and lifting his hand to collect the chain. His palm reached Miranja's fingertips and he closed his fingers on hers, pulling her hand toward him to bring it to his lips.

"I believe we now have a bond of trust," he told her. "But I believe it would be more solid if we sealed it in blood. Will you agree to this?"

The image of Ondolemar's crazed eyes with her blood on his tongue and nose and in his goatee flashed before her mind's eye. "What did you have in mind? Cutting our fingers and pressing them together?"

"I was thinking something rather more intimate. I would enjoy tasting your blood again, but would you be willing to taste mine, as well?"

The intensity of his green-gold gaze got her belly fluttering. "Okay," she agreed.

Ondolemar went to his sleeping quarters, bidding her to follow. His bedroom was just as sumptuously appointed as the sitting room; his large stone bed had a feather mattress on top and red velvet bedcurtains. A large planter held a lush, living specimen of fragrant night-blooming jasmine from Hammerfell. An ornate tapestry from Elsweyr depicting a jungle scene covered most of one wall. His Thalmor robes hung on a tall mannequin in the corner, and his elven mace lay across a wall mount. The flickering light of the horn chandelier sparkled on the buckles of his robe and the edges of his mace, and glistened on the oily leather folds of the robes. Shadows danced in the corners of the room.

The sound of the nightstand drawer slamming shut drew Miranja's attention back to Ondolemar. He had withdrawn a lovely but wicked jeweled dagger, and now he held it out haft-first for Miranja to lay hold of.

"I'll let you do the honors," he said with a wry smile. "Turnabout is, after all, fair play."

Miranja took the dagger, and Ondolemar removed his belt and crimson shirt and dropped them on the floor. This time, Miranja got more than just a brief glance.

"Just handing me this blade is trust enough," Miranja noted. "But then, you probably know that I would be a hunted woman if I were to kill you. Is that what you're counting on? My fear of retribution?"

"Not at all. I'm counting on your attraction to me and your desire to finish what we started. As you mentioned earlier, you wouldn't need a blade to kill me."

"True, but a Shout would certainly draw more attention than my slitting your throat." She eyed him wickedly, and was gratified to see his trust waver in his luminous eyes for just a split second. He'd made her doubt him earlier for much longer than a mere second; it was not even quite a fair turnabout, that flicker, but it pleased her, nonetheless. It pleased her still further to see him repress his urge to flinch as she pressed the tip of the blade to his breastbone. She dragged the edge down the center of his chest, but it wasn't hard enough to draw blood. She glanced up at him nervously.

"Surely you're not actually afraid to hurt me, after this afternoon," he remarked with a small shake of his head. "Just do it."

She pressed harder this time, somewhat dismayed to see the beads of blood blooming on his flawless golden skin, yet feeling an irresistible compulsion to taste it. The hiss of his sucking in his breath between his teeth was strangely arousing. She tucked the blade back toward her wrist and grabbed his sides, fist still closed around the haft of the dagger, and mimicked his action from earlier today. She hunched over and lapped up the rich, coppery life force, looking up at his face as she did so. Tasting his most intimate bodily fluid and watching his grimace of pleasure made her crotch throb. She stood on her tiptoes and strained toward his mouth, and he lowered his head and accepted her bloody kiss, much more willingly than she had at first accepted his earlier. Their breath was tearing raggedly from their throats, hot against one another's faces.

His arms encircled her tightly, one around her waist and the other hand clutching her buttock. She could feel that he was already hard. He withdrew his left hand from her, fumbling at his side to take the dagger from her hand. When she released it to him, he pushed her roughly away and she undid the laces on the front of her dress to expose her chest to him. He traced the scabbed-over scratch down the center, reopening the wound, gathering her blood on his tongue and carrying it to her waiting mouth. As they kissed once again, he spread the front of her dress further apart and eased it down her shoulders until it fell in a pool around her feet. Then he stooped and wrapped an arm around her back and put his other forearm below her buttocks, lifting her off her feet. She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he carried her to his bed.

"Get the blanket," he told her, as his arms were full of her. He turned her so that she could see the top edge of the bedcovers.

She reached back and flung the covers aside, and he laid her down long enough to remove his pants. This time, she was able to drink up the sight of him, touch him as she had longed to earlier. He knelt on the bed and she took him into her mouth, inhaling him, tasting him. He grasped fistfuls of her hair and pulled – roughly, but not savagely.

"I want to do you like I did this afternoon," he growled. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

Miranja withdrew to reply. "Yes, surprisingly, I did."

"Had you never done that before?"

"You were the first," she confirmed. His eyes told her that he didn't know whether to gloat or apologize, so she smiled naughtily and turned away from him, rising to her hands and knees, showing him her nethers.

"I'll make sure you get your pleasure this time," he told her in an uncharacteristically gentle murmur. He stroked a hand down her spine. Then, resting his hands on her swelling hips, he bent over her and kissed and nipped his way from her shoulders to the small of her back before filling her well-moistened quim with his golden flesh.