Chapter Text
It could be worse, he tried to reason with himself as he sat at the bar of the New Gnisis Corner Club. A blade had been pressed to his throat, yet he’d somehow escaped with his life. Whatever was left of it…
Because his entire life was packed into a single bag resting on the floor at his feet. He was on the run again, just like he had been years before when he had traveled halfway across Tamriel trying to evade the Thalmor. Skyrim had seemed far enough, so he had stayed despite the frigid weather. He had even taken a job in the palace kitchens, working with all manner of plant-based foodstuffs in an attempt to convince anyone and everyone that he was not from Valenwood. He could still recall the sensation of pure nausea when, under the scrutiny of a Thalmor guest, he had taken a bite of an apple for the first time in his life. Between his fear of being discovered and the disgust he felt as he chewed on the plant matter, it was a miracle that he hadn’t started retching on the spot. By Y’ffre, he had done everything possible so that his parents’ traitorous actions back in Falinesti wouldn’t catch up with him!
It would be easy to blame them for putting their family in danger with their political views, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. Nor could he regret crossing paths with the lone Blades agent and working his way into the Thalmor embassy itself despite placing himself in such close proximity to the enemy. Revenge would be worth it. He knew exactly what evil the Thalmor were capable of, was nearly swept up in the literal flames of their wrath along with the rest of his family, only narrowly escaping thanks to running an errand outside the city at the time. Twenty-some years later, he could still hear the screams of terror and the snap-crackle of burning wood as entire graht-oaks were devoured in fire. The Thalmor were callous monsters whose smiles were little more than masks, whose words were little more than rehearsed lines devoid of feeling, and if he hadn’t believed it from what his parents had told him in his youth, he believed it that day. They had to be stopped.
It brought him some comfort to know that the Dragonborn had absolutely wrecked the embassy that night, looting, destroying, killing any and all agents in her path and setting fire to their torture chamber after freeing their prisoner. The Thalmor were so accustomed to people bowing to them in hopes of being spared or gaining wealth through alliance, he couldn’t begin to imagine how Elenwen must have looked when she found out what her “guest” had gotten into. Served the arrogant bitch right, the way she always looked down on humans as if they were lesser beings when she wasn’t making grand proclamations of peace and cooperation. She and the rest of her organization looked down on him too, even as a fellow elf. The Thalmor may call the Bosmer allies, but the truth of things was that they were the freakish cousins that needed to be hidden away and reprimanded like small children, useful for bolstering numbers but unworthy of leading the kingdom they were forging. Her disdain for the non-Altmer was a petty reason to hate the Ambassador, considering he’d seen her tools of torture same as his savior, but it was a personal one nevertheless.
No, there was no regretting what he had done for Delphine and her Dragonborn even if it had blown his cover. They had made the most of their opportunity. At that moment, the Dragonborn was even taking care of the Thalmor’s hired assassin, who had been stalking outside the city waiting for him to make a break for Morrowind. He’d just have to start again there, even if he wasn’t keen on smoke and ashes for obvious reasons… The Thalmor viewed it as a wasteland full of uncooperative, sacrilegious degenerates, and wouldn’t set foot there. The only place less likely to run into a Thalmor was in Black Marsh, and of the two, he much preferred Morrowind, ash and all.
“Raldorin, will we be okay?”
He jolted, unused to hearing his true name. He’d been going by “Malborn” for years now, ever since he’d fled Falinesti. For the young Bosmer woman beside him, fairly trembling with trepidation, he had offered it as a comfort. She too was running for her life, though for the far less offensive crime of saying “no” to the wrong man.
“Stick with me and we’ll get across that border. Besides, the Dragonborn has yet to let me down.”
“And after we cross?”
He shrugged, reaching for his mug of sujamma. It was plant-based, but burned so much on the way down that it was hard to get caught up in that fact. He was going to need to get used to the Dunmeri alcohol, considering he was not going to find any rotmeth across the border. He hadn’t been able to find rotmeth in Skyrim either for that matter. Was it really so hard to ferment meat juice? “We start by heading to Blacklight, then see where things take us from there.”
“Promise you won’t leave me…” she clenched her hands on the counter in front of her. The whole ordeal had been hard on her. Unlike him, Brelas had been born in Skyrim, never knowing the Green Pact, rule under the Thalmor, or even the feel of a bow in her soft hands. She had, however, known plenty of harassment. At those Thalmor parties, he had been forced to watch men hit on her particularly because she was an elf. It was always hard not to climb across the bar and throw a punch, but now he could do something. He could protect her.
“I won’t leave, I promise.”
He was on the run again, but this time, at least he wasn’t alone.