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Chapter Text

"I was born eighty-seven years ago."

Two armored men ran down the tight corridor, guarding their king. A third tagged behind, her sword glimmering too brightly, but not as bright as the Emperor's eyes.

"For sixty-five years I've ruled as Tamriel's Emperor."

They were getting closer, slowly and surely, but not fast enough. Uriel Septim's fingers held on tightly to a sleek necklace strung against his silky robes, his feet straining to keep up with his guards ahead. A few times, he almost felt as if his heart pounded against his ribcage so ferociously that the others could feel it, too.

"I have seen the Gates of Oblivion, in which no waking eye can see; behold, in Darkness, a Doom sweeps the land."

The stone halls almost appeared to be twisting maniacally, stretching on eternally. "Come on, sire!" His Blade begged, but grief had struck against the words. All his sons, his heirs, his responsibility... dead.

"This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed."

It wasn't supposed to hurt this much, surely? Uriel had done things he took pride in, ruling Tamriel with a kind heart but iron fist, yet he had also done things he was ashamed of. Repeatedly. No- this was not supposed to sting his soul as much as it did now.

"The year of Akatosh, four hundred thirty-three."

Maybe he was torn apart like so because of what he knew was to come. What would transpire. What those Gates would hold, would symbolize, would bring.

"These are the closing days of the third era."

Uriel spotted the iron gate of the prison cell as the approached. Behind it, they would find escape. Behind it, he would find his freedom from the world. A shrill song, death sung him to him now, and the emperor couldn't help being thankful he would not be there to watch the dreaded Siege arrive.

"These are the closing days of my life."

Chapter Text

When he woke up, it was with a pounding headache, his missing memories aching like a lost reality.

He sat up on the hard bed, rubbing at his eyes and temples. He appeared to be in the Imperial Prison, though he couldn't quite figure out why he was there. Or, more urgently, who he was.

It was a cell made from cold stone, the floor dried, hard-packed dirt. A single window hung high above him, letting the smallest stream of sunlight in the room. The walls were stacked bricks, the air tasting sour in his mouth.

A voice grabbed his attention, filled with cold tones and faked interest. "Hm," it started, considering. He went over to the bars of his cell, revealing the crooked teeth and red eyes of a Dunmer staring back at him. "Pale skin, snotty expression. You're a Breton!"

He held up his hands to his face dubiously. He was?

The male continued, gently clacking his grown-out fingernails against the metal bars. "Masters of magicka, right?" He offered a shrug, not liking where this was going, but the Dark Elf paid him no mind. "Hmph," he snorted. "Nothing but a bunch of stuck-up snobs with cheap parlor tricks if you ask me."

He tilted his head, confused. "Um, listen-"

The male immediately cut him off, shooting a vicious glare to his cell. "No, you listen." He raised his eyebrows but contented. "Let's see you try your magicka in here, hm? Go ahead, make your bars disappear." The Dunmer paused, insistent clacking stopping at the motion of his fingers. "No? What's the matter, little Breton?"

He felt his face flush. "There's really no need-"

The Dark Elf's voice rose over his weak defense. "Not so powerful now, are you?" The prisoner cackled and wheezed, the sound supposed to be laughing. He winced, allowing the other to continue with his mad rant. "You're not getting out of here 'till they throw your body into the lake."

He felt his eyes widen at that. The Dunmer took a look at him and started laughing louder. "Oh, that's right! You're going to die in here, Breton. You're going to die!" He shook his head rapidly as the Dunmer gloated at him from afar.

Finally, he huffed, gathering up his voice."I don't know who you are, but if all you're going to do is ramble on like a madman, could you at least do it a little quieter?" He made to turn on his heel and sulk back to the lumpy bed when a sudden group of voices echoed through the halls.

He paused, trying to hear what they were saying, when the Dark Elf choose to speak again. "Hey, you hear that?" His features were split into a toothy grin. "The guards are coming... for you!" The male went deeper into his cell, bringing his cruel laughter past his line of sight.

He sighed with relief, but his hands twitched nervously on their own accord. What if he was right? The footsteps seemed to be growing louder.

Looking for a place to hide, he caught snippets of the conversation. An elderly voice rose above the others.

"They're dead, aren't they?" It asked, crestfallen tone carrying over the halls. He couldn't hear much past that, only able to conclude that there were no suitable hiding places in his confinement. He could only gaze miserably as the group appeared at his cell, and stopped there.

"My job is to get you to safety," one woman was finishing as they paused outside his bars. He looked them over, noting the strange armor and unorthodox blades. If one thing was for sure, it was that these people weren't Imperial soldiers- the thought made his heart bounce with a bit more happiness.

The feeling didn't stay as a particularly tough looking guard caught sight of him. Dark eyes observed him under a bronze helmet. "What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits." It was the woman, apparently in charge.

He went completely still in his position beside the prison bed. Another guard, obviously male, spoke up. "Usual mix-up with the watch, I-" she dismissed him.

"Nevermind." She addressed the Breton, hands reaching out to unlock the gate. "Stand back, prisoner. We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way." His eyes widened even more at that, slowly backing up.

"Over by the window," the male supplied, same harsh tones. "Stay out of the way and you won't get hurt." He nodded, scrambling to the back. After a few more warnings, the gate lock clicked, door opening.

The three marched forward at the captain's command, the male still warning him to stay where he was. Before they got far, however, a fourth member made himself known.

"You," it said, and he recognized the elderly voice from before. "I've seen you." He moved away from his guards' shelter, opting to approach the prisoner.

The man was as old as his weary voice, features defined with wrinkles, shining silver hair cascading down his shoulders. He wore a regal purple and red robe, the collar white fur and gold encrusted cloth. A glimmering ruby amulet hung on his neck, displayed proudly on his chest.

His eyes twinkled as he stared at the Breton, speaking again. "You are the one from my dreams," he said, taking a deep breath as if each word drained him of a little more strength. His whole demeanor was melancholy in total, shoulders drooping slightly. "Then the stars were right. Gods give me strength."

The prisoner spoke, considering. "What's going on?"

The female guard fidgeted behind them, but said nothing as the other man replied. "Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell."

Something in his bright blue irises said it wasn't by mere fate. "Why am I in jail?" He questioned. He wanted to ask who he was, but the genuine smile that graced the man's chapped lips stopped any further words.

"Perhaps the Gods have placed you hear so that we may meet," he proposed. "As for what you have done, it does not matter. That is not what you will be remembered for."

And what exactly would he be remembered for? His next question came out cautiously. "Who are you?"

"I am your emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the Gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler. You are a citizen of Tamriel, and you, too, shall serve her in your own way." The prisoner looked at the man in shock, feeling like he should kneel, but the king only smiled softly at him.

"What," he swallowed, looking at Uriel. "What should I do?"

The smile faded slightly, simply a ghost on his lips. "You will find your own path. Take care; there will be blood and death before the end."

Before he could reply, the female spoke up behind them, standing near the right wall. "Please, sire, we must keep moving." It was almost a plea, and the emperor nodded.

He couldn't quite see what she did, but the bricks slid open to reveal a hidden passage. He gaped as Uriel stepped in, biding him another look before descending into the tunnel. The last Blade, a male that had remained silent so far, stayed back with the captain as the other guard followed their ruler.

"Better not close this one." At the male's dubious look, she explained. "There's no way to open it from the other side." She then stepped through, leaving the last guard to deal with him.

After a hard look, he finally gave a little shrug, metal armor clinking slightly. "Looks like it's your lucky day," he said, smooth voice and dark skin revealing that he was a Redguard. Then, as if not rude enough, he added, "Just stay out of our way."

The Breton nodded, letting him go first. After a deep breath, his feet picked up and he followed after the four.

The dirt eventually gave out to bricks, leading down a path of stairs. The air was decisively cooler, making him shiver as he followed the other four. The guard in front of him occasionally warned him to stay back a few times, but he was slightly kinder than the others with the orders, so the prisoner didn't mind too much. He was observing the new architecture, noting the ancient feel of the area when the captain yelled.

"Close up left!" She said, the sound of the three drawing their swords filling the large room. "Protect the emperor!"

Uriel went to his side as robed figures spilled into the room, conjuring armor and weapons as they ran to the three head on. The king murmured to himself quietly. "Worse is yet to come," he whispered, seemingly accepting of a horrid fate. The Breton looked at his king with a worried expression, and, upon coming out of the slight reverie, met the expression with a reassuring smile.

"Do not worry," he spoke, reverently. "My Blades are strong, even in small numbers. You will be safe from harm with them." He nodded, shooting back his own small grin.

Suddenly, one of the males gave a warning exclamation. "The captain's down!" He yelled, causing the prisoner to look over. Sure enough, she had been struck from one of the robed assassins, body sprawled over the steps. The Redguard Blade hurried over to dispatch the enemy, the two continuing on with the remaining until they lay dead on the floor. They two spoke to each other in hushed tones for a while, too quiet to make out.

Finally, the Redguard made his way over, panting slightly as he sheathed his sword. "Are you alright?"

Uriel's blue eyes were grave. "Captain Renault?"

He shook his head. "She's dead. I'm sorry, sire, but we have to keep moving."

"I'll take point. Let's move," the other called, getting up from his kneeling position beside Renault's body. He led the four down more stairs, the prisoner being careful to step around any corpses. The group paused at a gate, where the now leading male guard held out his hand.

He addressed the Breton. "Stay here, prisoner. Don't try to follow us." Ignoring his quizzical look, he went to unlock the gate.

Uriel went over to him, whispering to his ear. "Here you must find your own path. But we will cross paths before the end, I am sure of it." He only nodded, slight panic squirming in his chest as the three left him through the gate, locking it behind them.

He sighed a long sigh, alone with only dead bodies to keep him company. Part of him thought of returning to the cell, but the idea was quickly dismissed at the reminder of Uriel's words; we will cross paths before the end, I am sure of it.

The prisoner put his back to the cold stone wall and slid down slowly, landing hard on his backside. Hands absent-mindedly fiddled with his sack cloth pants, eyes searching for an escape route.

He was contemplating taking a nap when the opposite wall began shaking. The Breton stood up with a jolt as the bricks burst forth, rats spilling out with glee. They came towards him immediately, pink noses quivering, and he had to fight the urge to run away screaming.

He quickly grabbed Renault's blade, fighting down the guilt of taking from the dead- but this had to qualify as important, right? He held it up to himself in a protective position, one of the vermin throwing itself at the block and crumbling. He shuddered from a mix of cold and disgust as he cut through another rat, relief washing over as the rest got the message and scampered away.

"Great," he muttered, staring at the retrieved blade. Upon closer inspection it appeared to be a katana, polished bronze stained with red. He felt a little guilty at that, hurriedly wiping the rat blood on his dirt-encrusted pants. It smeared slightly, but he managed to get most of the substance off.

Eyeing the newly-made tunnel, he hurriedly grabbed some potions from the fallen assassins, assuring himself that it wasn't dishonorable if they had died doing evil deeds. He downed a few of the tiny pink bottles, finding any tiredness slip away and be replaced by energy. The last one had a different effect, warming up his inside and tugging at his gut. It was strange, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind and regarded the passage.

The Breton was indeed small, easily slipping through the tiny entrance. It was partly due to his natural physique, but there was a certain sick skinniness to himself that he would have to fix later. When he was through, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the change of lighting, trying to get a feel for the tunnel.

It was extremely dark, musty smell clinging to the underground walls. Decaying columns limply held the ceiling above his head, a broken well shoved in the corner. He didn't quite know how that got there but he walked over to it, not really knowing why.

Halfway through he stopped, noticing a skeleton on the opposite side. Changing directions, the Breton went over to where it was rotting. He picked up a rusty iron dagger, the feel of it light in his shaking hands. He also took notice of a bag in the skeleton's ribs, glowing lightly with magicka.

His fingers fished it out of the sea of decayed bones, opening it up and peeking an eye through. Finding only darkness, he shoved the dagger inside, getting an idea. On a whim, he took a nearby shield and put that in as well, gaping when the entrance expanded appropriately. The shield disappeared shortly after, the bag going back to its original shape.

He did the same with a nearby bow and some arrows, but not before attempting to shoot the bucket hanging over the old well. After some misplaced tries he gave up, standing. The prisoner didn't really know how he would be getting any of the items back, but he ditched the thought and went over to the far door.

A fairly fresher body lay by the wooden frame, almost as if it were a warning, mangled and tinged bluer than a Dunmer. He hesitantly poked at it, finally gathering enough courage to look for a sort of key. He found it soon enough with minimal shuffling. Giving the goblin one last glance, he unlocked the door, toting the bag and katana along.

"I think that was all of them," he told the other two, sliding his katana back in its sheath. "Let me take a look around." The prisoner watched, crouched behind a broken pillar, as the Blade started examining the room.

Uriel Septim stood next to his other guard, shoulders set and eyes searching. "Have you seen the prisoner?" He finally asked the Blade, voice teetering on defeat.

The Redguard was immediately on high alert, also searching, but not with quite the same intent. "Do you think he followed us?" He replied nervously. "How could he?"

"Oh, I know he did," the king confirmed, and the Breton smiled to himself silently. The other guard came back, apparently finding the are clear.

"Let's continue, sire," he spoke, waving a hand over his shoulder. Uriel only shook his head.

"Not yet," he answered. "Let me a rest for a moment." The male contented, if not a bit reluctantly.

The Breton held his breath, waiting for them to continue on. The other Blades seemed to share his anxiety, as it wasn't long before he urged the emperor again. "Your Majesty, we need to keep moving."

Uriel denied again. "Let me rest a moment longer." The prisoner realized he was waiting for him to show.

With a deep breath, grip tightening under around the hilt of the taken katana, he jumped down from the ledge. Only wincing slightly at the contact with bare feet, he steadied himself. The guards yelped, taking out their swords.

"Dammit, it's that prisoner again!" The male yelled, briskly walking over. "Kill him; he must be working with assassins!"

The look in their eyes was slightly vicious and wholly deterring, and he backed up against the wall. The katana suddenly felt heavy in his hands as they advanced.

A sudden shout made the Blades pause, the tone frustrated and bordering on rage. "No! Stop it!"

They obeyed feet away from him. In a much calmer tone, Uriel continued. "He is not one of them. He can help us. He must help us."

"As you wish, sire," the Redguard replied, sheathing his sword without a second thought. The other male simply opted to stay where he was, katana ready, features pulled in a scowl.

"Come closer," Uriel requested, and it was a request, made with kind eyes and a soft smile. "I'd prefer not to have to shout." The prisoner's eyes darted towards his guards, still slightly quivering. The Redguard noticed this, backing up generously, and the other male put down his blade.

Uriel noticed, too. "Do not be afraid," he assured. "My guardians will not harm you." The Breton sent a tiny nod his way, hurrying to the emperor's side.

Once he was there, the king continued in a slighter tone. "They cannot understand why I trust you," he told the Breton. "They've not seen what I've seen. How can I explain? Listen," he ordered, and the prisoner did. "You know the Nine? How They guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

The words seemed to poke something in the back of his mind, but all he could offer was a shrug. Uriel didn't seem discouraged. "I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder... which sign marked your birth?"

He have another hopeless shrug. "To be honest, I don't know." Uriel nodded, eyes slightly glazed over, thinking deeply.

"The signs I read show the end of my path," he continued. "My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come." He breathed in deeply. "My dreams grant me no opinions of success, you must understand. Their compass ventures not beyond the doors of death. But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied."

He furrowed his eyebrows, not getting a lick of sense out of the words. He changed the direction of the conversation. "Where are we going?"

"I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part."

The first sentence rang out in his mind, reverberating through his thoughts. "You..." The emperor waited. "You're going to die?" The little upturn of the corners of his mouth told it all. "But," he faltered. "But aren't you afraid to die?"

The ripe smile turned into something sweeter on his ruler's face, something almost thankful. "No trophies of my triumphs precede me. But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death. To face my apportioned fate, then fall."

He stared at Uriel, wonder in his eyes. "You're pretty amazing," he blurted, face growing hot. "Um, sorry," he murmured, but Uriel only laughed.

"Your words are kind," he thanked the Breton. One of his Blades cleared his throat.

"Sire, we need to go now," he warned. The king nodded, quickly addressing the prisoner.

"Come with us. Your destiny is bound up with mine, and the fate of Tamriel itself." At his consenting nod, the emperor continued through the hallway after his Blade.

The other one, the Redguard, went over to him. "Here, carry this torch and stick close." He held out the wedge of wood, lighting it with a flick of his fingers and handing it over.

"What's your name?" He wondered as they went through.

"Baurus," he answered, alert. "The other Blade is Glenroy." He was about to ask more, but Baurus continued. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you," he started, looking straight into his eyes. The Breton dimly noted his irises were brown.

"You were only doing your job," he told him. "Besides, I'm just a prisoner rotting in jail. I could be evil and all." To be honest, he didn't know what his moral standing was, but he didn't feel evil. Was that enough?

"I doubt it," Baurus told him, looking forward. "And in any case, I apologize." He was about to reply when Glenroy called at them to stop.

"Hold up," he ordered. It was the largest room they had been in by far, a huge column separating deprecate stairways and the ceiling looming above. It was also the perfect position for an ambush, blind spots making up most of the space. "I don't like the look of this. Let me take a look."

The Blade descended the steps on the left, going down beyond the prisoner's position at the back. The uneasy feeling in the Breton's gut didn't disappear until he came back. "Looks clear," he confirmed, waving them over. "Come on. We're almost through to the sewers."

They followed, being lead to another gate. Glenroy tried it, giving out a curse shortly after. "Dammit! The gate is barred from the other side!" The room became darker all of a sudden, and he found himself looking into the shadows. "A trap!"

Baurus mentioned the side passage they passed. The other male nodded. "Worth a try. Let's go!" His pace became quicker as they made their way to the passage. It was small, the group barely fitting in together, and he found himself pushed to the front beside the emperor with a knowing look from Baurus.

One thing became apparent as they entered; it was a dead end. The Redguard said as much to his comrade. "What's your call, sir?"

The other looked on the verge of panic. "I don't know," Glenroy admitted. "I don't see any good options here."

"Hey," he spoke up, loosing some steam when everyone stared simultaneously. "Thinking thoroughly and being honest is better than leading people blindly through battle, wouldn't you say?"

Glenroy blinked, then smiled at him appreciatively. Just as he was warming up to the guard, the expression switched to terror. "They're behind us!"

Sure enough, he could hear the shimmering sound of conjured armor and flashes of magicka. "Stay here, sire," Glenroy warned, running down the corridor to face the battle. Baurus shot a worried look at him, telling him to protect the emperor with his life before following.

They stayed alone in the room, the Breton tense and holding his katana at the ready for a while. He eventually tuned to the king, who hadn't said a word since. "It's going to be fine," he assured, sparing a glance to the older man.

He received the warmest eyes in return. "Yes, it will, my friend. But I'm afraid I can go no further." He was given a panicked look, but continued all the same. "You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants." He opened his mouth to speak, but was waved off. "He must not have the Amulet of Kings!"

The emperor tore his glimmering necklace off his throat, taking one of the prisoner's grubby hands into his own pure one. He tried to protest, but trailed off weakly as the ruby jewel was placed in his palm.

Uriel closed his fingers around the necklace, looking dead straight into his eyes, never letting go. The sounds of battle still echoed through the halls. "Take the amulet," he said, but the Breton didn't see much choice. "Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son." The prisoner didn't dare question, rapt attention focused on the regal man in front of him. "Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

He let his gaze fall to their joined hands, the jewel of the amulet glimmering though the cracks of his fingers, golden chain hanging limply. His voice was too small, too weak. "Your amulet? Then this- this is goodbye?"

A last smile. "This is where my journey ends, yes. For you, though, the road is long and dangerous."

He had just met this man, but he felt himself tearing up. This was the first person that had showed him kindness, the savior from his imprisonment. "With all of my heart, farewell."

A slight reassuring squeeze through his fingers. "Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength."

He swallowed. "I won't forget you." The emperor nodded.

"I know you won't. Remember me, and remember my words. This burden is now yours alone. You hold our future in our hands."

He wanted to say that he didn't want it. He didn't know his name, much less what to do with the fate of the world. Despite his best wishes, he found himself nodding. "I think I understand. I'll," he faltered. "I'll take it from here."

"Then go. Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire." And as the battle raged on outside, Uriel Septim's hands left his as the blade of a hidden assassin struck his heart.

Chapter Text

The sun peeked out eagerly behind wisps of clouds, too small compared to the everlasting sky. It was the first thing his eyes found when he left the sewer, dirty and tiny compared to the beautiful environment.

He hummed a bit at the sight, looking at the still water glimmering from the light above. He thought about jumping in and cleaning himself, but he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to swim.

Instead, he sat down on the wooden deck leading out to the stream, pulling the softly-glowing bag into his lap. The Breton dug around, arms extended fully inside, head not taking time to work around how this was physically possible. Finally, he pried it out; a dusty, cracking map, one that he had found off of Glenroy's body.

The thought wasn't really resourceful in the optimism he needed at the moment, so he instead unfolded the paper. It was faded but decipherable, a shape that was presumably a town in the top left singed everso slightly.

He looked towards the center to another black mark, showing where he currently was. Sure enough, he had been in the Imperial Prison, and it kind of stung when that meant absolutely nothing. He desperately needed to do something about that memory of his, or rather, lack thereof.

Sighing, the he reached a thin hand to gently prod a spot on his shoulder, wincing when the slight contact made small waves of pain shoot through his arm. He should put sword fighting on the list of things he needed to learn, because standing there stupidly while a figure in a red robe disarms you and swings a dagger in your shoulder is not fun. That, and how to actually save people instead of having nice chats to them about their impending deaths.

The same hand reached again for something else, too tired and guilty to be surprised when the object found its way to him immediately. The Amulet of Kings glowed brighter than anything he had ever seen, large in his palm. He almost thought about putting it on but abandoned the idea, shoving it back in his bag with a huff and wishing that Baurus was good with healing magic. Or that he was.

The escaped prisoner stumbled to his feet, throwing the bag back over his good shoulder and opting to keep the map out. Regarding it for a few seconds, he headed left, sun already ducking into the growing clouds.

The Imperial City had made him feel that kind of awe when he first saw it, with polished towers and bustling shops. Large wooden gates and small ponds dotted with sacred lotus had guided him by, and the few septims he had made from scavenged potions and armor almost made him overlook the looks he had received from passerby. The whole place left him with a certain kind of nostalgia as he departed, heading out a few hours before sunrise despite the guards' warnings.

Now, the sun was well into the sky once again as he made his walk across the priory grounds. It was just a little ways from Chorrol, pensive grey buildings sharing the same theme as the small city. It wasn't the same as the Imperial City, but the small blooming gardens and cozy farmhouses held their own sort of beauty.

He swung the door open without thinking about it much, closing it gently behind him. A monk at the nearby table noticed his arrival and stood, addressing the Breton.

"Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines." He carried a sort of melancholy, voice low. "I'm Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs. Now, what can I do for you?"

The priest waited patiently for his answer. "Um," he started. "I needed to speak to Jauffre." The name was a little strange on his tongue, an underlaid questioning tone to his reply.

Brother Maborel studied him for a moment before nodding, taking his seat back at the table. "He should be upstairs," he provided, turning his attention to the scroll in his hands. The Breton smiled a smile nobody saw, feet carrying him up the steps.

The priory was built with dark stone, honey lights giving a certain warmness to the inside that shouldn't otherwise be there. Plush carpets and fine furniture added to the effect, the wooden staircase splitting and leading off to a room holding multiple made beds. He decided on the other way, bookcases heaped with items and more fine carpets leading the way to another priest at the end of the room.

He was situated behind a large desk, head ducked and hands turning at a large book. He held that same deep sadness, too, figure straight and much more muscled than a man that age should be. The escape prisoner stood in front of him nervously for a while, unsure of how to start.

"Jauffre?" He finally decided, voice tiny and half-hidden in his throat. The priest looked up from his book, and he continued. "Are you Jauffre?"

"Yes," he replied, tone conveying slight annoyance. "What do you want?"

He fidgeted nervously, unsure of how to explain. Finally, he just decided to be to the point. "The emperor sent me to find you."

He looked shocked at that. "Emperor Uriel?" He then narrowed his eyes, regarding the Breton with doubled suspicion. "Do you know something about his death?"

"I was there when he died."

The effect was immediate, Jauffre standing in his chair. The action revealed the katana at his waist, the same that the Blades wore in the prison, confirming what Baurus had said.

The Breton looked back into Jauffre's eyes as he spoke. "You better explain yourself. Now."

He launched into a sort of summarization of Uriel's last words, words stumbling over themselves with nervousness he couldn't quite place. When he was finished, he looked hard into Jauffre's guarded eyes as the man sat back down, waiting for him to respond.

"As unlikely as your story sounds," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me." The Breton smiled at him, not too off-put when he received a blank stare back.

"The emperor asked me to find his son," he told the priest, who was now observing him strangely. "Do you know where he is?"

Jauffre looked pained, almost, as his mouth found the next words. "His name is Martin," he told the escaped prisoner, looking down. "He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here. You must go to Kvatch and find him at once. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger." He raised his head once more for the response.

He shuffled his feet a little, thinking about what to say to the order. "Um," he started out. "Are you sure I'm the, uh, best one for the job?" At Jauffre's raised eyebrows, he added, "I'm not exactly the best with a sword, or with the land."

It was a bit of an understatement, really; he was terrible with the sword that he didn't even own anymore, resembled a stick, had no reliable knowledge of the area and was probably carrying some nasty diseases if the tone of his skin was anything to go by. Not to mention the hastily wrapped wound on his arm- and really, he was bound to drop dead in a few days just due to stench of the sewers that still clung to his sack outfit.

He couldn't quite decipher what the priest was thinking until the words came out. "If what you say is true, which I hold little doubt that it is, than the emperor picked you for the job. It is only right we honor his last dying wish." He nodded bashfully, hands playing with the seams of his pants. The Breton only raised his gaze when Jauffre rose, going over to a chest to his right and unlocking it.

"Please," he offered, gesturing to the large chest as he sat back down. "I keep a few things here to resupply any traveling Blades. Help yourself to whatever you need." He thanked Jauffre tremendously as he went to open the chest, finding it filled with armor, weapons and potions.

He found the iron armor and brought all the pieces out, laying them neatly down as he then reached for the polished steel dagger and all of the potions inside. He slipped them in his sack with ease, interrupting the priest once more to ask if there was any place he could wash off and change. Following his instructions to a nearby secluded pond in the back just for this reason, he scrubbed off any remains of the prison and set to work on the armor.

He had to pull the straps as far as they could go to accommodate his form, the size built for someone much bigger. He managed to tighten them enough so that they wouldn't move or fall off, having to bring back the gauntlets on the account that he couldn't adjust them, only keeping the oversized helmet because he wasn't a complete idiot. Finally, he was heading back out for the last time, feeling a lot better than when he arrived.

Brother Maborel stopped him near the door, giving the Breton a warm smile. "I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades," he said, getting a nod in return. "Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables."

His heart warned up a bit at that. "That's a generous offer," the Breton replied, beaming. "Thank you." Brother Maborel bid him farewell as he walked out the door, footsteps a bit lighter.

The sky had faded into a warm orange hue by now as he made his way to the stables. The Dunmer tending to the two steeds told him which one was Maborel's, red eyes kinder than the last pair he saw.

The Breton went over to a strong paint horse, who regarded him evenly. He didn't exactly know how to ride one, so the same Dunmer helped him on, telling him how to direct her and such as he refilled their pans with fresh water. Finally, he grabbed hold of the reins and urges her forward, relieved when she obediently trotted forward. He guided her to the front of the priory, bringing out the map that another priest had marked helpfully for him, jotting down the major cities in neat script.

"Okay," he murmured to his newfound horse. "Let's do this." And she sprinted off at his will, hooves pounding against the neat Imperial roads under the forming stars.

It was only until he was halfway to Kvatch that he realized he had forgotten to give Jauffre the Amulet of Kings.

He had jumped so hard at the thought that his horse pulled back, jostling him completely and almost knocking him off her back. The Breton had sat there, shocked to the core, until cursing out to the night and urging the horse forward again- and that had been that.

Now, as he walked through the survival camp a certain ways away from the sieged Kvatch, the amulet seemed to weigh down his whole bag. It was jarring, carrying something so precious, but he was too far to turn back.

He left the horse with the others, giving an Orc lady his last few septims to keep her safe. The Breton inquired about Martin, learning that he was a priest and most likely killed in the invasion.

Being told that a man named Savlian Matius might know more, he made his way up the trail to Kvatch with a churning stomach and slow-setting dread. It didn't take long to reach the city, smoke and precisely laid bricks guiding the way.

His sight was immediately directed to a portal of sorts, bright and loud, taller than the walls. It was slightly transparent, only displaying an orange surface that distinctly resembled flames. Interest piqued, he didn't notice the armored captain until he was addressed.

His head snapped forward at the stressed tones. "Stand back, civilian!" He yelled over the noise, and the Breton thought it was a bit unnecessary, but let him continue. "This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!"

He considered asking for more details about what happened, but instead skipped to the point. "I'm not from Kvatch!" He told the officer, voice raising to be heard. "I'm looking for Martin! Do you know him?"

The man shot him a confused look, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "You mean the priest?" At the nod, he continued. "Last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, he's trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he's not..." He trailed off, glancing towards the portal.

He sighed, thinking this through. He needed to get Martin, and it was most likely still possible to get the through the walls, but it would likely be guarded by the monsters he had heard of that invaded the city. He felt like trying to help, but the officer made it sound like he wasn't asking for it, and really, it wasn't like he could do much to help either way.

No. Martin was priority at the moment, and even though it made him guilty to think of it, he would have to leave Kvatch to its own devices. "Where's the Chapel?" He finally asked.

The captain regarded him dubiously. "You're not thinking about going in the walls, are you?" At his nod, his eyes hardened. "You realize that the chance of making it back alive are extremely slim, don't you?"

"Please," he begged. "Just tell me."

He finally shrugged, apparently deciding that if he wanted to be a suicidal fool, so be it. "It should be hard to miss. First thing you see when you enter through the gates." He gave the Breton a hard look. "Good luck," he told him before running back to his troops, waiting eagerly for something that he didn't know was.

The Breton nodded to himself, grasping the dagger strapped to his waist for reassurance and pulling on his oversized iron helmet. It barely stayed on his head and he sighed, knowing that he must look like a complete fool, but went forward nonetheless. The portal didn't do anything until he was past it, if the sudden yells and sounds of battle he heard were anything to go by.

He hesitated only for a moment before pushing open the doors.

The twin moons were set in the sky, midnight canvas displaying its many stars proudly. It was beautiful, sure, but he didn't have much time to dwell on that as he saw what lay inside the walls.

There were only four that he could see, with sharp claws and long tails. They all rounded on him immediately, snarls coming from their fanged mouths, and he resisted the urge to dive right back behind the doors. He was not a good fighter, and that fact came back to haunt the Breton as a group of blood-thirsty, snarling monsters bounded towards him.

He managed to dodge the first fireball thrown his way, swiping at the nearest one with his dagger. He really despised that this had been the only weapon that he could actually hold when he had to get close to the little demons, but gave the thing a good gash along its deformed skull. It hissed at him but backed away, eyes completely black.

Another one threw himself at him but he swiped at it, too, making contact with its chest. It shuddered and he took the opportunity to plunge the knife in its stomach. He had to bite back vomit as it collapsed, bleeding.

Just as he was beginning to feel good about himself the other one recovered, pouncing once more and clawing at his face. He avoided it just barely and lunged but was blocked off by another scamp, getting knocked down by the force of it diving on him.

The iron helmet came off his head, rolling away. It reached down with sharp talons, scratching up his cheek badly before he managed to strike it in the arm. The scamp jumped off with a snarl, the others surrounding him as he stood.

The Breton saw more of the creatures come out from the wreckage and burning buildings that now made up Kvatch, growing steadily more nervous. He was surprised he even managed to take out one of them, really, but that wasn't really enough consolation for his impending death. Another one lunged forward, trying to get at his face. He managed to knock it off, but in the scuffle his dagger flew out of his hands.

He came out of his shock quickly enough to grab his helmet and knife, scrambling away towards the large building that couldn't be anything other than the Chapel as more of the creatures ran towards him. His armor weighed him down and despite his sickly thin form he was incredibly slow, so it wasn't much of a surprise when one reached him. He barely pried it off his body, stabbing blindly away.

When he got to the doors, he could only pound on them anxiously upon seeing they were locked. He had to duck to avoid another ball of flame, knocking non-stop on the stone doors.

"Please!" He yelled. "I'm not a monster! Let me through!" No replies came, and his heart sank even lower than he thought it could.

A scamp at his back tackled him from behind, startling him, and the Breton could only yelp as he was thrown against the door. His head was banged painfully against the locked entrance, the metal helmet hastily thrown on rattling his head. He groaned pitifully, more coming to claw against the iron armor he wore.

As he flailed, struggling to stand, more scamps piled up on him. He didn't quite know how, but in a sudden panic his sight went up into flames. His heart sped up and something tugged at his gut, and when his vision came back there were six burned scamps scattered around him, dead.

He stared at the corpses with wide eyes. Did he do that?

He was forced out of the reverie when the doors burst open. A woman with the same armor as the captain outside was the one behind them, brown eyes shining underneath her helmet. She looked at him worriedly, gaze straying to the bodies.

"What," he faltered, quivering. "What took you so long?" It wasn't his intention to be rude, but the timing was slightly ridiculous.

She didn't answer, pulling him inside the doors. He leaned heavily against the walls, watching as the Redguard woman moved back the large dresser holding the doors in place, along with setting back the locks. He supposed that explained the wait, but he was too exhausted to care.

The Chapel was majestic in a way, if not a bit rugged, windows clouded and dirt-covered people huddling over benches. The ceiling reached higher than he felt like looking, air cool and light scarce. You couldn't even hear the battle inside the heavy walls, making the place seem almost like a sanctuary.

She finally finished, walking over to him. "What are you doing here?" She asked, but seemed to regret the harshness of the words when he pulled off his helmet.

"Gods," she breathed, before calling out. "I need a healer!" Someone bounded forward at that but he was too tired to look at them, or much of anything. He was pulled up off the ground, head left spinning at the motion, but let the person drag him off obediently.

The Breton was led down some stairs, feet stumbling and eyes closed as he leaned heavily on the person guiding him. He tried not to feel guilty about that, but he estimated that he probably weighed about two pounds without the armor, so it was a minor consolation. He distinctly heard the opening and closing of a door, and didn't bother to open his eyes even as he was gently pushed into a bed.

It was the other that spoke, deep voice revealing that it was a male. "What have you been doing?" The question sounded like it didn't really require an answer, but he gave it one anyway.

"Running around in sewers," he mumbled. A palm rested on his forehead, soft and smooth, as he spoke. "I wanted to take a bath when I got out, but then the rocks started trying to eat me, so I just went to the priory." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why do the rocks do that?"

He heard the other man stifle a chuckle. "It was probably a mudcrab," he offered. "Nasty creatures."

The Breton silently agreed, frowning slightly when the palm went away. It went to rest on his cheek instead, and a shimmering sound filling his ears as the broken skin started sewing together. "What are you doing?" He muttered, trying to open his eyes but failing.

Another hand pushed down at the chest he had unknowingly been raising, not hard enough to force, which the Breton appreciated. "It's okay," the voice said. "I'm just casting a small healing spell on you."

He did as he was told, thinking about the spell he had casted on the monsters. It was strange; he had tried to use magicks for a while now, hoping maybe that he would be more successful with that than blades, but had never managed to get beyond a slight spark at his fingers. It seemed that he was right, and if he actually learned how to control that, might actually survive the trip back to Weynon Priory.

Suddenly, his mind came back to him. The spell had stopped long ago and had been replaced by another one, the healer having told him it was to cure the disease he had picked up in the sewers. Before it was finished he jolted up, opening his eyes and trying to ignore the protests his head made.

"I need to find Martin," he said, adapting to the dark room. "The- the priest." He fixed his gaze on the man perched on a stool next to the bed, vision slightly blurred. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," he answered, voice a bit confused and tone more than a little concerned. "Why do you ask?"

"Uriel, he-" he stopped as his vision finally cleared, getting a good view of the man's face. "You," and he faltered at those intense eyes, the color that reminded him of kind smiles and prisons and assassins and death. "You are Martin."

And as the emperor's son nodded, his rich blue eyes twinkled in a way not unlike his father's.

Chapter Text

The portal to Oblivion lay right in front of him, daedric metal entwining a mass of fire. Heat resonated off the gate, smoke coming off from it in tiny tendrils, distinct shapes in the flames swirling around all that it was.

And he was about to go in the thing.

He rolled his shoulders, giving a backwards glance to Savlian, who replied with a confident smile. He turned back, looking at the barely intact walls of Kvatch, a small curse going out to the last son of Uriel Septim before stepping through.

It wasn't nearly as painful as he thought it would be, just a sort of warmness spreading over his gut. He almost expected to sail straight through the portal, but the world that greeted him on the other side was definitely not Tamriel.

His eyes glazed over, pupils wide with fear at the sight. The sky was made of fire and orange lightning, thunder booming across the whole land. The earth under his feet was cracking, stained red. The air smelled of smoke and tasted like blood, and a jagged gate stood tall directly in front of the portal, guarding the shadow of a huge tower in the distance.

The Breton would've stood there longer, gawking in horror, if not for an inhuman screech. His eyes found a scamp similar to those that had been invading Kvatch, bounding over to one of the city's guardsmen. As he watched, the guard ran past the gate, holding up his shield to block against the creature. The Breton grabbed a hold of the sharpened steel dagger strapped to his waist, courtesy of Tierra, running over to the two.

The guard jumped in shock when he caught sight of him, mouth slack under his chain-mail helmet, shield lowering slightly. His blade went through the scamp's stomach before it could take advantage of the weakened defense, pulling it out of the limp body with little difficulty.

"Hello," he greeted the guard, a bit too cheerfully in a place like this. He glanced down at his dagger, covered in rich crimson, before sheathing the weapon and holding out a hand to shake. "Are you Ilend Vonius?"

The man disregarded the hand completely, going forward and enveloping the Breton in a bone-crushing hug. He stumbled back in surprise, but didn't push the guard back as he started to speak.

"Thank the Nine!" He exclaimed, and the arms around him tightened for a moment. "I never thought I'd see another friendly face," he admitted, and the quiver in his voice made the Breton slightly reluctant to pull back.

"So you are Ilend?" He asked, reciting the name as Matius had told him, and the man gave a nod. "What happened?"

Ilend trembled slightly. "The others... taken... they were taken to the tower!" He choked out. "Captain Matius sent us in to try and close the gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge. They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him! I'm getting out of here!" The Breton held out his hands, taking a deep breath, and Ilend waited.

"Hold on," he said, slightly hating himself, but if he was going to close the gate for some stubborn priest, he wasn't going to do it alone. "I could use your help here."

Ilend seemed to consider it, before reluctantly nodding. "You're right. You're right," he amended. "I can't just leave poor Menian to his fate. If he's still alive, we've got to try to save him. Alright," he said, grip tightening on his sword. "Lead the way. Let's find Menian and get out of here."

The Breton smiled thankfully, heart lifting a little. Okay, so he had help. Now what?

He knew what tower to go to, but it was far out into the strange plane. The heat was starting to get to him, sweat plastering his messy brown hair to his forehead, and the Breton already missed Martin's spells. They had made him feel a million times better, but the effects already seem to start wearing off, and he didn't know quite how far his mental well-being was going to tolerate Oblivion for a couple strangers he literally met within the last two days.

Three days? Hm.

He sighed before taking up a slow walk, picking his way over the crumbling ground under his feet. His eyes kept darting from side to side, anxious, as Ilend followed at the same pace from behind. A few monsters came at them, but it was a relatively easy journey until they reached the plants.

They weren't like the clumps of who-knows-what he had spotted, sitting at the crooks of lava pits and growing between rocks. No, these were huge and lightly colored, thorns protruding along the length of the vines, and they didn't think much of it until one of them lashed out across his face.

He stumbled back in shock, holding out a hand when Ilend started to run towards him. The Breton slowly backed up from the root, wincing at the feeling of hot air against the cut. The scratch was deep, running along the side of his face from his right temple to his chin, and blood already started peaking through the cracks. He was glad that Martin had healed his previous wound on his cheek as the root shuddered, whipping at the skies above.

"C'mon," he mumbled, and they did, picking their way over through a couple more scamps. His skin felt as if it was going to melt off from the heat as they reached the tower, air heavy and forceful down his throat. That pain combined with an ache that had settled in his bones distracted him enough that he didn't see the monster hiding in the shadows, face abhorred and sword wicked.

It screeched as his foot touched the steps leading to the entrance, a ragged door camouflaged within the walls and marked with strange symbols, and he winced at the sound. He barely managed to dodge as its blade came for him, and the Breton caught a close view of the marred sword, made of crimson-stained metal and glowing softly.

Ilend came up behind him, striking the creature, but his sword merely glanced off its skin. It snarled at the guard, face so twisted he couldn't face it, and fire untangled itself from inhuman fingertips to knock the man back. The Breton shouted at that, running forward and placing all his might into a stab directly into the monster's forehead, suddenly glad that Martin had forced some food down his throat before he left on his quest.

What had he called it? "Idiotic task" or " utter suicide" or something equally disheartening? That was definitely agreeable, he mused to himself, extracting the dagger out of the beast's skull. That, and all evidence that proved he was a fool that seriously needed to get his priorities straight- because, even though they might be pretty, you don't go strolling through gates of Oblivion for a dead king and his dumb son. Unless you were, in fact, a fool that needed to get his priorities straightened.

He ran over to where Ilend lay, groaning, gently removing the guard's fingers from his chest to observe the wound. The Breton winced at the sight, chain-mail armor melting into skin, Kvatch symbol on his cuirass smoking. He wished he had noticed the various bruises and wounds covering the man's body, wished he actually knew how to use Magicka, because Ilend was dead before he hit the ground.

The Breton said a few words to gods he didn't know the names of, standing up and observing the sword left by the beast. He was pretty sure that they were called daedra, at least, but he didn't think it truly mattered.

The blade itself was smooth, point unimaginably sharp, the darkest red he had ever seen and inscribed with strange symbols that glowed white at angles. The hilt was jagged, handle rough but mending perfectly with his palm. It was heavy in his hand so he held it in both, the weight somehow balancing between the sturdy grip, metal cool to the touch.

He felt ashamed about it, but there was no way he was leaving this weapon behind- not something this beautiful. After several failed attempts at trying to put the sword in his bag he had brought along (because even enchantments had limits, it seemed) he remembered the rusty greatsword he had found in the tunnels through the Imperial Prison, and his shaking hands finally found it's sheathe, complete with a strap. He secured the daedric sword around his back, realizing that he was in no fit condition to swing something that heavy around, and dug out his last two potions.

He downed the larger one, feeling his energy seep back into him like one of Martin's spells. The Breton slipped the smaller one back in the bag hanging from his belt, and the iron armor he wore didn't feel as heavy and limiting as it had throughout the journey. He gave one last fleeting look to Ilend Vonius's corpse before heading to the door.

The door didn't have any handles, but quivered at his touch. When it opened, it split in the middle, gooey substance stringing across the opening and hanging from the sides. He was careful not to cut himself from the pointed spikes that seemed too much like teeth dotting the opening, cringing slightly as his skin made constant with the strange substance.

The inside was dark and cool, feeling like bliss to his burning skin. The door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he noticed being a fiery beam functioning as the centerpiece of the tower. It was surrounded by a large pit, shooting upwards into a ceiling he couldn't find, emanating a sound he couldn't place.

The Breton stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, hearing the snarling of creatures that amazingly hadn't seen him yet. Perhaps they were blind? He didn't dwell on it, eyeing a strange pedestal displaying a ball of blue light near the doorway. He decidedly backed away from it, pulling out his dagger when as he was spotted.

There were only a few scamps in the room, and it was slowly becoming easier to defeat them. As he made his way into the side passages, eyes squinting in the darkness of the halls and gradually ascending the tower, he grew better at dodging their strikes and stabbing their hearts. It went smoothly for a long while, barely evading traps but escaping them all the same, when he suddenly found himself out into the plane of Oblivion once more.

The bridge was far too narrow and the drop far too deep, smoky air and high temperature trying to burn him into a crisp. He craved to go back inside but needed the key to the door to continue, and this was the only other passage he hadn't traveled through yet.

He made his way carefully across the bridge, iron armor overpowering his sickly thin form, his newly acquired daedric sword clanking against his back. The Breton made a resolution to himself that if he actually got out of this alive, the first thing he was going to do was stuff his face silly with food, Martin Septim and Kvatch all be damned.

His hands reached out to the slab of stone that stood for doors in this Realm, finding it to open too slowly for his liking. As soon as it closed behind him, air not as cool but room not as dark, he heard the scared cries of an actual person.

Menien, he remembered, deducting that the shouts came from above. The building was arranged in a demented spiral, branching off the main tower, half crumbling on its roots. He started upwards, not taking sight of the daedra until he was at the top.

It spoke before attacking, voice rumbling and unimaginably deep, sounding like it was gurgling its own blood as words escaped its tongue. "You should not be here, mortal," and the sentence sent shivers down his back. "Your blood is forfeit!" It yelled, and the Breton saw who he presumed to be Menien cowering in his cage. "Your flesh is mine!"

It came forward with a nasty looking mace, and he almost died from fear right there. It seemed easier when Ilend had been with him, out in the open plane- but this, this was downright terrifying, and reminded him of his terrible lack of sword skills.

He avoided the first strike, observing that all manner of Oblivion nasties were ugly and clumsy, but was not prepared for the second that raked his armor. It didn't cause any fatal wounds thanks to the tough metal shielding him, but the Breton found the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbled and fell back on the floor, head banging against the wall, and regretted the idiotic decision to leave his helmet back at the chapel- even if it was three times the size of his head, so was everything else he wore.

Black beady eyes gleamed down on him, mace raised to come crashing down at his skull, and he braces himself for death. When it didn't come he pried open his eyelids, being greeted with the sight of the daedra sprawled out on the floor. Frost was lightly dusting the back of the creature, the after-effects of the spell it was blasted with, and he took the chance to reclaim his fallen dagger and thrust it through the monster's one weak point.

Only when the body went limp did he pull the weapon out of its skull, wiping the possibly permanent blood-tainted blade off on his person. It didn't do much to clean against the armor, but it never did, and it really wasn't the biggest problem to deal with right now, so he just sucked it up and sheathed the knife. His head was still pounding and his nostrils were full of the scent of decay, which he didn't quite understand, but he pushed it aside and went to the man who had saved his life.

"Thank you," he managed to choke out, tone sincere. The man didn't face him, huddled in a small ball in the corner, and he distinctly wondered if this was the guy who had blasted the daedra to pieces. "Um," he began, like he always did. "Are you Menien?" His mind fumbled for the last name Savlian had given him, but he couldn't find it. He decided to let the question settle roughly in the air, waiting for a response.

He let his attention wander over the room while Menien gradually deranged himself from the defensive position, regretting it when he looked to the ceiling. Naked corpses were strung to the top, mutilated and rotten, and he suddenly found he could place the smell of death. The Breton had to push down the bile coming up his throat, stomach churning at the sight.

Menien's rough voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Have you got the key?" He asked, jumping to a shout when he only received a dumbfounded look. "You must get the Keeper's key- it's the only way into the Sigil Keep!"

He blinked. "Sigil Keep?" He questioned, but Menien seemed to be done talking, only mumbling nonsense under his breath and rocking slightly. The Breton nodded to himself, working up the courage to approach the daedra's corpse. After a few embarrassing moments of fumbling through the cracks and chips of its armor- which, a dark part of his mind mused, was probably the creature's natural skin- he found the key tied to its neck. It was secured by a strong chain of dark red metal, the same the greatsword on his back was made from, and he had to tug it roughly off the daedra's neck.

He didn't pay the item any mind, simply stuffing it into his bag and crawling back over to the Kvatch guard. The man now had his eyes trained steadily on him, and the Breton liked to imagine it was because he had figured out he wasn't going to hurt him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was never given the chance. Menien's stressed tones hushed any words he could have provided, form shaking. "Take the key. Get to the Sigil Keep, and find the Sigil Stone. It's the only way."

He held up his hands, and Menien cowered in response, so he put them back down and instead spoke. "Listen," he tried to reason. "You're under a lot of trauma right now. How about we get you out-"

"No!" He shouted harshly, and the Breton stopped. "Don't worry about me, there's no time! Get moving!" He sighed, standing, and started to observe the cage for any openings.

The guard only watched him cautiously, lips pulled into a frown, his face dirty with soot and blood. Seeing as the daedra used corpses for decor, he didn't really want to know what they had done to the guard. No; the only thing he wanted to know was how to get him out.

And it was when the guard started crying, whispering more words of nonsense to himself, that he realized that the cages were built to only hold things inside of them- not to set them free.

He decided to call the tower the Blood Feast.

It had something to do with the pit of lava and the fiery beam, because he realized that at a distance they looked more like blood than flames. Mostly though, it was because of the strange symbols scrawled out on the doors; if he looked at them hard and long enough, he could find readable words inside the mangled shapes, some of them that he didn't want to read.

The Breton had spent a few hours doing exactly just that: staring at the door, trying to figure out how the damn key went through it. The key wasn't much of a key at all, simply a glorified metal twig, so when he punched the closed entrance in frustration and felt a slight burning in his palm, he came to the notion that the "key" wasn't for this door.

It did, however, fit perfectly into the thin slot embedded in the top door, all the way on the highest floor so that he could see the ceiling. The marks on the walls told him it was the Sigilium Sanguis, and when he watched the Dremora topple over the railing and into the lava pit hundreds of feet below, only feeling a sort of resignation, he realized that he was going a bit crazy.

The Breton forced himself through the last room. The floors leading up to the Sanguis squished under his feet, pale and bloody, smelling of decay. He flinched every time his feet walked across the spans of no doubt human flesh, hands grasping at the walls in sudden sickness, and downed the very last potion he had saved for this occasion. It felt warm in his gut like the ones back in the sewers had but unlike Martin's spells, and he realized he had picked one of the potions that didn't work.

He ran for the top.

The large cluster of Dremora and scamps caught onto him quickly, swords bristling, the beam of fire so close to his person that he could feel the heat radiating off it in waves. He only killed about two scamps before realizing that this would not end well if he played the hero, and dashed up the last floors. These were soft and bouncy under his iron boots, too, but too red and strong to be the remnants of men and mer. He shivered still, hating Oblivion more and more by the second.

The Breton didn't get very far up until he was cornered. It was at the very top, the stone engulfed in rich flames in the corner of his eye, but snarling daedra blocked his path to freedom. They knocked the dagger out of his hands swiftly, and it went down over the edge, going, going, gone- like his life would be.

He reached out to pull his daedric greatsword, feeling it mend into his palms, but only hissed when that comfort turned into a full-blown burn. He hastily dropped the weapon, regretting the decision immediately, but then the regret turned into spite and he was almost happy to let it go.

He didn't fully register when he reached down into the pit of his stomach, feeling fear and helplessness and the disbelief of being so close- didn't fully register when a storm sparked at his fingertips and blew the monsters away. Didn't register when he grabbed onto the Sigil Stone, or when he reclaimed his sword in a fit of desperation. He only noticed the flames eating at the world around him, pulling both objects to his shivering form, knowing that the stone would take him home.

The fire died after seconds- seconds that felt like years, wasting away in a Realm of heat but feeling much too cold. The rain was welcome, drops of water pouring down his bright-red skin, smoke coming off from the contact. The darkness was even more welcome; taking him away from the world, forcing his eyelids shut.

Chapter Text

The sun was placed high above their heads, beaming down on the two travelers mercilessly. They stayed to the fine roads, dotted with large trees and the occasional bandit, no wind to blow apart the thin trails of clouds or to rustle the rich leaves.

His hands played with the white fabric primarily making up his cuirass, still recounting when Savlian gave it to him after the battle for Kvatch. It had been an ugly battle in the end, beginning with hope for a lost city, ending with the death of their Count. He wished he could do more than stab a few daedra and collect stones, but the only reason he was still walking was because the dozens of potions he had digested. That, and Martin's spells.

The Breton glanced at Uriel's son, fingers subconsciously brushing against the lingering scar on his cheek from what felt like a millennia ago. He couldn't even remember when his shoulder had stopped aching from the incident in the prison, and it was all thanks to the priest, really.

It was only when they couldn't see the smoke rising from Kvatch's remains that he spoke. "Are you okay, then?"

Martin looked him over, raising an eyebrow, robe torn and dirty but face oddly clean. "My home was destroyed, my true father dead, and you wish to know if I am 'okay'?" The Breton shrugged, mentally digging a ditch and hiding in it. He looked down at the iron boots on his feet, daedric greatsword feeling heavy on his back.

Yes, he knew he useless. But did he really deserve that? He closed the fetching gate to Oblivion, for the gods' sake! The Breton sighed through his nose, crossing his small arms and frowning. Maybe if he had been quicker...?

He looked up when a strong hand rested on his shoulder, meeting glimmering blue irises and apologetic features. "I'm sorry," Martin said, meaning every word. "You didn't deserve that."

"It was a stupid question," he offered, wishing he still had that burst of adrenaline from way back in Oblivion. His heart beat too slow, movements too sluggish, and it was kind of sickening.

"Yes, it was," Martin agreed, retracting the appendage, and they shared a smile. He pulled the map from bag, checking to see if they were still on the right track, carefully making sure not to rip the slowly-crumbling paper. The priest left him to it, looking over at endlessly stretching grass fields, lost in thought.

He put the map back in, hands brushing against the empty sheath on his belt, recalling the knife as it fell from the Sangillium Sanguis. His eyes find the Kvatch insignia on his cuirass, similar to Ilend and Menien, all drove mad or kill viciously in the end- sometimes both. He briefly wondered what became of Menien when the portal closed- if he's forever lost in Oblivion forever, cowering in his cage.

"So," Martin started, breaking the silence. "How did you get caught in this mess?"

He looked at the priest, considering, before giving an answer. "Well, I met your father," he said, mulling it over. "And he gave me this necklace to give to this other guy, and then the other guy told me to get you." He went through the explanation briefly in his mind before adding; "Oh, and he died. Your father, I mean, but I guess you already knew that. Still, it wasn't a very nice occurrence."

Martin's eyes were flickering with barely concealed amusement. "Are you joking?"

He shrugged. "I was in prison, and the Emperor was running from assassins. He had to use this shortcut or something, which cut into my cell. I just kind of followed. He was a kind man." You look just like him.

"Why were you in prison?" The Breton frowned slightly, searching for memories and finding none.

"Truthfully?" He asked, and Martin nodded. "I have no idea."

"How do you not know why you were in prison? Are the guards corrupted?"

He shook his hear hurriedly. "No, nothing like that. I just can't remember why I was put in there."

Martin furrowed his eyebrows. "You can't remember?" At the Breton's confirming nod he continued. "Well, what can you remember?"

"I know how to speak, and walk," he offered honestly. "Besides that, not much. I don't even know my name. Just waking up in a cell."

"Oh." Martin seemed to think about that. "You don't have a name?"

"Not one that comes to mind," he replied. Martin looked away after that, staring into the scenery, and the Breton tried not to feel crestfallen. He went back to fiddling with his armor's light fabric, happy that it wasn't heavy like iron. His only weapon glowed on his back, engraved with symbols from a lost language.

After a while, Martin spoke again. "Do you want a name?" The Breton thought about the question briefly, running a hand through thick hair.

"As much as anyone else," he finally said, and Martin seemed to take his answer as seriously as his expression.

They left it at that for a long time, two souls walking above Tamriel's soil, lost in contemplation.

The first thing he saw when they reached Weynon Priory was a sword pointed at his face, the first thing he heard being screams.

It was one of the assassins that had killed Uriel, or at least he resembled one of them. The blade was conjured, shimmering with Magicka, a demand for the Amulet of Kings booming behind a thick helmet.

He didn't know what to say to that, the man appearing out of thin air, but Martin's blast of lightning seemed to be enough. The offender was launched into the sky, skull banging against stones, reminding him of all the death he'd seen in his few days of life.

Martin and another Dunmer made quick work of the rest, he himself standing there uselessly. He felt a bit sheepish at that, but that went away when he saw Brother Maborel's corpse.

He ran toward it as the last assassin was finished, falling to his knees in front of the dead body. He heard Martin come up behind him, voice sympathetic.

"The Dunmer says that Jauffre might be in the Chapel." He offered a hand, but the Breton didn't take it.

"He gave me his horse," he murmured sadly, recalling the bloody steed sprawled along the grounds, all as a result from attacking scamps while he was away.

Martin took the incentive to pull him to his feet, the Breton stumbling slightly. Martin thrust an iron dagger in his hands, elaborating at his confused expression.

"I understand that you're fond of knives," he explained, leaving the Breton to briefly wonder how that was discovered. "And, well," he continued, glancing at the greatsword with something akin to disgust. "I don't believe you'll be using that anytime soon."

He thanked Martin, taking the offered blade, feeling it in his hand. It was light and fitting, and he lead the way to the Chapel with renewed courage.

They were greeted by the sight of Jauffre, standing tall, fighting off three of the killers at once. They immediately went to help fend off the attackers, Martin blasting spell after spell like he wished he could, Jauffre's katana shining proudly.

It was fine until the other two teamed up, unknowingly leaving him with his own guy. He hadn't realized how truly weak the journey to Oblivion had made him, and was disarmed within seconds. The offender shot a gust of ice his way, knocking him off his feet. The bag was snatched off his waist like they knew what they were looking for, contents dumped out, and he watched as potions, a forgotten bow and arrows, and his map fell out. The Amulet of Kings was last, glowing brightly.

It was snatched by the attacker just as his comrade was dealt with, and he ran out of the Chapel doors, disappearing with a spell. The Breton cried out, heart sinking, as the others ran toward him.

Martin pulled him to his feet, shivering tremendously, and started to gather up his items. The priest tucked them into his too-small bag without question, handing the bag back and shrouding him with healing Magicks.

When it was done, he looked sadly at Jauffre, the very fate of Tamriel gone with his thief. Even when the Blade dashed outside in a hopeless chase, even when Martin gave him back the dagger with a reassuring smile, he didn't bat an eye.

And, under his breath, in his mind- that was the moment he swore to get it back, swore to save the world.

Chapter Text

The fortress was high in the mountains, cold winds cutting through his light armor and chilling his bones. They made it just as the effects of the numerous potions he had taken started to wear off, when the moons had just set but the day hadn't come yet, the sun hidden behind a rocky horizon.

He glanced behind him to where Jauffre and Martin followed, each sporting horses of their own. Traveling overnight was not something that he would be looking forward to anytime soon, and by his companions' expressions, they shared his thoughts.

Jauffre dismounted swiftly, striding past the Breton, who was sure to keep his eyes down. Neither of them had talked after the ambush, not really, and he wasn't planning on doing so anytime soon. People had died because of his mistakes, and the world could very well end for the same reason.

The robed man brought his hand to knock on the thick stone doors, a sequence quick and obviously practiced. The Breton spared a look to Martin as he, too, dismounted, being meet with a warm smile that didn't reach his eyes.

The doors opened slowly after a small moment, creaking gently into the early stages of dawn. A man dressed in Blades armor was behind them, helmet hiding his face. He approached Jauffre quickly, voice deep.

"Grandmaster, is this-" He didn't get the sentence out as Jauffre interrupted, voice and demeanor tense.

"Yes, Cyrus," he said, impatience filtering in his tone. "This is Martin Septim."

Cyrus walked forward as the Breton backed up, feeling out of place. "Milord," the Blade addressed Martin, who didn't look too happy about it. "I welcome you to Cloud Ruler Temple. We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years," he admitted, looking at the priest for a reply.

"Oh, well, thank you," he said, words uncertain. "The honor is mine."

"Come," Jauffre spoke, starting to walk past Cyrus. "Your Blades are waiting to meet you."

Cyrus nodded, waiting for Martin. The Breton stayed where he was, unsure of what he was supposed to do- it wasn't like they needed him anymore, right? He had already screwed the world enough.

Uriel's son turned to him then, coming over and pulling on his arm, unnecessarily tugging him along. He shot the priest a look, eyebrows raised as the doors were closed at their backs, only receiving a shrug in response.

"Why are you doing this?" He whispered as they climbed the large set of stairs, sun stretching higher to reach the clouds. Martin again didn't answer so he didn't press, letting himself fall behind as they reached the top.

The Blades had lined up in two paths, creating a walkway for Martin to go through. The Breton stopped stubbornly, letting the others continue, and even considered helping Cyrus stable the horses. Jauffre's words distracted him before he could, however, causing him to focus on the man.

"Fellow Blades," he started, giving the few that had gathered a hard look each. "Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch." He let that sink in, pausing briefly. "The Empire is in chaos," he continued. "But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim."

The Breton brought his hands to his ears as the guards raised their katanas to the air simultaneously, calling out praise. It only leaves the air quiet when they stop, tense silence making the atmosphere uneasy.

"Your Highness," Jauffre says to Martin, voice soft, but even as far as he is he can still here it. "The Blades are under your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne."

He can't see the emotions in Martin's features from the distance, but he can hear them in his voice. "Jauffre," he gets out, hesitantly. "Blades. I understand that you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best," he promises. "But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches, but... I wanted you to know, that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove my self worthy of your loyalty in the coming days." He falters, all of them hanging on to his every word. "That's it. Thank you."

The Breton almost feels sorry for the priest, hoping the sympathy in his expression travels over to Martin, but doubting that it does. "Well, then," Jauffre says for them, reassuring. "Thank you, Martin." In a louder voice, he calls out to one of the Blades. "We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?"

They disperse after that, most taking up posts while a few head back inside, all giving Martin a nod or greeting. The snow starts to fall, then, sparse flakes getting lost in his hair, and he's surprised when Martin comes over and speaks to him.

"Not much of a speech, was it?" He questions, embarrassed. "They didn't seem to mind, though, I suppose."

"You did good," he replies, making as much sincerity as he can seep into the answer. "Really, I liked it."

The smile he receives is worth the trouble. "The Blades hailing me and saluting me as Martin Septim..." He trails off, in wonder. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he adds hastily, even though he doesn't. "I knew I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you."

He shakes his head then, blocking off whatever else Martin was going to say. "Please, don't thank me," he pleads, hating the praise. "I messed up, Martin."

"Everyone makes mistakes," he insists, and an abstract piece of snow gets disappears in his mop of hair, blue irises glimmering.

"Not ones as big as this," he says back, glumly. Martin puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, even though it should be the other way around, and he doesn't know what to make of it.

"We'll figure it out," the priest says, except he isn't much of a priest anymore, and the Breton can't bring himself to care. "Maybe Jauffre will know where to start," Martin suggests, and he reluctantly nods. The Imperial smiles at him again, removing the hand, and bidding him a quick farewell before heading inside.

He stands there, Jauffre his only company, and lets the Grandmaster approach him. He's the one to speak first, however, not wanting to go just yet.

"The Amulet of Kings," he starts, giving the ground beneath his iron boots full attention. "Do you know where they could have taken it?"

"Baurus has been researching anything he can about the assassins. He's bound to know where they could have taken it, or how we can find out." The Breton nods, playing with his fingers, and is about to turn away when Jauffre continues. "You should meet him there. He's in the Imperial City."

His head snaps up to meet Jauffre's eyes, which are dark and brown and tell nothing. His response comes in stutters. "You mean-?"

"Well, after you've had some rest first," he compensates. "You are welcome to use the barracks in the West Wing. And I'll have a Blade bring to you something better suited for combat." He glances at the rusty knife at his hip and the daedric greatsword on his back, but the Breton is still a few sentences behind.

"You will still let me help," he says, trying the words on his tongue, letting them lift off into the air. He doesn't know what he feels, deciding on relief.

"I still mean what I told you earlier, when we first met." He waits for the Breton to remember, clarifying briefly. "The Emperor choose you for the job. I will not disrespect his wishes, especially when all is not lost. I trust that you will be more than adequate to assist Baurus in his mission."

The Breton tries to agree, even though he can't force himself to believe it, but nods either way. Jauffre seems satisfied with the response. "I'll tell you what inn Baurus is staying at in the morning," the Grandmaster informs him, stepping away, even though it already is morning. "Get some sleep," he calls out before retreating back inside, just as the snow begins to fall some more and he thinks he might die of happiness.

The Imperial City was just as beautiful as it had been before, majestic trees shading him from the ferocious sun above, perfect paved roads glimmering under his feet. Last time he was here, all he received were dirty looks. Now that he was clean and fed, he could appreciate the welcoming smiles thrown in his direction, traveling through the big oak doors and tall stone towers.

He strolled in between districts, getting directions from one of the guards. Polished statues stood proudly in the city and silk red banners hanging from homes swayed in the gentle breeze, the journey to Luther Broad's peaceful and worth every second.

It wasn't too hard to recognize Baurus sitting at the bar, only one other customer in the room, but it was still surprising to see the Redguard without his armor. He hesitantly walked over, feeling strange in the new pair of clothes he had received before leaving the temple, and tapped the man on his shoulder.

If he recognized the Breton he didn't show it, raising an eyebrow. It was only when the bartender turned away and the person in the corner focused on his drink that he spoke.

"Sit down," he whispered, words emitting from the corner of his mouth. "Don't say anything. Just do what I say."

The Breton nodded discreetly, taking the seat next to him at the bar. He figured he should probably buy a drink but he didn't exactly have any money, so he just sat and stared glumly at the countertop while the bartender scowled at him from the other end of the room.

"Listen," Baurus eventually said, and he did. "I'm going to get up in a minute and walk out of here. That guy in the corner behind me will follow me. You follow him."

He nodded again, even though the other wasn't facing in his direction. "I'm ready when you are."

"Good." Baurus sounded impressed, like he was expecting some sort of objection. "Remember, what for him to follow me. I want to see what he'll do." He rose from the chair, heading towards the side and into what he presumed to be the basement. And, sure enough, the man stood up and followed.

The Breton peeked at the bartender before going to the side, seeing the man preoccupied with some customers. He opened the basement door as quietly as he could, closing it in the same manner, and peeking past the corner to where Baurus' stalker was.

He stopped at the base of the stairs, holding up a hand, and the Breton watched in wonder as the hilt of a steel longsword shimmered into existence between his fingers. Armor came along with the gust of Magicka, black with threads of red, when Baurus appeared in his line of vision with his katana.

They sparred for a short moment until the Breton came back to his senses, crouching low behind the assassin and unsheathing a shiny new elven dagger. He remembered when one of the female Blades had given it to him with kind eyes and soft words, just as he dug the sharp blade into the enemy's back.

The man crumbled, conjured armor fading away, and Baurus' voice was the first thing to greet him.

"Search his body," he ordered, going into the hall. "I'll go and check to see if any of his friends are nearby." The Redguard went back to the inn floor, door closing shut. He shrugged to himself, kneeling on the ground and reluctantly searching the deceased man's body.

He found some gold but couldn't bring himself to take it, instead going for the large book concealed in his coat. Its cover was velvet with fancy golden script, but the most he could read was town names at the moment so he didn't bother. Baurus came back only after a few seconds, this time wearing the first smile he had seen all day.

"Good work," he congratulated, spotting the book in his hands. "I am glad to see you, by the way. You just caught me at a bad time."

He'll say. The Breton didn't really know what to feel about cornering some guy in a basement and backstabbing him, but he figured he'd get over it. Especially since it was an assassin he had killed, not a defenseless civilian.

Yeah, he would get over it. "What have you learned?" He questioned, accepting the Blade's hand. He sheathed his dagger as soon as he was standing, deciding to deal with the blood later.

"The assassins that killed the Emperor were part of a daedric cult known as the Mythic Dawn," he said, but the Breton kind of figured that much as far as the "daedric" part went. It was strange, how he couldn't read anymore than a words, and yet could recognize a daedric sword when he came across it. Maybe it was because of his short time in Oblivion.

Okay, he didn't need to think about that anymore. "Apparently, they worship the Daedra Lord, Mehrunes Dagon." He waited, the name ringing a bell in the back of his mind, though he couldn't figure out why. "I've been tracking their agents in the Imperial City," the Redguard continued. "I guess they've noticed."

Now it was his turn. "The enemy has the Amulet," he blurted out.

"What?" The effect was immediate, and he winced. "They took it from Jauffre?"

He sighed. "Not exactly." He didn't elaborate on it, though, and Baurus didn't force him to, so he continued. "On the bright side, I also found Uriel's heir. His name is Martin Septim."

The frown turned into a beaming grin, the joy almost infectious. "Thank Talos he lives!" Baurus exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loud, but he didn't have the heart to mention it. "Martin Septim, you say?" The Breton made a noise of confirmation in his throat, but he didn't think Baurus was really paying attention. "We will restore him to the throne! It is the sworn duty to all the Blades, and with him, there is still hope."

He agreed, not really understanding how that worked, but it didn't seem like the best moment to ask. "What's our next move?"

"There's a scholar at the Arcane University," Baurus explained, meeting his eye. "Tar-Meena's her name. Supposed to be an expert on daedric cults." He gestured to the book in his hands, thinking. "Why don't you take that book to her, see what she makes of it. I'll keep running down leads at the Mythic Dawn network."

"Sure," he smiled, and Baurus grinned back.

"If you learn anything, you can find me at Luther Broad's. May Talos guide you." He didn't know who Talos was but he shot the same farewell back, letting Baurus lead them back out the basement.

He eventually found her in the Arcane University, sitting down at one of the two benches in the room with a large book in her hands. He approached her quietly, tapping her on the shoulder, and she gestured for him to take a seat beside her.

"Ah," she said, voice gravely but kind. "You must be the one I got the message about. How can I help you?"

"Um," he said, holding the velvet book to his chest. "What do you know about the Mythic Dawn?"

She seemed shocked, eyes widening. "You know of them?" She asked, not waiting for an answer. "They are one of the most secretive of all the daedric cults. Not much is known about them." He let her talk, relaxing in his seat just slightly. "They follow the teachings of Mankar Camoran, whom they call the Master. A shadowy figure in his own right."

Her red irises landed on the book in his hands, seemingly just noticing it. "Ah, yes. 'Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes'. Wonderful! You have a scholarly interest in daedric cults, then?"

He sent her an apologetic smile. "Actually, I need to find the Mythic Dawn," he admitted.

She frowned slightly, but otherwise masked her disappointment. "Find them, eh?" She sighed, multicolored scales shining brilliantly under the dim lights of the room. "I won't poke my nose any further, official business and all that. I'm used to working with the Blades, don't worry. Say no more."

He looked at her to continue, and she did. "In any case, finding them won't be easy. I've studied Mankar Camoran's writings a bit myself, at least those I could find. It is clear from the text that Mankar Camoran's texts come in four volumes, but I've only ever seen the first two books. I believe that his writings contain hidden clues to the location of the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine to Mehrunes Dagon."

Tar-Meena turned her head to the side, and the yellow spikes embedded along her temples sparkled beautifully. "Those who unlock this hidden path have proven themselves worthy to join the ranks of the Mythic Dawn cult. Finding the shrine is the first test. If you want to find them, you'll need all four volumes of the Commentaries."

"Where can I find these books?"

"Here," she said, handing him the book she had been reading previously. "You can have the library's copy of the second volume." He took it, letting it rest in his lap. "As I've said, I've never seen the third or fourth volumes." She did, however, write down the name of a bookstore in the Market district, handing him the slip of paper, and he took it without thinking.

"Thanks," he told the Argonian, standing up. She grinned at him, inhuman teeth showing.

"It was so nice chatting with you," she told him, making her way over to one of the bookshelves. "Be sure to let me know how your hunt for the Mythic Dawn turns out."

He smiled at her back, holding the now two books to his chest, and started heading back to Luther Broad's to see if Baurus would pay for a room tonight.

Chapter Text

"I need volumes three and four." Phintias looked at him, eyebrows furrowed at the interruption, and he got the feeling he wasn't getting any favors.

"I happen to have volume three on hand," Phintias started, words slow and calculated. "But I am afraid it is a special order. Already paid for by another customer. Sorry."

The Breton narrowed his eyes. "How much is he paying for it?" He questioned, starting to search for the small sack of money in his bag. "I bet I can top it."

Now those eyebrows were raised, and he just looked kind of amused. "I'm afraid that I can't tell you that. Customer discretion, and all."

He finally pulled the sack out, hearing the coins clink against each other. He knew Phintias could hear it, too, and was glad that Baurus had refused to leave him without any septims.

"Well," he compensated, setting the bag on the counter. "Do you think you could tell me who's buying volume three, at the very least?" When Phintias took too long to consider, he stressed the point. "I'll give you money! Just for a name. Don't you like money?"

The merchant had a snarky remark on the tip of his tongue, he was sure, but he took the whole bag nonetheless. The Breton wanted to object to that but it had already disappeared behind the counter, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to get it back either way.

Phintias finally faced him. "Again, I'm sorry I couldn't help you," he said, looking almost mournful. "Gwinas would be terribly disappointed if it was gone when he came to pick it up."

His attention spiked at the information. "Is this Gwinas coming to pick it up today, by any chance?"

Phintias just gave him an all-knowing look, gesturing to one of the seats in the back. He sighed, thanking him, and sat down in the corner.

He didn't know how long he had waited when Gwinas finally came, an elf in silky red robes and a generally snobbish expression. He watched the two talk for a moment, the precious velvet book being exchanged between them, and forced himself to wait until Gwinas had left.

Giving a pointed look at the store owner as he stood, he followed the elf outside. Not knowing exactly what to do at this point, he approached Gwinas, planting a smile on his face.

"Hello," he greeted, and the elf stopped to look at him. "Could I, um, have that book you're carrying?"

His features immediately morphed into an angry expression, the elf bristling as the request. "Have you been following me?" He demanded, not giving him the time to answer. "Leave me alone! That book is mine!"

He winced, the high-pitched voice murder to his ears. "Tell me about the Mythic Dawn cult," he decided, taking a different approach.

Gwinas seemed shocked at that. "The Mythic Dawn cult? Are you-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about! I don't know anything about any cult."

He scowled. "Don't play stupid," he said, and the act dropped.

"Very well," Gwinas relented. "I can see you are familiar with Mankar Camoran's Commentaries.'" He waited for the elf to continue, which he did. "I know that daedric cults are not quite the thing socially, but that's just foolish prejudice and superstition. For the adventurous, open-minded thinker, daedric worship holds many rewards."

His fists clenched at the other's ignorance. "They killed the Emperor, you fool!" Several people looked their way but didn't comment, the elf's olive skin flushing pale at his words.

"What?" He spluttered, eyes twitching, and it probably would have been humorous were he in a better mood. "The Mythic Dawn were the ones-"

"Yes," he grit out, foot tapping impatiently.

"You have to believe me," he begged. "I truly had no idea. I mean, I knew they were a daedric cult. Mankar Camoran's views on Mehrunes Dagon are fascinating, revolutionary even- but to murder the Emperor? Mara preserve us!"

He needed to cut this short before some of the guards decided to eavesdrop. "Listen," he told Gwinas, who was starting to hyperventilate, aiming to calm him down. "Could I just have the book?"

"Yes, of course!" He exclaimed, all but shoving the volume in his face. He took it gingerly, tucking it under his arm as Gwinas kept speaking. "I don't want anyone to think I had anything to do with their insane plot."

He smiled then, going for a reassuring expression and testing how much he could push his luck. "I need the fourth book as well."

"You can only get volume four directly from a member of the Mythic Dawn," he informed the Breton, appearing regretful. "I had set up a meeting with the Sponsor, as he called himself."

He pulled out a slip of paper from one of the inside flaps of his elegant robe, handing it over. "Here, take this note they gave me," he explained. "It tells you where to go. I don't want anything else to do with the Mythic Dawn."

He unfolded the paper gently, only to be greeted by more words he couldn't read. The Breton tucked it into his pocket, looking up to say his thanks to the elf, but Gwinas had already been lost to the crowd.

He found Baurus leaning against some crates directly outside Luther Broad's, skillfully observing the area. The Blade sent him a wide smile as he approached, speaking first.

"You're not easy to get a hold of," he teased, coming closer. "What have you learned?"

"Um," he started, pulling out the note. "Why don't you take this?" He held it up to the Reguard, watching as his eyes scanned the paper swiftly.

"This just might be the break we were looking for," he told the other, irises bright from the afternoon sun. "Good work."

He nodded, not exactly on the same page, watching as a flame sparked between Baurus' fingers and caught on the paper. "We need to find the fourth book, then," he said, letting the ashy remains of the letter fall to the ground. "If Tar-Meena is right, we can use these books to locate the Mythic Dawn's hidden shrine."

He started walking down the road, calling behind his shoulder. "Let's go!" He ordered, and the Breton scrambled after him. In a quieter tone, Baurus added, "I know that part of the sewers well. Just follow me."

He frowned slightly but didn't comment, watching for where they were going. The Blade led him across the street and through a small alley, pausing at a concealed sewer grate. Baurus opened up the top and slipped down easily, helping the Breton down and closing the hatch back up.

The inside was dark and cold, sending a shiver down his spine. It was built like the sewers underneath the Imperial Prison, sharing the same scent, and he had to resist the sudden need to choke on the rotten air.

He had to grab the wall for support to descend the stairs, eyes still adjusting to the change of atmosphere. Baurus lit a flame in his hands, providing some light, and the Breton pulled some wood off of one of the broken crates in the corner to fashion as a torch.

It ignited brilliantly, flooding the space with a warm orange glow. He held the torch a small ways behind Baurus, letting the other lead them through the compacted halls. They came across a couple of mudcrabs guarding the next room, the Blade killing them swiftly and heading on through the dungeon.

It continued like this for a little while, the only serious enemies being a few goblins, and the Breton was sure to grab one of their steel bows to replace his own rusty iron one. Baurus didn't seem to be tiring and he had only needed to step in and help a few times, his pockets gradually filling with gold found in miscellaneous chests along the way.

They finally stopped, journey ending outside a large iron door placed near a set of stairs. Baurus turned to him, voice low.

"Alright," he said, seemingly bracing himself for something. "The room with the table is just through this door. I always wondered who put it there."

He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes, assuming this is where the Sponsor had set up the meeting. "I happen to know that if you go up the stairs there, you can get a vantage point on the meeting room."

He waited patiently for Baurus to get to his point, listening for something yet unsaid. "I think I'd better be the one to handle the meeting," he admitted. "You'll be my back-up. Keep watch from above in case of trouble."

"Are you sure?" He asked, squinting as the torch light flickered measly, flame getting lost in dead wood. He had the feeling that Baurus wore a somewhat determined expression.

"Yes, it should be me," he answered, tone solemn. "I have a blood debt to repay those Mythic Dawn assassins. Besides, I've trained for this kind of thing my whole life."

He knew the feeling of having an obligation; the reason he was even here was because the Amulet of Kings had been stolen on his account. "Alright," the Breton agreed. "I'll cover you."

"Good," was the reply, and he sounded relieved. "Remember, we must not leave here without the book. It's our best chance of finding the Amulet."

"I'm ready when you are." Baurus took a deep breath.

"Listen. I may not survive this. But if I don't, you must. You must recover the book and find the Amulet of Kings."

He was a little surprised at the serious tone to Baurus' voice, of the trust. He wanted to tell the other about how he messed up, he really did, but it wasn't the time nor place.

He sighed. "I understand," he told the other, a little warmness creeping into his words. "We'll do this together."

"I'm glad to have you at my side," Baurus said, and the sentence made his heart skip a beat. "Okay. Let's go."

Baurus gave him a pat on the back as he headed out the door, the Breton in turn sending him a grin and climbing up the stairs. He opened the door as quietly as possible, stepping cautiously onto the walkway and kneeling in the corner. It was only Baurus at the small table, face illuminated by the single candle, and he sent the Blade a wave when he was sure he was in his line of vision. He received a nod in return, Baurus taking a seat on a hard wooden chair.

The Breton pulled the bow out of his bag as they waited, lining up the assortment of arrows he had collected in his brief travels. He stared at the bow with a sort of reserved wonder- he knew enough about the object to know how to hold it and how to shoot, but he was yet to grasp the aiming bit.

He only shrugged, grasping it in his hands and notching an arrow. The Breton waited in his position, heat racing in his chest, and he started to wish that Martin hadn't demanded that he leave his daedric greatsword at the temple. He had decided long ago that there was something reassuring about the weapon, even if it burned his hands every time he tried to wield it, and he just felt oddly disconnected without it.

The screeching of a rusty gate sounded against the silence, eyes darting to the scene below. A tall robed figure made his way to where Baurus was sitting, voice too low for him to hear. Only the Sponsor spoke, Baurus keeping his mouth firmly closed, and he faintly wondered what that note had said in the first place.

His thoughts broke as he let out a scream, a spike of ice becoming impaled into his side, the force of it knocking him over the walkway. It was made of pure Magicka, disappearing in a few seconds along with the pain, but the sudden attack left him blinking in a daze on the ground. He distinctly saw Baurus with his katana, swiping at the Sponsor with practiced ease, and heard the other two come into the room through the other passage.

The Breton forced himself to stand, miraculously only sporting an aching back, and found himself being confronted by an angry assassin. Thinking quickly, having left his arrows above in the hasty departure, he whacked the approaching enemy with the bow in his hands. The killer stumbled backwards in surprise, and he took the moment to whip out his dagger and stab the figure in the heart. He held back disgust as it crumbled to the floor, turning towards Baurus, who had finished the second intruder and was currently in battle with the Sponsor.

He crouched behind the assassin, trying to blend into the darkness. He didn't know if it actually worked, but he was able to get close enough to deliver the final blow. The elven blade dug into soft flesh and rough fabric, he and Baurus the only ones standing.

"There's three more that won't be returning to their master," Baurus snickered, and the Breton agreed, leaning down to search the Sponsor. There was a glowing ring on his corpse that intrigued him but he couldn't muster the courage to take it, only pulling out the last book from his robe and a strange looking key.

He stood, facing Baurus with a silly grin on his face, seeing the Blade wear the same expression. "We did it!" He exclaimed, any lingering injuries gone from his mind, being replaced by excitement.

They shared a laugh in the empty room, littered with the dead bodies of evil beings, and it was probably the first sound of merriment to echo in the halls for ages.

"The holy book of the Mythic Dawn," Tar-Meena said, and she sounded in absolute awe. "Supposedly written by Mehrunes Dagon himself."

"How can I find the Mythic Dawn shrine?"

She took the book gingerly from his fingers, and he let her, curious. "I understand that you are not skilled in literature," she admitted, and he had to fight down the embarrassment. "I could study this volume, see if I can find any hidden clues that might reveal the shrine's location."

He beamed at her, going through his bag and collecting the rest of the books. She took them all with ease, giving him a farewell before leaving to her study.

It was a long bath and several days later when they spoke again, the Argonian sending someone to fetch him. Tar-Meena looked a little worse for wear, probably not having slept in the past days, but he couldn't say he fared much better. There had been stories going through the city of more gates to Oblivion turning up, and he had been loosing hours over the thought.

She sent him a large smile when their eyes met, and it did some to calm his nerves. "I've been studying these volumes tremendously," she told him, a certain glint in her red irises he couldn't place. "Now, if you look at the first letter in each paragraph, they spell out a hidden message. I've only recently figured out what it says, but I haven't had much time to decipher its meaning."

"That's fine," he reassured, thrilled at the prospect of making progress. "What's the message?"

She wrote as she spoke, and it was a fruitless gesture, but thoughtful all the same. "Green Emperor Way Where Tower Touches Midday Sun," she declared, handing him the paper. He took it in his hands, quizzical.

"Are you familiar with Green Emperor Way?" He nodded, remembering the lush gardens and ancient gravestones surrounding a pristine tower. "Perhaps something is revealed there at noon?"

He sighed through his nose at the mystery, but smiled nonetheless. "Thank you for all your help," he told her, considering. "Listen, I don't really have any use for the books anymore. Why don't you keep them?"

She stiffened. "Are you sure?" Tar-Meena questioned, seeming reluctant and yet joyous and the idea.

He stood up from the bench, shaking her hand. "I'm sure. It's been an honor, Tar-Meena."

She stood up, too, reciprocating the gesture. "And with you." Realizing something, she fixed him with an apologetic gaze. "I'm sorry, I never learned your name."

The smile turned a little sad on his face. "Yeah, neither did I," he told her, heading out the door with the hopes of fixing his mistakes.

Chapter Text

The cavern was dark, smelling foul, cold atmosphere chilling his bones. He looked around nervously, wearing his nice and shiny Kvatch armor, sharpened elven dagger at his hip.

He saw the first person right near the entrance, standing guard at a sturdy wooden door. The Breton readied to sneak up on the robed man like he had been practicing for weeks, only to realize he had already been spotted. At least, if the narrowed set of eyes watching his every move was anything to go by.

So much for the practice.

The Breton walked up slowly, seeing that he wasn't being attacked on sight. He was a little lost to be honest, and still surprised that he was even able to find the shrine without help. He knew that the best way to go through this was to go undercover, but the chance of him passing for an assassin seemed pretty bleak. It was shocking he made it this far, actually.

The man spoke first, heavy velvet hood obscuring his face, voice deep. "Dawn is breaking," he said, and the Breton didn't really know what to do with that.

"Greet the new day," he tried, hands ready to pull out his dagger. When the only reply he received was a warm smile he calmed, making a mental note to stop by and thank Tar-Meena for all the help. Especially if he wouldn't have to be fighting his way through this place like he anticipated.

"Welcome, brother," the man said, the same glimpse of a smile peeking out through his robe. "The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands."

Nearly all of that went over his head. Was it necessary to talk in riddles? Maybe this was how the Mythic Dawn spoke on regular basis. Well, that was nice.

"You may pass into the shrine," he continued, luckily oblivious to the Breton's silent musings. "Brother Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon." Gloved fingers pulled out a polished key from within the robe, and the man moved to unlock the door.

"Do not tarry," he warned, watching as the Breton only stared at the passage. "The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near."

He nodded, moving through the tunnel, trying not to be alarmed when the door closed behind him. Someone was waiting for him in front of another dirty banner, baring the same insignia as the others; a sun just rising from the horizon, portrayed in threaded crimson and pale yellow.

"I am Brother Harrow, warden of the Shrine of Dagon," he introduced. The candles near the banner lit up the small area, bringing a dangerous glint to his Dunmeri eyes. Locks of long black hair rested on Harrow's shoulders, unbound by the usual hood, and the Breton found himself having to raise his head so his eyes would meet the other's.

"Hello," he said, testing his luck. "I've come to serve Lord Dagon." Harrow nodded in acknowledgment, letting the smallest upturn of lips grace his features.

"By following the path of Dawn," he began, keeping a cool and even tone. "You have earned a place amongst the Chosen. You have arrived at an opportune time. You may have the honor to be initiated into the Order by the Master himself."

He tried to express his surprise, but he felt something more akin to fear flow through his veins, icy like poison, and he couldn't really figure out why.

"As a member of the Mythic Dawn," Harrow continued, observing him closely. "Everything you need will be provided for you by the Master's bounty. Give me your possessions, and put on this initiate's robe."

His eyes widened at the request. "Uh, no. I don't think so." Harrow raised his eyebrows, features developing a ghost of a scowl.

"What?" He asked, voice hard. "I must warn you, no one leaves this place who does not bind himself to the service of Lord Dagon." He seemed to force his face to take up a smile, calculating and threatening even so. "But I'm sure you will reconsider. You have proved yourself worthy and dedicated to have come this far."

The Breton watched warily as he held out the other set of robes, collar golden and size too large. "I ask you one last time; give me your possessions. The Master requires it of all the initiates."

He sighs, finally, before taking the enchanted bag from his shoulders. They traded, the material of the robe feeling rough against his hands. Harrow turned so that he could undress unseen, and he managed to slip his elven dagger in one of the robe's folds.

"Very good," he finally said, Harrow holding his Kvatch armor in his arms, and the Breton automatically felt a million times more vulnerable. "Follow me. I will take you to the shrine."

They left through the door ahead, closer to the Amulet of Kings with each step.

He descended the row of stone stairs, floor cold under his bare feet. A voice was speaking in the main chamber room, merely a silhouette in the shadows of flames, words escaping the farthest reaches of his hearing.

There was a small gathering of the Mythic Dawn at the base of the chamber, a beam of pure light set right on the talking figure of Mankar Camoran. The Breton couldn't make out his face from below, only seeing the stainless blue robe that he wore, but his speech made itself apparent as they drew closer.

"Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters," he was saying, voice haughty and proud. "Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"

"Praise be!" They all chanted, but he stayed silent, waiting.

"Hear now the words of Lord Dagon," Camoran declared once the echoes had resided, and his followers tensed. "'When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward; to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest; the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pay for pardon.'"

"So sayeth Lord Dagon," they chanted, uneven yet strong. "Praise be."

"Your reward, Brothers and Sisters! The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of Dawn!" He desperately watched as Camoran backed off from the pedestal, itching to march up in his oversized robes and take what he came for. However, he liked to believe that he wasn't an idiot, and he could easily see how that situation would not play out in his favor.

The sweetest kind of shimmering took up the silence, a ray of gold humming into existence. Through this light, he caught a glimpse of the goal of his endeavors, hanging proud and ruby red from Mankar Camoran's neck- just as he disappeared into the portal of gold and into Paradise.

"Advance, initiate," she called from the top of the steps. He followed, rather reluctantly, meeting her olive skin and mischievous eyes.

Everyone was watching him now, their attention drawn to a peak. He nearly tripped on his own clothes on the way up, hands invisible from inside the long sleeves, and his primary thought for a few moments concerned the too large size of everything he seemed to wear.

The elf looked at him calmly, aiming the warmest of smiles to their intruder, just as he noticed the naked Argonian chained under a likeliness of Mehrunes Dagon. It wasn't exactly the most welcoming sights to behold, that was for sure, as his stomach churned uncomfortably.

"You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," she said, not realizing how wrong she was. "This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies."

He glanced again at the prisoner, knocked unconscious for all to see. "Take up the dagger," she continued. "Offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."

"I will slay the sacrifice," he lied, and she only grinned wider, urging him on.

The Breton made his way to the pedestal behind her, and she let him pass, shoulders brushing briefly. The knife was there, sure enough, crafted from flawless silver and engraved with beautiful designs, but he couldn't bring himself to notice it. No; his eyes were drawn to the object beside it, perched ever so innocently on the stone table.

It was a book, dirty and torn at, crumbling at its own existence. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he did anyway, the tip of his forefinger making contact with the dusty cover. Everything just sort of blurred into the background, hands trembling as they shakily opened the first page, and he couldn't bring himself to question why he cared.

There were symbols, symbols that should've meant nothing, symbols that bent at his will to form words he shouldn't have been able to read. They were screaming in his head, singing in his ears, and he recognized the words of Dagon on the very first page, spoken by Camoran just moments ago. But there was more, so much more- how could the Master have not seen it?

"Of bold Oblivion fire who finds you, for Lord Dagon forever reborn in blood and fire from the waters of Oblivion." He was murmuring now, just under his breath, but he couldn't help it. It was so beautiful, beautiful like the ash the falls on the mountains of the Deadlands, beautiful like the scent of blood in the air, beautiful like the crimson grass that blooms under a sky of fire-

"Initiate," she calls him, voice like the rudest awakening that he could have ever felt. He jolts, book closing in the action, turning around to face the Altmer who was suddenly too close.

"That item is for our Master's hands only," she admonishes, glaring under her hood. But he doesn't really care, not truly. Her approval only seems even more invalid when there's a slit cut across her throat, body falling to the ground.

He doesn't know how fast he's running after that or even where he's going- he only knows that the way he came in is blocked, and how the book folds perfectly into his arms. The falling statue diverted a lot of attention, enough for him to escape the chamber room, but he feels bad that there isn't sufficient time to morn the death of an innocent.

Maybe later. When the book is safe... when he is safe. Priorities.

He travels through the tunnels, looking for someplace to hide. The Breton finds security in the first available spot, sliding under one of the beds crammed into a branching living room. He holds his breath as the Mythic Dawn catch up, bending his body to fit under the furniture and for once proud of his sickly physique.

It's only about two or three that actually enter, the agents making up the shrine splitting in groups, and he starts to realize just how much trouble he has gotten himself into. Only one sticks around, abandoning the others to search, and he knows he only has a little while until he's found out.

When the Breton comes out from the bed to be greeted to a pleasant surprise, Harrow being the only other occupant in the room. He grabs his elven dagger and stabs blindly in the man's back, watching as the assassin falls. Without wasting time he reclaims his bag and armor, tucked safely into Harrow's clothes, swinging it all over his shoulders.

The Breton searches the room for anything else that may prove useful, finding a few potion bottles scattered around the desks. He downs one instantly to reclaim some energy, moving to put the others in his bag, only to find out he has gone invisible.

"Well," the Breton murmurs, impressed. "This could be fun." He continues on through the dimly lit tunnels, trying to find his escape.

Harsh winds whistle through the snowcapped mountains, hooves pounding on the trail winding up to Cloud Ruler Temple. He's infinitely glad that he took one of the horses for the journey so long ago; the Breton doesn't think he would have been able to escape if he hadn't. Well, at least he knows that the invisibility potions don't last forever.

The chestnut steed makes it to the top, coming to a halt just before a pair of stone doors. He recites the practiced knock from before, instantly being greeted by Blades. One of them takes his horse away, directing him to the main hall in the temple.

A warm sensation settles deep in his bones as he makes his way inside, closing the doors gently behind him. The hall is huge, walls made of strong oak and braziers bristling with stoked fires. The Breton's eyes roam across multiple silk banners before settling on Martin, making his way over.

The priest is sitting at one of the tables closer to the fireplace, hands flipping anxiously through a book. The Imperial doesn't take notice of him, even as he sits down, and he clears his throat nervously.

Martin's head snaps up, blue eyes meeting his own, and he breaks out into a smile. "Ah, you're back," he beams, setting the book down. "I told Jauffre not to worry."

"Yeah," he answers, voice hollow, and Martin gives him a small frown.

"I can see you have bad news," he remarks. "You didn't recover the amulet, did you?"

"No," he admits, bringing out his bag. He lays it on the table, shuffling through the contents. Slender fingers finally grasp at the prize, pulling out the tattered novel. "But I found this."

Martin's jaw goes slack. "The Mysterium Xarxes?" His voice is quiet while the Breton just looks down, pondering the name. A series of Commentaries, just for this broken, withering thing? That was kind of pathetic. Which was, of course, why he had stumbled his way through a mob of blood-thirsty assassins for it.

Martin's next words break through his reflections, too loud and angry. "By the Nine!" He shouts, and the Breton can feel the wandering eyes traveling over to the scene. "Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!"

He shrinks back into his torn at Mythic Dawn robe, just a little, reminded of the Imperial sewers and the Blades' heavy words as they readied themselves to kill him. Well, it was refreshing to know he was still the same coward as he was a few weeks ago.

Martin observes him, expression apologetic. "Forgive me," he says, much softer. "You were right to bring it. But you'd better give it to me. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power."

He reaches out calloused hands, then, waiting for the book, and the Breton would be lying if he said he didn't want to refuse. It was as if the Xarxes were screaming at him, urging him to thrust his dagger into Martin's throat, just to keep all their precious knowledge to himself-

The book goes into Martin's hands and out of his, and that's that. Martin seems pleased, giving him a small nod as he tucks the object away, and the Breton tries not to feel crestfallen at the act.

"So," he tries, feeble. "Can the Xarxes lead us to Camoran?"

Martin sighs, considering the question. "I don't know," he eventually decided. "Maybe." He waits for the priest to continue, which he does. "I suspect that the secret of how to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise lies within these pages. But I will need time. Tampering with dark secrets, even just reading them, can be very dangerous," and doesn't he know it? "I'll have to proceed carefully."

"You know you can do this, right?" He asks, aiming to sound convincing. "If anyone can save the world, it's you, really."

"I really appreciate that," he says, tones the sweetest they could possibly be, and the Breton warms up just a little bit more. "Thank you." Martin smiles, just a little, but he thinks that it's enough.

Chapter Text

He stood alone in the woods, snow crunching under his boots. The leaves rustled from the gentle breeze, creating the only sound in the serene atmosphere. He glanced overhead, watching as the glimmering stars began to fade away into the slowly coming dawn.

The Breton sighed through his nose, sliding down against the rock and taking a seat. The stone at his back hummed with a kind of power he couldn't comprehend, carved with glowing blue symbols that he couldn't read, and he sighed again.

"You know," he muttered. "If they're any agents or anything out there, feel free join me." He received no answer as anticipated, only silence.

The Breton slid even further down, laying on the snow like an armored starfish. It was probably a strange sight, and extremely stupid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He pulled his hands up to his face, wiggling his fingers. They were thin and pale, nails too long, and it was kind of disgusting. Narrowing his eyes, the Breton tried to summon a ball of fire, not too surprised when all he received for his troubles were a few half-hearted sparks.

He let his arms fall to his sides, squinting up at the sky. His mouth moved in an attempt to whistle, also failing horribly, and his features darkened into a scowl.

The Breton simply didn't understand the importance of this mission. So what if there were spies? It's not like they could eavesdrop on all of the Blades' top-secret conversations from the bottom of this mountain. Really, he could barely see the Temple as it were! And why him, if this was so important? Jauffre has seen him, right? He was weak.

Well, except for that Oblivion thing. That was kind of epic. But still.

What was he still doing here, though? Was it an obligation to Jauffre? The man had done an awful lot for him; taking the Breton under his wing, writing a pardon on his behalf for whatever, non-documented crimes he had committed. Jauffre was the reason he could wander around the Imperial City freely, and probably why he was still alive.

Still, that didn't feel like it. After all, this work was rough, and though he technically wasn't considered a Blade, he was nonetheless sent out for this mission. He was still being included in the defense against the Oblivion Crisis. He was still a part of all this, and this was downright terrifying. And it wasn't for the free food.

Maybe it was because he had nothing to loose. But he also didn't have anything to gain...

"Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire."

Oh, that was it. Guilt. Guilt for the Amulet of Kings, and damn Uriel Septim and his dying wishes.

Of course.

He straightened up at the smallest noise, vision focusing a little ways ahead. The Breton stood quickly, hands on his blade. He stepped forward as quietly as possible, squinting into the darkness, and yelped as a shape came out.

The bunny looked up at him with gorgeous blue eyes that reminded him of Martin, scuttling away. He breathed in relief, shoulders sagging, and a frown adorned his lips. It quickly turned into a grimace as the arrow struck his shoulder, opening old scars and ripping through his Kvatch cuirass.

The Breton turned in shock, barely managing to dodge the next arrow. He pulled out his dagger, running towards the Mythic Dawn agent.

The agent aimed again, this time for his stomach, and he swiftly ducked behind the glowing stone. Wincing in pain, he gripped the arrow shaft, thanking the Nine it wasn't too deep. He pulled the offending object out of his skin, burying the whimper down his throat, before running at the enemy once more.

The agent had ditched the bow and instead clutched a sword in their hands, the weapon emitting Magicks in the way he knew summoned items did. It swung at him and he stumbled back, nearly tripping on the cluster of rocks behind. Regaining his balance, he dodged another blow, and leaped at the enemy.

They both crashed down on the ground, the summoned weapon disappearing as soon as it left its owners hands. He took the moment of surprise to lodge his knife in the other's stomach, not pulling it out until the enemy had gone still.

He got up, sheathing his weapon. A hand went out to prod at his shoulder, flinching at the sting. Keeping a watchful look out, he began the trek back to Cloud Ruler Temple.

It was a couple bandages, one healing potion and some uncalled for rudeness later that he found himself in Bruma. The town itself was simply amazing, with cozy homes and snow-topped roofs, complete with an extravagant chapel for a Divine he didn't recognize. It was beautiful in all the ways that the Imperial City wasn't, sloppy and small and cold yet perfect on its own.

He eyed Jearl's house, holding its key in his palm. He didn't know how he felt about killing someone and breaking into their home, but it wasn't a very good emotion. Wasn't the fact that she was an assassin supposed to serve as a consolation? And he had gotten permission from the Bruma guard captain...

Nope, still felt horrible.

Mentally scolding himself, he shoved the key through the entrance, wrestling with the rusty lock for a second before prying it open. The door slammed shut behind him involuntarily, causing him to flinch as he was left alone in the darkness.

No, not alone. What was that? "Hello?" He walked forward a few feet, looking around. "Anyone here?"

The response came immediately after, a shard of ice whizzing by his head. He nearly screamed, insanely grateful that his attacker was a terrible shot, looking fruitlessly for the enemy. The offender came barreling out of the shadows, wielding a wicked-looking longsword and taking a swing at him.

The Breton actually did scream this time, toppling over onto the floor. He crawled backwards, rolling under the kitchen table in the middle of the room. The furniture was thrown over, steel sword heading for his chest, and he just managed to scramble out of the way.

He pulled out his stained elven dagger, pushing it into the agent's ankle from his position. The gasp that followed was female, and he made another blow in the spot just above the knee.

The woman fell down, weapon rolling out of her hands. He kicked it further away, trying to make the stab to his attacker's neck as quick as possible. When it was done, he collapsed as far away as he could from the corpse, breathing heavily.

Second death today, by his hands. The thought was enough to make him sick, waves of anxiety building up in his chest and threatening to burst. Pushing the feeling away, he cautiously stood, making an effort not to look at the dead assassin.

The Breton began his search for some kind of chest, anything that looked valuable enough to hide the Mythic Dawn's deepest secrets. When nothing of the sort proved to be in the room, he unhappily moved to check the corpse, looking to see if she bore any clue.

He warily searched through all the pockets and folds of the woman's ragged clothes, finding nothing. He started to turn her over, carpet pulling up at the action, and his vision caught onto a square of wood that didn't match the rest of the floor. Dragging the body away, he folded back the corner of the carpet, fully revealing the trap door.

Pulling out the one other key he had found on Jearl's body, he inserted it into the lock, smiling victoriously in spite of himself when it clicked open. It was a fairly easy squeeze, boots touching the barrel right beneath the secret door.

He unceremoniously plopped down onto the precisely laid crates, standing shakily as he took in the dimly lit room. It was small, an extra bed tucked into the corner and a plush carpet covering stones. The only source of light came from a flickering torch, placed next to a large oak table littered with books and across an additional door.

The Breton walked over, concentrating all his might in his fingers, and a single flame sparked to life. He quickly moved it to the dying torch before it could go out, and new light was welcomed into the space.

He basked in the small victory for a moment, eventually turning his attention to the table. The books turned out to be additional copies of the Commentaries, all velvet with fancy script, and he made a face. The large scroll placed next to them was new, however, and he shoved it in his pack without a second thought.

After another quick search of the room, finding the door leading out to empty caves he really didn't feel like exploring, the Breton made his way back to the entrance. It was harder getting up then down, climbing onto the large crates and having to reopen the trap door. He finally made it out, leaving the now empty house behind.

"What have you found out about the spies?" The question was terse and anxious, and the Breton got the feeling that Jauffre hadn't been getting too much sleep again.

"Both of them are dead," he offered. Jauffre nodded, approving.

"Good work," he said. "I had a feeling I could count on you for this mission." He looked like he wanted to say more but the Breton knew he wouldn't, instead choosing to pull out the scroll from before.

"Uh, here," he said, giving it to the other. Jauffre gave him a confused expression, so he elaborated. "I found it in a kind of basement in one of the spy's homes. I, um, haven't read it yet."

Jauffre nodded again, sending a distracted farewell as he went his way. The Breton just kind of watched his retreating figure, shoulders slumped. He was thinking about heading to outside for some more training with Baurus when Martin waved him over, urgency written on his features.

The Breton walked to Martin's table, taking his seat across from the heir. Those blue eyes were sparkling with a weird mixture of excitement and horror, and he felt his curiosity grow. He leaned in closer almost subconsciously, the Breton copying the movement.

"I've deciphered part of the ritual needed to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise," he began, voice barely above a whisper. "The Xarxes mentioned four items needed for the ritual, but so far I have only deciphered one of them: the 'blood of a Daedra Lord'. In fact, daedric artifacts are known to be formed from the essence of a Daedric Lord, from where they derive their great power."

He held up a hand, trying to make sense of the wave of new information. "Okay," he started out, warily. "You need a what? Daedric artifact?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "And it would be preferred if you were the one to get it."

He tilted his head. "Uh, me?" Martin made a consenting noise.

"If you could. I mean," he paused. "Well, I trust you to be able to do it. It's okay if you refuse, as you aren't inclined to help-"

"I'll do it." He didn't know what spurred him on to say that, but he also wasn't about to take it back, especially when Martin smiled a grin so full of happiness at his answer.

"Now," he spoke. "I understand if you aren't too familiar with the subject. I do have a book that can help." He gestured to the object beside them, looking pristine and well-kept on the table.

The Breton felt his hope go spiraling into his stomach. "Maybe you could just tell me where to find an artifact?" Martin considered for a moment, finally sighing deeply.

"You have your map?" The Breton nodded, pulling out the torn piece of paper. He was actually mildly surprised he still had it, all in one piece.

Martin took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it open. He observed it for a moment, thinking, before taking a nearby quill and marking down something on the map. He handed it back reluctantly, and something in his expression told the Breton not to push.

"Thanks," he spoke, taking the paper. He stood, saying bye to Martin, and headed to the west wing for some rest before his newest mission.

The next time he woke up was deep into night, but as good of a time as any. He had something quick to eat before taking off on one of the stable horses, coat a deep chocolate that looked black in the dark.

He pulled back on the reins once they were at the bottom of the mountain, taking out the torch he had scrambled together from one of the trees nearby. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, bringing it to his map.

It was near one of the towns that he didn't know how to read or pronounce; that one that was next to Kvatch? Shrugging, he set his horse in the right direction, leading them by the light of his fire.

The journey took around a day, and it would have been much longer if Martin hadn't made some potions for his horse. Just one taste of the mystery substance and his steed seemed to become incredibly fast, racing past mountains and snow as they became trees and grassy fields.

By the time they had reached the shrine, the horizon was hazy with the beginnings of dawn. He was only awake because of multiple potions, his horse shaking as it stood. He dismounted quickly, deciding to hike for the remainder of the journey.

The statue was nestled by large pine trees and boulders, pedestal standing on hard-packed mud and clumps of weeds. It was much too huge for him to take in, chiseled features worn with age. The Breton instead focused on the small gathering of followers at the base of the statue, stumbling around and speaking loudly with words slurred.

He was approached by the one in robes, an elf with a lazy smile. His footsteps were imprecise and actions slow, breath smelling of brandy when he spoke.

"Have you come to revel in the glory that is the shrine of Sanguine?" He questioned, and the Breton mentally cheered upon finding out he was in the right place. Nodding quickly, he managed an answer.

"Of course," he replied. "What can you tell me about this place?"

The elf fixed him with a wavering look, thinking so hard that it looked like he was in pain. It faded into another carefree grin, eyes fogged with ecstasy. "It is a place of celebration for us," he explained. "We dance, we make love. Would you speak to Sanguine?"

"Uh, yeah," he got out, reeling from the unnecessary information. How did Martin even know where this place was, anyway? "I will speak to Sanguine."

He seemed content with the answer. "Approach then, and bring Sanguine a gift. Some Cyrodilic brandy is an appropriate gift for your host." The elf wandered off to the other followers, flashing a seemingly inviting look over his shoulder, and the Breton blanched in disgust. Only satisfied when there was enough distance between them, he reached in for the drink that Martin had given him before he had departed, questioning the former priest's knowledge once more.

The Breton slowly ambled up to the shrine, mindful of the daedric longsword strapped to his back and hoping the others were, too. There didn't seemed to be any issue as he placed the brandy at the statue's feet, kneeling down on the dirt with his head bowed.

He didn't know how long he waited for something to happen, potions taking their toll as time caught up. The presence wafted into his head in the most intimate kind of way he could have imagined, taking apart his mind and coiling around his heart. He gasped as it spoke with a voice deep and intoxicating, eyelids snapping closed all on their own.

"Another mortal come to beg Sanguine to add another bit of spice to an otherwise drab existence." He stayed rigid, intimidated by the pure power of the presence, letting it wander into his darkest thoughts and strongest emotions without struggle. "I would have you perform a service for Me."

He didn't think he could speak if he wanted to. It was like the first sip of Skooma, getting you hooked as soon as you let the drink touch your lips. You hated it when you could think again but the temptation was greater, drawing you in and having you give up the fight, just for a little bit more.

He needed that little bit more.

"The Castle Leyawiin is a dull, dreary place. The mistress is an especially somber soul, and tomorrow she will hold another excruciating dinner party." He agreed with every single word the presence told him, knowing it all. Of course, how dare she? Life should be about party, excitement- that was all there was.

He felt the presence spark something deep inside him, leaving his Magicks pumping harder in his blood with knowledge and newfound strength. "I want you to liven it up," Sanguine declared, and he knew he would never refuse. "Use this spell on the Countess and her guests. It should make the party much more interesting. You should probably try to be inconspicuous. Or they might kill you. Oh, and the party is by invitation only. You'll have to find a way in."

It left all so suddenly with a farewell he didn't hear, drawing away from his disgusting mortal body and leaving him shocked on the ground. He blinked vigorously, raising his palm, and he watched as a hearty flame was ignited in his hands. He held it longer than he had ever been able to, watching it grow and shrink on will, freezing over into wisps of frost and disappearing as a flash of lightning.

And all he could do was stare up at the statue of Sanguine, power buzzing in his ears.

-

The ride to Leyawiin was longer, using less of the mystery potion so he still had some for the long ride home. He had to stop by Bravil, the shabbiest little town he could have imagined, whole area smelling foul and Skooma dealers assaulting him at every turn. He was glad it was only for a night, grabbing a blessing from the bronze statue in town in hopes of carrying a little luck for what he was about to do.

He didn't know what to think of Leyawiin when he finally did arrive. It was nowhere near as small and sad as Bravil, but also carried its own drabness. The clouds were thick and grey, air carrying the scent of the sea, the buildings a mix of log cabins and tall towers. Every now and then he would find a sprout of lavender, adding a splash of color to the otherwise dark atmosphere.

He pushed his way through the big oak doors of Castle Leyawiin, checking with one of the guards for the time. Only a little late, the Breton hurried through the majestic halls, keeping his head down.

He went down to the right, seeing the throne empty. A particularly burly looking guard was watching him cautiously, eyes narrowing under his helmet as the Breton came over.

He didn't get a chance to speak before the guard was barraging him with questions. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Uh," he started off brilliantly, suddenly too aware of his dirty cuirass and muddy boots, wishing that he had taken the time some point in his seemingly short life to glance in a mirror. "I'm here for the dinner party."

The guard seemed to be recognizing all of his poor features, too. "You don't look like one of the party guests," he remarked. "I don't remember you being on the list."

"What?" He faked the surprise, but the guard didn't seem impressed. Losing hope, he poured more effort into his words. "I'm a party guest. Why wouldn't I be?"

The other blinked, as if in a daze, and something just seemed to click. "Yes, of course," he agreed. "My apologies. Go right in."

He nodded, trying to keep up the illusion until he had passed. The Magicka seemed to falter a little as he dropped it, puzzled. It definitely was part of Sanguine's strange blessing, whatever the Daedra had done- but wow, he hadn't known that using Magicks like that was so amazing.

Feeling only a little guilty about the deception, he opened the door, closing it softly behind him. The room was basked in a soft golden glow, the same light extended to all the other guests. Delighted murmurs took up the space, creating a comforting background noise, only jarred by the sounds of forks clacking and chairs scraping the floor. It was the first time he had seen a group of truly happy people.

He made his way to the corner of the room, nobody paying him much mind. He took out the scroll he had found on the way to Leyawiin, left in his bag by a certain Daedric Lord, holding it in delicate fingers.

The Breton made sure that he still wasn't spotted, heading over to the side hall. Deciding to get this over with quickly, he hid behind the walls, opening the scroll. The blast of power forced itself from his hands, finding the Countess, and he had to close his eyes as everything erupted into green.

The sight that welcomed him back was the strangest one yet, the group of guests running around the room in nothing but their underclothes. He didn't quite know who to thank for that small miracle as opposed to being completely naked, and he also supposed it was better than instant death, but it wasn't the best thing that could've happened.

He swiftly slid under the bed as the guards came in, he himself missing his Kvatch armor and bag. Whatever blessing Sanguine had given him had passed, as if a way of saying he was on his own now. The Breton frowned, squeezing his skinny frame under the furniture, feeling emptier without his sword.

It seemed like a good idea, seeing as he wouldn't be able to charm his way out of this situation when the guards realized he wasn't on the list- and they would realize. The Countess was absolutely furious, pretty features marred by age and anger. He hid for what seemed like ages, blending in with the tiny crowd when they were told to clear out.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep the laugh from escaping his lips, especially as he rode off on his borrowed horse right under their noses. If this was Sanguine, lowering the snotty people to everyone else's level, he couldn't imagine the Daedra being too bad. Especially if they brightened up what was left of the slowly crumbling world.

The laughter turned quiet, eyes softening with sadness, and the start of a storm came rushing over his head.

Chapter Text

His horse had nearly collapsed in front of the gates, trembling in the pouring rain. The Blades quickly took it to shelter, some of them throwing concerned glances his way, and he was almost appreciative of the worry. Almost.

He leaned heavily on the Sanguine Rose, eventually sliding down the walls protecting the temple. The Breton waved off the guards, tired but unscathed. The staff fell beside him with a loud thud, the rose at its top glowing with power, petals soft and delicate against his skin.

He had traveled three days, or what felt like three days, after running out of Martin's potion. Cyrodiil had chosen to be particularly unhelpful, showering him with storms throughout the journey. It wasn't very fun, and the damn staff he had worked so hard to get did pretty much nothing, so he thought he deserved a little moment to himself.

The Breton eventually stood, stumbling over to the entrance. His inner-thighs burned like the air of Oblivion as a result of riding on horseback for days at a time, making camp only once. He seriously needed to start reevaluating his life choices.

Iron boots pounded unevenly against hard oak floors, doors closing behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief. He immediately made his way to the fireplace at the end of the main hall, settling down in an attempt to warm up.

His armor had been hastily thrown on, not completely adjusted correctly. Of course, he hadn't exactly gotten the hang of putting on armor, sometimes getting help from one of the Blades, but it was worse than usual. Strands of hair were stuck to his forehead, darkened by the rain, and the greatsword at his back seemed colder than usual.

Hearing the sound of someone entering, he turned his head. Martin was there, blue eyes glimmering brightly under locks of brown. The Breton felt a surge of happiness he couldn't quite place, staring up at the priest as he made his way over.

Martin sat down next to him on the floor, straightening out his robe. The other just watched, shivering barely under his Kvatch cuirass.

"It's good you came back," Martin finally said. "We were worried about you." He gazed into the roaring fire, flames lazily eating away at the logs.

"Worried?" He echoed, eyebrows furrowing. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, he continued. "I was just gone for a few days, nothing much."

"It's not that," Martin insisted. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have sent you to that place. Sanguine is a horrible force, bending others to their will, and it was a rash decision to lead you into his deceit."

He was a little taken aback. "What? No, it was fine," he reassured. It wasn't like he had killed anyone or even hurt them, not really. "I got the artifact." He held the object up to the light, offering it to Martin. The priest grimaced, snatching it out of his hands like the Breton was corrupting it.

"Don't touch that!" He snapped, getting to his feet. The other copied the action, a frown covering his face.

"It's not like I had any other choice if I wanted to bring you the thing in the first place," he argued, but Martin's scowl only deepened.

"This was a mistake," he muttered, rubbing his temples, and that was the last straw for the hero. Because he had been out through three days of pain, obeyed the will of evil gods, and even went into a portal to another realm just for Martin Septim- yeah, he was a little grumpy right now, but what was the heir's excuse?

"I'm glad you feel that way!" He shouted. "Sorry for disappointing you all!" His voice rang out through the otherwise empty hall, too loud, and Martin flinched. He lowered the volume, arms crossed. "I was fine, it went fine. It's not- it's not like I'm going to break it. I'm not going to mess up anymore. I'm here to fix this, Martin."

He looked at the Breton in a reserved kind of way, almost pitying, almost guilty but not quite either. "I know that," he said quietly. "I'm not worried you'll break it; I'm worried that it'll break you."

He didn't really know how to respond to that, but it looked like he didn't need to. Martin left it at that, not bothering to look back as he walked off with the Sanguine Rose, figure disappearing behind the oak doors. 

It was well into night when he found his way down to the gathering of guards, all settled right outside the Bruma entrance. The cold seeped into his bones, tiny flakes of snow falling, but he knew that was about to change soon.

The hero was just heading to the West Wing to rest when Jauffre had run in, telling him of the Oblivion gate that had opened near the Nordic town. Why? Because, obviously, one man who barely survived Oblivion once was clearly more qualified than a whole army of highly-trained soldiers to help decide the fate of the world.

Well, of course, he was also probably the only one who knew how to close the gates. The only one still alive, anyway.

The Breton still wished that he had been given more back-up. He really wasn't that strong, barely managing to pull his way through fights every time. Sure, he was getting better with a blade, but not better enough. And it wasn't like he was eager to dive into that world again, that dimension. The last time that had happened, he had been a complete mess. It took hours of spell-casting to get him into shape again, and that was only the physical damage. There was still that change in the back of his mind, that lingering difference he couldn't name, and the Breton didn't like it at all.

But hey, why don't you save the world (again), Breton? You're obviously very sane and skilled, and it's not like you didn't just come back from a horrible mission and are extremely exhausted. It's not like you're only conscious because of the potions you just digested earlier. Of course not!

He hated his life.

The first face he saw was a familiar one, Burd looking strong and confident in his city's armor. The Nord went over to him as soon as he was close enough, feeling even smaller and insignificant next to the warrior.

"Thanks for coming," he started, tones rich with gratitude. "Since we had the Hero of Kvatch available, I didn't think it made sense to try this on our own the first time."

He inwardly grimaced at the title, attempting to keep a straight face. It was an honor, a huge honor to be addressed like such, but it didn't feel like it anymore. Every time he had entered the city to get his armor and weapons repaired or to get some new clothes, it was all the same; "Say, aren't you the Hero of Kvatch?" Or, "It's you! The Hero of Kvatch!" He used to swell up with pride at that, but now he just kind of deflated. The Breton wished that someone, anyone, would address him by something else- or, more like, he wished he had an actual name to be addressed by.

Burd kept on going, oblivious to the discussion he was holding in his head. "We're ready when you are," he told the other. "Just say the word and we'll follow you into that hell-spawned gate."

He kind of gaped at that, ruining his indifferent façade. Follow him? The Breton didn't know what to feel at that. Overwhelmed? Uneasy? Flattered? He settled on a mix of all three, but agreed nonetheless.

"I'm ready," he told the captain, checking to see that his steel helm was snug on his head. It had been one of the little prizes he had picked up from a bandit camp on the way back from Sanguine's shrine. The Breton still felt kind of guilty for taking it from the dead, but it kind of served the bandit right for ambushing him in the first place. There had to be a kind of rule for this, right? And on any account, if he was going to save the world he needed a good helmet.

"Alright," Burd replied. "Give me a minute to talk to my men. Everyone's a bit jumpy right now." He guided them both to the garrison nearer to the gate, and the Breton got his first look at the thing. It was just the same as the one in Kvatch, causing red flashes of lightning to grace the night sky and being encircled by crude daedric architecture.

"Alright, boys," the captain called, gesturing at him to come. He moved forward to face the troops, standing next to Burd. "We gotta close that gate over there. Nobody likes the idea of going into that thing, but it's our job, and we're going to do it. If we don't, Bruma will end up like a smoking pile of rubble, like what happened at Kvatch. And that's not going to happened here, not while I'm captain of the guard."

He began to call out orders, pointing to his men. Two of them stepped forward, ready to help, which put his worries that he would be going alone to rest. Burd nodded at him, and he nodded back, all running to the portal.

Oblivion was just as horrible as it had been the last time. The temperature rose immediately, landscape hazard and torn apart. He could see the Sigil Keep from where they entered, looking magnificent in its own way.

The soldiers appeared downright terrified but they didn't have time to adjust, a scamp bounding out of the rocks. The three ran over to kill it, which he would've laughed at if it hadn't been such a dire situation. He stayed back, dagger out, ready to face worse.

Three more appeared where the one died, throwing fireballs crazily at the group. One of the Bruma soldiers went to far to the edge of the lava, falling into its depths. The hero yelled out, rushing to finish off the scamp, but the damage had already been done.

He felt sick at that- not even a minute spent in the realm and someone had already died. Pushing it away, he gestured at the remaining, telling them to follow.

He navigated them through the harsh terrain, having to dodge sets of spikes rising through the ground like teeth. It put a horrid image into his head; the rocks each a jagged tooth, lava burning spit, land the gums and tongue- all a part of a giant mouth, swallowing them up and eating them whole. He tried not to let that fester in the back of his mind too long, already feeling discouraged.

They quickly cut down any scamp along the way, heat burning their skin. Another guard met his death from a flurry of fireballs, leaving only him and Burd.

He got his first wound from a frenzy of crimson vines, lashing forward like whips and catching his arm. Burd managed to cut them off before they caused any serious damage, his cuirass luckily protecting him from the worst of it, but his upper-arm still ached horribly.

They continued forward, climbing up the small hills close to the tower. A Dremora surprised them along the way, screaming bloody-murder, but he and Burd managed to defeat it. Both of them were pretty winded after it was done but the Breton knew they couldn't rest, that they would only feel worse if they stopped.

They finally reached the tower, two more Dremora guarding the door. He replaced his dagger with the daedric greatsword, feeling it in his hands. It was heavy but not unbearably so, and he was relieved that the weapon was not burning his palms like last time he tried to wield it.

He dashed toward to the Dremora in robes, dodging the spells it sent his way. He lashed out, hitting the demon in the shoulder, and its whole body erupted into flames.

The Breton jumped back at that, knowing the blow would kill any human. The monster staggered a bit, but seemed to be immune to most of the heat. He aimed to hit it again but the offending spell came quickly, a bolt of lightning getting him in the chest.

He braved himself for the impact but it never came, the spell melting into his body. His whole form glowed a faint pink for the barest second, something feeling different in his gut.

The hero went ahead, striking the Dremora in the heart. Flames raced across its figure, sword only pulling out when it went limp. He hurried to the corpse, not liking it one bit, but taking all the potions hidden in its robe nonetheless.

Burd had just finished with his own armored enemy, looking completely exhausted. He handed a warrior one of the potions, unsure of what it would do, but it seemed to have a positive effect. He stored the rest in his pack, walking to the tower's entrance.

The Breton slung his greatsword over his back in exchange for the elven dagger at his hip, studying the stone barrier. He was careful not to look at the symbols inscribed in the material, afraid of what he would find, as he reached one unarmored hand forward. The door didn't split in the middle like last time, instead cracking from where it met his skin, eventually crumbling to the ground.

Burd didn't ask any questions, running inside. He wasn't sure what he thought about that move. Foolishly charging in? You have fun with that.

He stuck to the walls as best he could, watching a couple of scamps bound towards the guard captain. The Nord took care of them easily, looking at him for further directions.

He lead them to one of the side doors, trying to make sense of the description. The Blood Feast's centerpiece churned loudly in the tower, lighting up the whole room in orange, but still it was too dark.

Giving up, he cut his knife through the cracks in the doors, pulling the sides. He squeezed through the tiny space, helping Burd open it further so that the captain could get through.

He lead them up to the halls, trying to be as quiet as possible. The Breton attempted to ignite a fireball in his palm so that they could see, shocked when it came so easily. The flames licked at his skin, bathing the room brightly, and it was probably some of the best Magick he had created.

A screech came from behind them, shrilly and disturbing. He quickly turned just in time to see the beast dashing to them, small and ferocious. It dug its claws into his leg, making him scream as they broke through his leather greaves, and Burd managed to kill it before it got any worse.

He looked down at the thing's corpse, stomach churning, and they both made their way through the next door in silent agreement. It opened to reveal another dark hallway, but he decided not to use up too much Magicka this time. They instead picked their way over the room without sight, feeling for the walls.

The trap came swinging over his head, large and spiky and almost bringing him to his death. Burd dived forward just in time, toppling the two of them over onto the floor. He barely managed to breathe out a word of gratitude, a new enemy making their appearance known. It was a woman made of fire, floating towards them with too many bad intentions. Burd got off of the Breton, hurrying forward and swinging his sword at her, but it didn't do much damage to the body of pure flames.

Still in shock, he stumbled up to a standing position, concentrating harder. Again, the spell seemed to work too easily, a flurry of ice erupting from his fingers and killing the atronach instantly, but he wasn't complaining.

Burd sent him an impressed look but he waved the warrior off, not bothering to think too much on it. They entered through the Blood Feast once more, battling through some scamps to the next room.

This one was guarded with even more atronachs, and he found himself conjuring more and more ice storms and balls of snow. He tried his luck at summoning lighting, creating a small hurricane as Dremora and clannfear piled in, and the small army was dead within seconds.

The Breton drank some potions to regain his energy when it was done, feeling amazed. He found that he could barely create a spark of fire after it was done, but it was definitely worth it; winds roaring and forming into a tornado of ice around them, flashes of lighting dancing within the storm and paralyzingly the best of Oblivion's beasts.

They made it to the top level, a single Dremora guarding the way. It seemed a lot easier than before to take down the monster, him causing a small spark of electricity to minimally paralyze the enemy while Burd ran it through with his sword from behind. He dug through his bag for the sigil key, finding that it fit the tiny slot to the Sigilium Sanguis perfectly.

The grounds of the Sanguis squished under their feet, and they barely made it through the entrance before a clannfear assaulted them. Thinking quickly, he threw his dagger at the monster, hoping to nail it in the chest- and missed.

Cursing to himself, he jumped up to avoid its claws, swiftly unsheathing his greatsword and lopping off the thing's head. Burd grabbed his elven dagger but he let the Nord hold onto it for the time being, instead taking Burd's arm and pulling them up to the object of their troubles.

He kept a firm grip on Burd's arm, trying to guide them upwards. A robed Dremora snuck up behind them, knocking Burd to the ground hard and swinging its daedric mace at his head. The Breton tackled the monster to the ground before the hit could connect, shoving it off the edge of the walkway with extreme difficulty.

He knew that the fall wasn't far enough to kill it, standing hastily. A quick check for his pulse proved that the guard had only been knocked unconscious, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Preparing himself, he draped the man's arm across his shoulders, tiny frame struggling to support the muscled warrior.

The slowly made their way up the very top, but it wasn't long before more monsters came. He was not nearly fast enough to outrun the atronach heading towards them, shielding Burd from the onslaught of fireballs thrown at them. He felt his cuirass start to smoke, just a step away from being lit on fire, and this was probably some of the worst pain he had experienced in his entire life.

The Dremora started to head up to where they were, outnumbering him easily. The Breton felt like screaming, dreading this more with every growing second, fatigue coursing through him.

In a last resort he dropped Burd's body, running as fast as he could to the stone. It glowed brilliantly, held in a shining pedestal, folding into his palm nearly as he stole it. He quickly dashed back down to Burd, pushing them both over the edge as the Dremora tried to swing at them, and they disappeared into a flash of bright light as they fell.

Chapter Text

He looked into the mirror, frown making itself known. Big brown eyes blinked back at him, the color of roasted coffee beans.

His hair was the same color as his warm irises, ruffled only slightly atop his head. It was a bit long but much shorter than Martin's, framing a young-looking face. The occasional freckle dotted his cheeks, one hidden behind a scar that hadn't quite faded away. He frowned further, light pink lips morphing features he found hard to recognize.

The Breton was so entranced staring at his reflection that he didn't notice the heir, nose almost touching the glass. Martin coughed deeply in the back of his throat, causing him to spin around and knock over half of the things on the shelf.

Neither of them moved to pick anything up, the former priest looking at him with an unamused expression. He grinned sheepishly, Kvatch cuirass rugged on his chest.

"Hi," he started, straightening subconsciously. Martin nodded back, taking a seat on his too-large bed. He looked so modest compared to the grand room, shabby robes clashing with polished furniture and shiny trinkets.

"You seem to be having fun," Martin noted, but he saw past the general grumpiness caused by trying to save the end of the world. Sure enough, concern broke through the snappiness. "I'm glad you made it back safely."

He shrugged once more. "Yeah," the hero replied. "Burd did most of the work. And the... others." He remembered how the happiness of victory had strained when the guards learned of the deaths, how the captain's grief ran so far as Burd held himself accountable.

Oblivion was a wicked place, that was for sure. He thinks that he's just starting to see the importance of closing those gates.

He eventually meets Martin's worried blue eyes, taking in the lines drawn across soft features and the evident lack of sleep. The Breton wants to glance back at the mirror, wants to see how the potions he takes each day has made him look less ill, wants to see the underlying spark of crazy energy in his pupils from the even more insane life he lives. He wonders if Martin is trying to memorize each detail of his face like he's doing to the priest, wonders if the other can see that spark, too.

"I didn't know it was like this," he murmurs, fingers fiddling with the fabric of his light armor. His statement merely draws confusion from Martin.

"What do you mean?" He gestures to his face like it can reveal the answer.

"Me," the hero elaborates. "I mean, this was the first time I saw myself. Just, um, interesting. I guess." He looks younger than he feels, but for Martin, it's probably the other way around.

Martin's mouth softens along the edges, shifting into a ghost of a smile. "Yeah," he mutters. "Interesting." They both seem content to leave it at that, shadows wrapping around the corners of the room and snow falling gently outside the walls.

The doors to Sancre Tor creak as he opens them, sound echoing throughout the structure. He cringes as he steps inside, not bothering to force the entrance shut behind him.

The walls inside are dusty, slabs of stone layered with cracks. The air carries that same dust, tasting old on his tongue. He attempts to light a flame in his hand but not even a twinge of fire comes from the effort, leaving him slightly concerned and wishing it weren't night outside.

The Breton steps through the dark for some time, hugging the walls and shivering in the cold. He sees the ghost before it sees him, wisps of lost life rolling off the apparition and brightening the hallways.

He walks forward to the cloud of light, curious. A face forms out of the fog, ugly and vicious, and a ball of blue energy disentangles from the enemy and launches towards him.

The hero is hit in the chest, staggering back slightly. The offense didn't seem to do any damage, body flushing pink as it was absorbed. He feels something start up in the pit of his stomach, adrenaline bringing him to throw his steel dagger at the enemy.

He felt like cheering when it hit, but the excitement was short-lived. The weapon merely sailed through the cloud, landing with a clank some distance away. He couldn't help the curse that broke out of chapped lips, completely exasperated. He had just gotten that dagger!

The spirit appeared even angrier than him, throwing another ball of energy to his form. He fell to the ground, narrowly avoiding it. Breathing hard, the hero stumbled to a standing position, unsheathing the greatsword at his back and charging.

The daedric metal seemed to have an affect on the apparition. It disappeared in flames, terrible screeching filling the halls. He was alone before he fully knew what was happening, adrenaline pumping hard through his veins.

The Breton continued forward, using the glow that emanated off his weapon for sight. Finding his knife was a lost cause, and he had a brief spurt of amusement trying to imagine Jauffre's reaction when he asked for another. Tucking that away, he began to delve further into the dark reaches of the fort.

The Breton didn't really fully understand the reasons for sending him on this mission. Martin had uncovered yet another trial for them to pass in order to traverse into Mankar Camoran's Paradise; the blood of a Divine. That was nice and all, but of didn't explain why he was the one to get it.

He was fine with helping the Blades, really. In fact, it was kind of an obligation that kept him moving forward, as it was the Breton's fault that they were in this mess. How did he ever manage to forget to give Jauffre the Amulet? It was the whole reason that he had gone to Weynon Priory in the first place: "Take this Amulet, give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son." Only he could mess up that badly.

Yes, he was fine with going on these expeditions for the Blades and Martin Septim. But why were they fine with it? Martin seemed to trust him, in the very least, despite the toll the Xarxes have taken on him. But Jauffre should've have told the Breton to leave ages ago. He said that he believed in Uriel's judgement, that he was the one to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion,' but it was obvious that the deceased king had been wrong. And yet they send him to a place of legends, to retrieve one of the most important items in creation?

Okay.

He found himself in a bigger room, lit by torches of white flames. The ghosts spotted him immediately, three of them swarming him at once, but the hero of Kvatch managed to defeat them with one hit each. He descended the stairs, greatsword in his hands humming with a power that he hadn't felt outside the Deadlands. It was almost frightening, but the strength was intoxicating enough that he didn't want to pull away.

The same braziers dotted the continuing halls, path becoming more destroyed as he traveled along. His weapon's hilt seemed to grow more heated with each kill, making him feel lucky that he had managed to find a pair of thick leather gauntlets before leaving for the expedition.

The Breton finally reached a more distinct room than the others, the creaking of bones reverberating quietly through the walkway. He creeped around the corners of Sancre Tor, peeking around the wall to find the source of the noise.

A lone skeleton trudged through the room, bones clacking against the stone floor and crunching against each other. It brandished a shiny katana in its skinless fingers, worn Blade armor displayed proudly on its figure.

He winced in sudden pain, the heat of his weapon flaring up. It fell with a loud clang, alerting the enemy to his position. He shrieked, trying to pick the weapon back up, but it was too painful to hold.

He rushed away as the skeleton came after him, blade grazing his cuirass slightly. The Breton dodged another swing just in time, tripping and falling on a large mound of dirt. He spluttered, spitting dried soil out of his mouth as the monster bounded towards him again.

He held his hands in front of him, trying to find the surge of Magicka he had summoned all the way back in Oblivion. What came was less than a shadow of that power, a shard of ice lodging itself into the skeleton's ribcage.

It knocked away some of the bones, melting swiftly as the spell wore off. He tried again as the monster walked onward unharmed, thinking of the burning oceans of the Deadlands, and the ball of fire that erupted from his fingertips burned the skeleton's bones to ashes.

The Breton stood shakily, keeping a wide berth between him and the ash pile. He sheathed his greatsword with some difficulty, leather gauntlets completely destroyed. He made a mental note not to use Magicka while wearing armor that covers his palms, briefly considering going back in hopes of recovering his fallen dagger.

Brown irises landed on the shimmering katana, looking new compared to the rusted armor. He wandered over, cautiously picking up the weapon and holding it in his palms. He was stronger than when he first held a blade like this one and the difference showed, hilt perfectly balanced in his grip.

Feeling reassured he made to go on, coming to an abrupt halt as the ash pile started to shimmer. He could only watch as a shape formed from the mound, the spirit growing until it was a ghostly version of a man in armor. Its eyes found him quickly enough, feet taking form and bringing the apparition forward.

A voice rumbled from its throat before he could try to attack, low and male. "At long last, you have freed me. Now I can finally complete my lord's last request."

He blinked in confusion. "Who are you?"

Fog mingled with the bright silhouette of the ghost, appearing blue in the light of the brazier. "I am Rielus," he answered. "Loyal Blade of Tiber Septim. I do not know how long I have been dead. It feels like an eternity."

He furrows his eyebrows, strands of brunet hair peeking out from his borrowed helmet. "What happened to you?"

"My three companions and I were sent here to discover what evil had defiled the holy catacombs of Sancre Tor," he moaned. "We did not know that the Underking, who was Zurin Aretus, had arisen to take his first revenge upon his former lord. The Underking defeated and ensnared us in his evil enchantment, and bound us here to guard forever the defiled shrine of Tiber Septim."

The hero had no idea who Zurin Aretus was, but he didn't sound too nice. "Is the Underking still here?"

"No," Rielus answered. "He departed long ago. But his evil will remains, preventing any from paying homage at the shrine of Tiber Septim."

He fingered the katana nervously. "Well, uh, is there any way to get rid of-" he faltered, trying to find the right words. "His 'evil will'?"

"Over the uncounted years of our slavery here, we have brooded over our defeat," he told the shorter. "I believe that we can undo the Underking's magic." He nodded, but the ghost wasn't finished. "I go now to complete my duty to my lord. Free my brothers, and together we may be able to lift the Underking's curse."

Rielus faded just slightly, turning away and walking through the doors. The Breton followed, thoughts racing faster than his heart.

He was lead to a room much more spacious than the others, path branching off to other doors and ceiling stretching high over his head. The architecture was old but beautiful all the same, caked in dirt but built so precisely it didn't jar the sight too much. The white flames reflected off the walls, looking blue against the stone, and he could hear the distant trickle of water.

Ghosts were spread across the room, all of them completely ignoring Rielus. The Breton was running low on Magicks by the time he had cleared them out. He continued to follow the deceased Blade further, going across a bridge extended over a long fall. He tried not to look over the edge, watching for more enemies.

The hero was about to go further when the spirit held up a hand, making him stop. Rielus left him standing on the bridge, disappearing into shadows.

He frowned, turning back. His eyes landed on a small-looking chest, curiosity getting the best of him. He opened it, mildly surprised that it was unlocked, finding a pile of potions tucked inside. The hero beamed at the object, taking all the potions out and stuffing all but one of them into his pack. He downed the smallest looking one, colored pink like the others, slightly disappointed when it turned out to be a bad one.

If he had a septim for every potion that didn't work...

Pushing the thought away he stood, observing his choices. There were about three or four doors, all made of cracked stone, all looking the same. The Breton picked a room at random, figuring that whatever he was looking for would be behind one of the entrances.

It was more confusing than the last hallway he had traveled through, dead ends branching off at every corner and ceiling looking as if it were about to collapse over his head. He was at least grateful for the light, whether it came from white flames or ghosts.

The other three Blades were somewhat easier to defeat, his Magicka seemingly having recovered. He didn't really understand that and he figured he wouldn't for a long time, but he was thankful that it provided a way to defeat the ghosts as his greatsword cooled off. The katana was especially useful, and he managed to replace it with an enchanted duplicate when the ancient metal snapped.

The deceased Blades didn't try to stop him as he made his way over the bridge once more, katana in his hands and demeanor alert. He went through another door at the very end of the hall, opening the rotted oak entrance.

It creaked horribly before falling of its hinges, looking so out of place next to stone. He stepped over the wood, boots splashing in the water and getting stuck in mud. The Breton pushed on, going through one last entrance, eyes being met by a strange sight.

It was a different sort of hall, larger and even more destroyed, raised platforms on the sides. The Blades froze, all facing the end of the tunnel. A light shined brighter than the sun, taking up the whole end, emanating a force that he couldn't get pass.

He stepped forward slowly, muddy boots making tracks on the ground. The light and power it gave off started to dissipate, allowing him to continue. The Blades kneeled down at his feet as he passed, giving him a kind of tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach. The walls turned rocky as he pressed forward, eventually meeting the end of the path.

The armor of Tiber Septim gleamed beautifully on its podium, golden and pure. The katana clattered to the ground, left to be forgotten in the fort. He picked up the heavy chest plate, barely managing to hold it. Knowing it wouldn't fit in his bag he simply chose to carry it, turning away from the room.

He stumbled across the harsh grounds of the tunnel, crawling over mounds of dirt towards the exit. The Blades saluted him in a show of respect as he passed, bringing a goofy grin to his face. The defender of Bruma pushed through the exit, heading to Cloud Ruler Temple with the fate of Tamriel in his arms.

-

The armor of the Blades felt strange on his form, too polished and too heavy. He still managed to wear it with pride, fit perfectly to match his small figure.

The hero sat cross-legged on one of the sleeping bags in the West Wing, flipping through the pages of a book. The words were still meaningless to him but one sentence stood out, letters morphing into something he could read.

He glanced up at the sound of the door opening, brown eyes anxious. Shoving the book under a mass of sheets he turned to the entrance, Martin's face meeting his line of sight.

He quickly stood, walking over to the heir. The simply looked at each other for a while, silence filling in the otherwise empty room.

Martin was the first one to talk. "I was... wrong," he admitted, but that only increased the Breton's confusion.

"Wrong?" He repeated. The former priest nodded, elaborating quickly.

"About being worried, and all those things I said a while back. I mean," he paused, considering. "You brought back the armor of a Divine from a damned place that many have met their fate in. You have gone into Oblivion and come back to tell the tale. You can handle yourself much more than I gave you credit for."

The blush spread across his cheeks, his hand combing through chestnut hair nervously. "Martin-"

"No," he interrupted. "Please. You're a hero, whether you believe it or not." He looked so sincere, expression solemn and clear of all doubt. The Breton couldn't speak for a moment, mind reeling.

"Thanks," he decided on, still blinking stupidly. He took a short moment until he spoke again, this time with a soft grin. "Goodnight, Septim."

"And you," he replied, nodding, and he ascended the stairs to his room. The Breton watched him go, heart feeling light and face positively beaming. He eventually took his seat back on the bed, finding the book hidden under blankets.

The hero stared at the words written on the crisp page, thinking long and hard, and it was a while until he let the book go.

"When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee."

Chapter Text

Cheydinhal was absolutely stunning.

He hadn't quite seen anything like it. There was the Imperial City, bustling with people, and Bruma, small with a cozy feel. He had traveled to Bravil, barely holding itself up as it was, and Chorrol, which held its own quiet kind of beauty. But Cheydinhal was different.

The buildings all had their own personal touch, guild houses doused in banners and each brick gleaming in the sun. Green was everywhere, sprouting in tufts from the ground or swinging swiftly in the wind from large oak trees. Glimmering rivers wormed their way through the cracks of the hold, quaint bridges extending over the water and holding strong underneath his weight.

It would have been infinitely more beautiful if not for the storming skies overhead, red spikes of lightning raking across the heavy clouds. The few dwindling townspeople daring to step outside held themselves in a defeated manner, as if they were simply waiting for their home to become the next Kvatch. He headed across the length of the city, away from the palace and towards the exit, shoulders set.

He jogged through the fields of flowers, having to stop a few times due to the heavy armor he wore. It was a large difference from his usual light Kvatch cuirass, but ever since he had been accepted into the Blades he hadn't stopped to switch over. There hadn't been a need to, either way- as they waited for Martin to decipher the next part of the spell, the Breton had been off, closing gates near the towns and earning aid for Bruma.

He slowed to a walk as the portal came into view, a bright orange surface encircled with daedric metal. The greatsword at his back hummed with power, as if sensing the world it came from, making him slightly uneasy. The Hero's sides ached, being reminded that with or without armor he was a terribly slow runner, Akaviri katana clanking against his thigh uncomfortably.

The winds seemed to grow stronger as he approached, strings of brown hair whisking into his eyes and bouncing against his forehead. His fingers reached to comb his hair back, shiny silver knife strapped to his arm. It was engraved with the slightest symbols, fading in and out of the metal, giving it a soft blue glow.

The Breton finally reached the gate, standing in front of several corpses. There were a few guards standing around, only one paying him any sort of attention, and that told him wonders. The man went over towards him, helmet snug on his head.

"I advise you to keep your distance from that accursed portal," he warned, shouting over the rumbles of thunder, and the Breton suppressed the urge to laugh.

Very cute, he wanted to say. "Uh, what?" He said instead, mentally face-palming. He was pretty sure that some part of becoming an elite force created to guard the one and only emperor was to be freaking awesome, and he was just as sure that he was failing at that.

The man frowned. "Haven't you heard about these gates to Oblivion opening up all over Tamriel?" He asked, and once again, he nearly erupted into a fit of giggles. Which, admittedly, would have made him look quite mad, but really?

No. I have never heard about them. Not at all. Nope.

"Yes, I have," he shouted over the noise, arms curling around his small frame. He wouldn't mind if Baurus was here to simply push the guard out of their way, or if Martin was here to put a smile on his face. But no, he was left with this guy.

"Well, then, you know what they're capable of producing," he reasoned. "Although, nothing has come out since Farwil entered."

He squinted, racking his brains. Ever since he woke up in that prison (and perhaps even before) he had trouble hanging on to memories. Sometimes they simply slipped past his fingers like fine grains of sand, or faded to the point that they were simply shadows of what they used to be unless he was constantly thinking of them. He didn't remember who Farwil was, couldn't recall the name of the Kvatch captain, completely forgot about the Amulet of Kings-

"Farwil?" He forced out of his mouth, not wanting to follow where his train of thought was leading.

"About two days ago," he answered, voice dropping as the storm quieted. "Count Indary's son, Farwil, entered the Oblivion gate with six other men." His eyes widened, not at the tale but in remembrance. The Count had literally just told this to him!

"By the Nine!" He snapped, huffing. Yes, there were bigger problems at hand, but this was just getting ridiculous. The guard, however, mistook the meaning behind his words, nodding agreeably.

"Such a terrible fate," he murmured. "We haven't heard from them since. The Count fears the worse, and has posted guards here so we can watch and see if anything comes back out. So far, nothing." He was about to continue when the Breton raised a hand, silencing him.

"That's great and all," he offered. "But I have to go now. Sorry." The apology seemed necessary to add, shrugging as he didn't spare a second glance to the taller. The hero walked briskly to the portal, being stopped by a hand that grabbed for his shoulder.

"Hey!" He was turned back around, facing the knight. Sighing, he pulled free of the grip, unamused. "I thought we were done?"

He honestly just wanted to get this over with quickly, especially if others were at stake, but he seemed to be the only one. "I can't let you go in there, citizen," he said, and the Breton narrowed his eyes.

"Well, you also can't convince me otherwise," he replied, adamant, hoping the guard realized he wasn't going to back down. The guard seemed to understand, reluctant but willing.

"If you find any of the Knights of the Thorn, get them out of there," he said, and the Breton recalled Farwil making a little group of followers who were worse with a sword than he himself was. "I'm sure that the Count would also be pleased if the gate was closed."

He could confirm that fact, seeing as he had just struck a trade with said ruler, but saying that wouldn't be any help. Nodding, he turned around once more, taking in a quick intake of breath as he crossed dimensions.

It took two trips into the "Bowels," three mines, one sprained ankle and about fifty flame atronachs to reach Farwil, and when he did, he could honestly say that it probably wasn't worth it.

Oblivion looked just as it always did, with thunderous red skies and dry soil flecked with Harada root and veins of blood. Stones that gleamed in the glowing canvas above peppered the valley, creating a misshapen trail. He found corpses of Farwil's followers along the way, faces so young and armor coated in crimson, and he had to push himself forward and past the regret.

The trail lead him into a series of caves several times, a separate maze on its own. Letters carved into stone morphed into something interpretable, telling him that he was descending into the Bowels. It wasn't a pleasant thought, seeing as the passageways were stuffed full of foul-smelling smoke, but he even got past that.

It was in the expanse of land between cave entrances that he found the mines, stumbling across the trap as he tried to dodge gradually falling boulders from the mountains. They were buried and hidden in sprouts of bloodgrass, going off as his foot stepped on the mechanism and exploding into a assault of fire and light.

His backside hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his right leg. The blast had turned his greaves into a blackened mess, rips running along the black fabric through the gaps of metal. The real damage came from the impact of flying back, ankle throbbing with pain, and he wasn't nearly confident enough with his Magicka to try and heal the sprain.

He grunted, limping heavily through the rest of the way. It proved to be quite a challenge to fight with the cripple, one particular clannfear trying to claw off his face. His heavy cuirass luckily blocked most of the hits, but he came out of the second cave looking much worse for wear.

And, of course, a grumpy Dunmer face was right out there to greet him.

He blinked his big brown eyes in a daze, staring at the other. Red irises examined him thoroughly, as if trying to figure out his worth, and he saw the boy's nose wrinkle in disgust. He probably would've been angry if he had enough energy for it, but in truth, the last of his potions had gone to preserving his strength and sustaining his health.

He furrowed his eyebrows, face sickly green, thinking much too hard. He stumbled, struggling for balance, trying to focus on the Dunmer boy as he spoke.

"It's about time that someone got here," he snarled, just as the Breton began to recover. "What took you so long?"

He heard the hostility in the voice but didn't respond to it, not able to focus on much besides the other boy. It must have been Farwil, then; his face faintly resembled his father's, eyes cold instead of kind.

He breathed in heavily, stumbling again, face pitching forward this time. A blur made itself known from the mess of colors, strong arms grabbing his form and catching him before he could fall. He let the heat and pain overcome him, succumbing into darkness.

Chapter Text

The world was a blur outside the security of his eyelids, a mass of mangled shapes and dazzling red, black dots swimming in his vision. He groaned, curling up in on himself and burying his head into skinny arms.

It hurt.

A deep headache was pounding against his skull, his right ankle throbbing. The Breton's ears buzzed, and when he opened his eyes again, there was only darkness.

He panicked, opening his mouth to shout before realizing he was still facing the floor. Not having enough energy to feel embarrassed, he lifted his head, pushing himself up into a sitting position with a lot less difficulty than he thought it would take.

The hero squinted through his blurry vision, waiting until it cleared. An unfamiliar face was staring at him with kind eyes, dark hair ruffled on his head.

"Uh," he started, voice surprisingly strong. His small fingers toyed with the loose strings of fabric from his torn greaves, glancing at his removed cuirass a little ways behind the other man. They appeared to be back in the Bowels, hiding in the entryway. The cave was lit by the glow of lava underneath the floors, light escaping through small holes in the ground along with the smell of smoke.

That seemed to be all he could make out. Brown irises framed by long ruffled eyelashes swiveled to the door, as if contemplating escaping, but he probably wouldn't get very far. Sighing, he looked back at the man dressed in blood-rusted steel armor, question lifting off his tongue.

"Where's Farwil?" That earned him a raised eyebrow, but he didn't care.

"Outside," the man answered, and he opened his mouth to say more but the Breton wasn't listening. He heaved himself up on both feet, using the cave walls for support. The rich taste in his mouth let him know that he had been fed several potions while unconscious, and he didn't know how he could tell but his Magicka felt strangely replenished. Chalking it up as a pro, he limped over to his armor behind the other man, finding his katana and daedric greatsword glimmering next to the cuirass.

The Breton slid the cuirass on, fingers pulling all the straps together as Baurus had taught him. It felt heavy, but the weight was almost reassuring, and the feeling of his blade in his hands was even better. He strapped the greatsword to his back, but he didn't see his katana's sheathe or his bag anywhere, pushing the wave of grief down in his gut as he headed outside.

"Wait!" The man warned, striding over from where he had been watching. He stopped, wincing as his leg burned, but listened nonetheless. "It's dangerous out there."

The Breton didn't know whether to snort or to scream, so he decided on neither and continued to the door. His foot caught on a rock on the way, whole body stumbling and falling over, but a pair of arms managed to grab him around the waist and pull him back up.

He leaned against the wall, looking up at the other, distinctly wondering if he had brought his helmet. His memory couldn't go much far back so he didn't push it, breathing heavily.

"Thanks," the Breton mumbled, feeling like an idiot. The man nodded, still looking much too nice.

"You should rest a little longer," he advised. "When you found us, you looked like you had taken quite a beating."

He thought about that. He had been fine until getting to the mines, in truth. In the few other gates he had closed, those were new. "You are a Knight of the Thorn?" He decided to ask.

"The only other surviving one," the man answered. "Bremman Senyan, but that hardly matters." He straightened up, steadying himself, trying to reclaim some semblance of balance.

"Of course it matters," he promised. "We're going to get out." Bremman gave him a disbelieving glance.

"All the others are dead," he told him, as if the shorter hadn't seen the trail of corpses. "If you had been our only back-up, that isn't going so well, seeing as how you're injured. We don't need anyone less than the hero of Kvatch to come to our aid."

The Breton held back a laugh at that, going to the door. Bremman shouted another warning at him but he didn't listen, looking at the boulder that blocked their path. He grazed his fingers along the ruins and it yielded, sinking into the dirt. It only rose back up as Bremman came out after him, sealing off the cave once more.

The skies above were just as bright as ever, boiling with fire, but something told him that he hadn't been unconscious for long. Farwil had his back turned to them, only turning around when his ally called. The Dunmer considered them with glimmering eyes that looked like shining rubies from the small distance, beautiful against dark blue skin and light purple lips, and he started to realize why exactly Bremman had come all this way into Oblivion.

"Finally, you're up!" He exclaimed, whiny voice cutting through the entire Deadlands, and the hero narrowed his eyes. "You're lucky that I've been guarding this whole time, or you probably would have been killed a long time ago."

The Breton was already tempted to leave them to die, but there was some truth to Farwil's words. He limped over to cross the space between them but the Count's son got there first, looking down at him with an unimpressed and snotty expression, and a small voice in his head wished that he wasn't the shortest person there. It was almost intimidating.

"Thank you for helping me," he replied, as honest as possible. "But we need to get out, and now."

"You think I don't already know that?" Farwil answered, and yes, he probably did, but he shrugged the realization off either way.

"Now," he began. "It looks like we're going to have to cross that bridge." He pointed across to the structure that lead to the tower a good ways away, already feeling sick at the concept. "I can lead us through the-"

Farwil cut him off swiftly. "You?" He questioned. "No offense, but you don't exactly look the part." He started to say something else but was swiftly ignored. "No, I will lead us out of this wretched place," he declared.

The Breton walked over, possibly to slap Farwil, but the spike of pain that shot up his leg caused him to stumble. Bremman caught him once again, holding him tight against an armored chest, being wary of his smaller form.

The Breton looked up from where he was held to see Farwil glowering at the two with a mixture of rage and jealousy. "Bremman!" He hissed, and the other man stiffened, eyes suddenly looking apologetic. The hero didn't know what was going on, probably something to do with feelings, which he definitely wasn't in the mood to hear. Farwil turned on his heel and started to the other side of the bridge, and it seemed like he didn't have to after all.

The taller knight left his side in an instant, and the Breton huffed, limping furiously towards them. Fortunately enough they were going at a slow enough pace for him to keep up, but somehow he managed to see the Dremora that came out of the shadows before they did.

He screamed out, aiming his hand at the distant form, and a ball of fire spring from his fingers and hit it in the chest. He didn't have the time to appreciate his shot as he fell, screeching. The Breton made to stand up but found his couldn't, and instead began crawling towards the two.

They were both busy with another Dremora, this one looking even nastier. He saw as the one he had just hit got to its feet, running towards the three. The Breton writhed on the ground, desperately trying to rise, but his leg was uncooperative as it burned and his ankle had been twisted in an impossibly weird and painful-looking way. He almost vomited, forcing himself to look up at the scene.

The Dremora had reached the others, apparently deciding that the Breton wasn't worth the kill. It prepared to attack and he stretched out his hands, trying to imagine coldness at its purest form, closing his eyes with concentration. He recalled the snowy hills of Bruma and the winds at Cloud Ruler Temple, and a murky image of Martin with snowflakes falling in his long hair drifted into his mind before the storm poured out of his hands.

It was a great show of ice and wind, a hurricane of pure Magicka. It swarmed towards the group, sucking up the heat of Oblivion as it went. He stared at the whirlwind, feeling shocked at the creation, feeling drained, feeling proud.

He didn't notice his mistake until it reached the group, lashing out at the Dremora and freezing their forms. They were flung back with the force of the winds, crashing down on the ground and, he hoped, being killed with the impact. However, the two knights were not spared, and his yells were drowned out by their screams.

He strangled towards the wreckage, unable to go quick enough. Bremman had been launched over the side of the bridge, flung into the lava below, but Farwil's body was still on the structure. His skin was covered in frost, but he had been the least damaged of the group, a mere icicle impaling his shoulder. It shimmered out of existence, much like the storm, and the telltale rise and fall of his chest told the Breton he was still breathing, although he didn't stir at his insistent shaking.

He let out a choked sob, pulling Farwil up. His fingers quivered as they unbound his armor, taking off the extra weight but leaving the Dunmer's body exposed. The Breton pulled Farwil's arms around his neck, trying once more to stand, but he knew that if there was a time that he would be able to rise it wouldn't be now.

He allowed the tears to fall freely down his cheeks, strands of sweat-coated brown hair getting into his eyes. The hero pulled the body with him as he crawled, being reminded faintly of Burd when they had closed that gate in Bruma, how he had dragged them both back to Tamriel. This time, it was infinitely more times harder, and he hadn't thought he would feel pain this extreme in a long time.

It was a whole eternity until the got to the tower, door stretched high above his form, foreign language twisting into words his mind could decipher and revealing the tower's name. It fell away at his touch unlike the cave door far back, tumbling down in a mass of stone. The Breton reached for the forgotten greatsword at his back, hissing when it burned his skin, and as he instead turned for his katana he prayed that someday the weapon would stop hurting in its owner. He inwardly cursed when he realized that he wasn't holding his katana anymore, lost somewhere in the struggle to get here, and Jauffre's no doubt comical reaction was almost enough to make him stop crying.

Almost.

He waited for the enemies to come out, only met with a couple clannfear. The Breton breathed a sigh of relief as he burned them with a wave of fire, hands reaching out to the pedestals near the entrance. Waves of blue light glimmered from their depths, coils of that same substance wrapping around his arms and sinking into skin. He felt his Magicks come back to him gradually, and it was enough to keep him going.

The Breton kept his view away from the beam of fire in the center of the Chaos Stronghold, dragging Farwil to one of the surrounding halls. The Dunmer's skin was still cold to the touch but at least he continued to breathe, and that was all he needed right now. The Breton watched as the door to the Rending Halls split in half, gooey substance trailing across the entrance. He shivered, pulling Farwil along through the opening.

His sobbing increased as they reached the ramp, to the point where he was fairly disgusted with himself. His face felt sticky and wet with snot and tears, headache having come back at full force. As he slowly clambered up he thought of Martin, wanting nothing more at the moment than to go back to his friend.

There was only one Dremora there, and he managed to keep it away with a few sparks of electricity. He was sure to keep away from Farwil as he used his Magicks, guilt piling up in his chest. He reached behind once more, relieved when the weapon at his back proved to be cool to the touch, and he managed to put himself in a sitting position. It wasn't too difficult to kill the slowly waking Dremoa from there, plunging the weapon through its head, and he was nearly proud at the fact that he had made it this far crawling.

Maybe he was getting better.

He let the greatsword clatter to the ground, making his way to the fountain in the corner. Upon reaching it, he realized that it wasn't another Magicka pool. The substance inside was thick crimson, coppery smell wafting off the blood, and he choked on another wave of tears.

The Breton couldn't help the bile as it came from his mouth, fingers weakly grasping the edge of the fountain as he vomited. His mouth tasted sour when he was finally done, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the structure with eyes shut close as to not glimpse at the liquid inside.

He finally looked at the runes carved at the sides, realizing as they formed that they were instructions. He looked at the blood inside again, sucking in a breath as his fingers brushed the contents. They came back up bathed in red, and it was strange to see the cold blood that wasn't his in the dimly lit room, where it looked almost black.

He brought his fingers to his lips, shuddering as his tongue took up the substance. It wasn't human blood, that was for sure, tasting surprisingly sweet. He shivered, coming forward and putting both hands into the fountain's contents, shaping his palms so they fashioned as cups. He brought handfuls of the blood to his lips, swallowing it down until there was nothing left, and when he was finished he looked down.

Sure enough, his leg had numbed over in the process, no longer bent and twisted. The skin was still raw and sore but he could stand, migraine reduced to a slight fever. He trembled as he walked unevenly to Farwil and attempted to hoist the male over his back. He still lacked the physical strength, however, and ended up simply slinging both of the Dunmer's arms over his shoulders and fastening his hands around his neck. It almost felt like he was choking himself, back hunched over with the awkward position, and he struggled to keep Farwil's arms around him as he held his greatsword in the opposite hand.

He went through the doors and back out to the Chaos Stronghold, feeling a lot more rejuvenated. The hope crawling up his heart was enough to push down the tears for now, and he gradually made his way to the next hall. There were mostly Flame Atronachs and the occasional scamp along the way up, and he started to get used to the dull throb in his ankle as he continued onward.

The Breton eventually made it to the top of the tower, body screaming with exhaustion. He was ready for the Dremora as it came after him, letting Farwil to the floor as he braced himself with his greatsword. The enemy's mace never graced his skin, pounding against his cuirass a few times, but his fingers reached for the daedra's chest and electrified it on the spot before it could do much more. The hero watched as the beast crumbled to the ground, sheathing his weapon and tearing the key that hung on a string on its neck off with a swift flick of the wrist. He slid the key between his teeth for safe-keeping, heading to Farwil and kneeling down.

He slid his arms under Farwil's legs and back, bringing them both back up slowly. The mer still didn't stir in the slightest, and the hero waited until he could properly hold the younger up. He strode to the door, not wanting to waste his strength, and managed to pick the key from his teeth and push it through the thin slot without letting the Count's son fall.

The Breton walked up the ramps made of human flesh to the entrance of the Sigilum Sanguis, readying himself before he broke off into a dash. He was slower than he wanted to be but apparently quick enough, narrowly avoiding the cluster of clannfear at the lower level. His lungs burned as he continued upwards, Farwil's head bobbing against his chest. There were at least two Dremora that he could see at the top, but he swiveled past them and continued into the Sigil stone. He finally let the Dunmer drop, snatching the stone away from its pedestal.

He turned, intention to get to Farwil, but froze in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. One of the Dremora had caught up, and he could only watch as the monster's mace pounded into Farwil's unarmored chest. An inhuman screech spilled from his lips, heart lurching out of his throat, eyes wide and full of disbelief. The fire caught up to them, burning the world around, but he hardly noticed as the mer he had promised to save was left behind.

Chapter Text

"I've been thinking," were the words that came out of Martin's mouth, and the Breton prepared himself for the worst.

It was early dawn, just as Azura's light was reaching Tamriel's skies. Him and the heir sat out on the steps in front of Cloud Ruler Temple, gazing at the thin imprints of slowly fading stars. It had been mere moments after Jauffre had given him his newest mission to travel to Miscarcand, and his friend had made him promise not to leave until saying goodbye.

"I'm sure you have," he responded, but there was a joking tone to his words. In truth, Martin had been an amazing friend. He was fortunate to have made it this far, even managing to close all the Oblivion gates that surrounded the cities of Cyrodiil, and still have the former priest to talk to.

Martin swatted him lightly on the arm, and even though he didn't feel it behind his armor's protection, he laughed. "I'm serious," Martin said, but the goofy smile that had spread across his face only made him laugh harder.

It was a while until he stopped, the stars now gone from the heavens above. "As I was trying to say," Martin pressed on. "I was thinking about the first days that we met. Remember when you had been escorting me to Weynon Priory?"

If he couldn't remember the Emperor's dying wish the day after he had promised to fulfill it he probably couldn't remember that far back, but he nodded nonetheless. "Kind of. What about it?"

"You told me you didn't have a name," Martin said. "But I wondered, until we figure out more about your past, if you would still like one?"

The Breton considered it for a moment, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess," he answered. It wouldn't make much of a difference; he knew who he was, and he didn't need a name to prove that. But if it was important to Martin, then it was important to him.

He suddenly sprang up, the taller coming up after him. "But don't tell me yet!" He ordered. "Let me return with the stone, first."

Matin hesitated. "Then I can tell you?" He nodded. "Why?"

The hero didn't want to say it, but it needed to be spoken aloud. "Because, Septim," he answered. "I might not be coming back."

The Alyeid temple wasn't much to look at outside, simply a structure of purest marble laid out as ruin against Cyrodiil's forest. Inside, where it branched underground, was a whole different story.

As soon as he pulled back the slab of stone that covered the entrance (thanks to the spell of strength that Martin had taught him) he was greeted by dimly lit halls. The architecture was beautifully placed but destroyed with time, cracks running along the walls and floors like the veins of the building. And if those were the veins, the ruins were the body of a god, drained of its blood and left abandoned to die.

He descended the row of stairs, going deeper down. It was only until he reached the base of the steps before the darkness became a problem, the sun's light from outside unable to reach this far.

The hero thought for a moment before reluctantly lighting a fire in his hands. Martin had discovered a few weeks back that his Magicka, for whatever reason, didn't regenerate like it was supposed to. The heir said it was most likely due to the fact that he might have been born under the sign of the Atronach- he said that it was definitely due to the fact that the Nine hated his guts.

It was a small flame but it would do for now, so he pressed on through the halls. There was a fairly simple path to follow, only the occasional rat and Goblin corpse to keep him company, but that was to be expected. There had been a mound of the creatures to deal with outside, so many that he had spent more time than he should have slaughtering them all. Jauffre had refused to give him any more weapons, still furious that he had managed to loose his katana, but Martin hadn't let him go off to close the last few gates at the other holds without a new dagger. It got him through the small army decently enough, sharp ebony blade making up for his extreme lack of muscle, and he couldn't be more thankful.

His thoughts were tucked back into the foremost part of his mind as the hall opened up into a much larger room. He stepped through, looking at its contents. Stairs stretched down to a second level below, bright blue torches held up by pedestals lighting the area. The ceiling was spread out far above his head, and it was probably one of the most impressive things he had seen in his travels.

He let the fire fall from his hands, stepping forward as quietly as he could. Luckily, all there was waiting for him below was corpses, and he allowed himself a moment of relief.

Approaching one of the pedestals, he considered the source of light. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't a torch but a stone, glimmering brightly and dispelling the shadows. A Welkynd stone, he realized, but not the one he was looking for.

He readied himself, jumping up and outstretching his hands in an attempt to grab the gem. It was no surprise when he didn't even come close, and the hero frowned. An idea popped into his head, and he reached out again, this time channeling his Magicks.

Telekinesis had been amongst the spells Martin had brushed up on while tutoring him on the fields of a Mage. Between Baurus' sword training and the aid of the former follower of Sanguine (as he had revealed a mere few days ago), the Breton felt a lot more confident and infinitely stronger. And this, he could do.

He had stopped wearing gauntlets long ago in order to cast better spells, as it was always an extra pain to make sure that he wasn't burning through the armor. Therefore, he didn't know what to expect when the stone came down after a few long minutes of concentration. It didn't roast his skin as expected, instead cool to the touch. He smiled, feeling pride amongst the slight confusion, and the Breton pushed onwards.

There was an entrance at the bottom level that lacked a door, and he walked the long, winding halls once more. He stumbled across his first Goblin along the way, the creature badly wounded, but it didn't seem to want to attack. Blood poured from indigo skin, body kneeling over the corpses of fallen brethren, and his heart lurched in a sort of remorse.

It wasn't looking for death but it needed it, and he didn't feel a shred of guilt as he plunged the dagger into its skull.

The journey had lost some of its merit by the time he felt like he had actually made progress through the ruins. It seemed that hours had passed by until a loud moan froze him in his tracks, a few steps away from another set of stairs.

The groan sounded again, full of agony and pain, and he called out against better judgement. "Hello?"

There wasn't a response, the Welkynd stone's glow unable to reach below the steps. "Are you alright?" He repeated, beginning to walk down. The Breton eventually made it to the bottom, only emptiness to greet him, still alone.

He was about to be sincerely worried about his impending madness when the noise came again, sounding shriller, and he panicked as he realized it was from behind. The Breton swerved around as the owner of the scream jumped him, the scent of mold and decay overcoming his senses. The stone dropped from his hands as teeth found his neck, causing a strange ripple of pleasure to spread across his body before it was engulfed by pain.

He blasted it back with a surge of electricity, watching as the beast was flung against the opposite wall. The Breton picked up his stone, reaching behind his back to make sure his greatsword hadn't been damaged under his weight. Surely enough, it was still intact, which was more that he could say about the naked form that lay dead before him.

Zombies.

He stumbled away from the body, moving on along his path. His neck throbbed with pain, energy seeming to suffer with each step he took. Was he sick? Was the bite infected? The hero sighed, shoulders sagging, but he was forever alert for more of the monsters.

The path to the next level was devoid of more zombies, a door engraved with glowing ruins marking his progress. It slid open at the touch of the Welkynd stone, rumbling as it sank into the floor. He flinched at the noise but didn't allow himself to stop, weary as ever.

There was another large room waiting for him at the other side, path breaking off without more stairs to guide him down. He allowed himself a smile before jumping down, the small distance and heavy boots protecting him from any damage. There were a large amount of skeletons waiting below but their bones fell apart at one hit, and it wasn't long until he reached the next passage.

He had only traveled for a small while until the path was blocked by more zombies, three in his way instead of the one. He took a deep breath, aiming a large ball of fire at one of them and catching them by surprise. It died at the single hit but he knew he wouldn't be that lucky for the next, both making their way to him.

The Blade quickly ran forward, digging his dagger into one of the monster's stomach. It twitched as it fell, not completely gone but not in any condition to get back up. He wasn't able to react in time before its friend grabbed him, grip stronger than steel as it bit hard into his cheek.

The spike of ice that erupted from his palm was more instinct than anything, fueled by a surge of fear. It fell back, but not before taking a chunk of flesh with it, and he screamed.

His fingers came back bloody when he brushed them against his cheek, and the warm liquid prevented him from pushing forward to check the gap in his face. He shuddered, getting shakily to his feet, and this time he tucked away the dagger and brought out his greatsword.

He held it in one hand and brandished his stone in the other, forcing himself to go on. The Breton's face and neck ached with pain, blood pouring down his cheek like tears, and he felt as if his face had swelled up twice its size. It was too long until he made it into the final chamber, unguarded and too empty, but he didn't care enough to stop.

He walked along the raised platform that served as a hallway to the chamber's central area, catching a glimpse of a large pedestal through the cracks in the walls. It circled around the perimeter of the room before coming out just before the said pedestal, and he strode cautiously towards it, alert.

Whatever object it displayed was hidden behind a cover of gold, the protection lifting at the push of a button across the room. He watched as it revealed the brightest gem he had ever seen, making his own Welkynd stone look dim in comparison. The Breton glanced around before reaching out, snatching it off its stand and holding it close to his chest.

The Breton let only a few seconds pass before he was running, running away with the intention to never look back.

Chapter Text

Branches crunched under his feet, turning into paved stones as he made his was along. It was as dark as the bottom of the sea, the twin moons unable to peek through the heavy clouds, but the gem in his hands lit his path brilliantly.

The hero pressed on well past Bruma, following the trail upwards. His bones ached, a heavy energy potion he had found on his escape being the only thing keeping him moving. He had rushed out of the Ayleid ruin before the stirring undead could catch him, running back all the way he had came from and not stopping since. He wasn't that quick by far but back there it didn't seem to matter, pure adrenaline and alchemy stretching the limits of possibility.

He missed his bag with all his healing potions, and it was getting hard to tell whether the substance dripping down his cheeks was blood or tears. He hadn't been able to use his Magicks, probably by fault of a damned disease, and his horse had left him some time ago while he had been retrieving the Welkynd stone. It had been midday by the time he had taken off and now it was the dead of night, and he had just run out of the energy potion a few hundred paces behind.

He skidded to a stop, stumbling down the roads and collapsing on the ground. His chest burned, but he hadn't been able to safely take a break after coming into contact with an Oblivion gate out in the wilds. He only hurt as long as he continued to exist, and he supposed that was understandable, seeing as he was missing a portion of his face.

Was it possible for one to live without their cheek? The bleeding had been horrible, sure, and he hadn't been able to stop it without screaming out in agony. He literally was missing that part of flesh, and if he dared to, his fingers could find a tiny exposure of bone.

He wasn't big on restoration, but he knew he needed to get to the Temple, and fast. Against better judgement he heaved himself up, dragging himself along the last few feet and up the mountain.

Cloud Ruler Temple was just was glorious as ever but he didn't have time to stop and acknowledge its beauty, instead knocking hard on the gates. The Welkynd stone glowed brightly in his fingers, and he could see the silhouette of the top of the Temple where he knew the other guards watched the areas around.

He didn't dare to speak just yet, waiting for the others. Sure enough, the gates came open slowly, and he couldn't tell which two Blades were behind them. They tried to talk to him but he didn't give them time, hurrying madly to the great hall.

The hero swung open the door to Cloud Ruler, blinking hard at the sudden light. It was warm and comforting in the main room, if not slightly quiet, only two voices making themselves heard in the large space. The conversation came to an end, both pairs of eyes finding him, both belonging to faces that contorted in horror as they took him in.

The Breton paid no mind, stumbling up to the two. Jauffre and Martin met him halfway, and he shoved the stone into the Blademaster's hands, aiming for a smile and instead wincing at the pain.

"By the Nine!" Martin exclaimed, Jauffre too shocked to do much more than hold onto the stone. He held up his hands, trying to convey his well-being, but it probably didn't work as well as he hoped.

"'M fine," he pushed out of chapped lips, breathing hard through his nose. "I jus' need 'elp."

Martin seemed to understand, grabbing his hand. The Breton looked back as he was lead away, but Jauffre was already moving on with their plan.

He struggled to keep up with Martin as they strode out of the main hall, pushing past guards and into the West Wing. The hero tripped, nearly falling, but his friend simply hoisted him up and pressed on.

They entered Martin's room, pristine and polished, and the taller pushed him down into the large bed. The former priest turned away to rummage through his drawers, the Breton watching curiously.

"What're 'ou doin'?" He asked. Martin shot him a look, no doubt about to tell him to shut it, but he was already grunting in pain. The older sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly with one hand while his other held a single bottle.

Martin kneeled in front of him, and the bed was set low enough that they were almost on the same level. His reached a tentative hand out to the hero's cheek, drawing back when the brunet winced.

"Just keep still, alright?" Bright blue irises glimmered, being met by wavering brown. He nodded.

Martin set the bottle down next to him, pulling out a small piece of cloth and wetting it with the glass of water on his bedside desk. He cupped a hand underneath the hero's chin, giving his shorter friend a reassuring smile. Softly, he began to clean the dirt off of the Breton's face, similar to the times Martin had healed nasty wounds when the other had come back from Oblivion gates. This time, the damage was deeper, and he had to be extra careful.

Martin rubbed the dust off pale skin, scrubbing until he could see the faint freckles imprinted on his features. His flesh was bright red when the heir was done, leaving only the space around the wound left. The Breton, who had been obediently quiet so far, furrowed his eyebrows and tried not to frown.

Martin slowly moved the rag to the skin surrounding the wound, being as gentle as possible. He got to the very edges of the damage, examining the dip in his friend's cheek. It was deep, imprints running inside the wound that made it look like something had bit off the flesh, and it took some effort not to gag.

"Neck," the shorter mumbled, eyes flashing apologetically. Martin nodded, pulling down the Blade chest plate slightly to examine the said part of his body. The tight leather underneath was ripped, another bite obscured by dried blood. His fingers moved to undo the straps on the cuirass, pulling off the piece of armor and setting it on the bed beside the Breton.

He looked so small with the large armor, all frail limbs and tiny stature, chest covered by a thin second layer of leather apparel. His skin had a sickly green tinge to it, suggesting an infection, and Martin realized that he looked just the same as the day they met. It was strange to think back at the day Kvatch burned and remember it in stunning detail, how the Breton had nearly fallen into his arms after coming to save him, coming to save them all.

He cleared off as much grime and blood as he could near his friend's neck, putting the now filthy rag aside and grabbing the bottle. Martin uncorked it, letting the sweet smell of the potion waft into the air. He pooled some of the substance in his palm, and when he looked up, he saw that the shorter was watching every movement.

"It's going to hurt," Martin admitted. "And your cheek will have to heal over time. Don't move." He went forward, pressing his palm to the Breton's face, letting the liquid sink into the flesh. His patient gasped, shutting his eyes tight in pain, and his hands reached out blindly. They found Martin's other arm, holding tightly onto the appendage, and the heir let him.

He removed his hand quickly to grab the set of bandages that had been shoved in one of the drawers, the Breton releasing his grip. Martin quickly tore off a piece of the bandage, dabbing his index finger in a small pot of tree sap beside his glass of water and slathering it onto the area around the bite. He used that to help seal the cloth over the wound, only moving to his neck when the heir was sure it wouldn't come off.

The other wound wasn't nearly as menacing when the blood was cleared up, simply a deep bite that was already scaring over. He rubbed some of the potion into the scratch, watching as it began to fade out.

Martin grinned at his friend, who returned the smile haphazardly and with only minor wincing. He was only slightly worried about the Breton's cheek, unable to stitch it together with how far the bite went and how little skin was left. It was better to wait for the substance to fully heal the wound instead, and he suspected he would only have to reapply the potion once again.

He put away the bandages and the empty bottle, taking a seat near his friend. Martin grabbed the abandoned chest plate, cleaning the used rag and using it to scrub away the dried crimson on the delicate metal designs. The Blades had beautiful armor, truly, and it was only right for him to keep it as neat as he could.

His friend sat across from him, legs crossed and expression thoughtful. His new greaves, replaced long ago since the Cheydinhal gate, now sported the occasional tear. Every so often he would reach a finger to the side of his face, almost touching the bandage before jerking his hand back, and Martin scowled as he cleaned.

"It'll be fine," he promised, and the brunet focused on him. "Just wait a few days or so."

"As 'ou say, Septim," he replied. It probably wasn't the best idea to talk, but his strangled words sprung a memory inside Martin's head.

"What do you think about Akatosh?" The hero blinked, surprised at the question.

"Uh," he shrugged, words slow and precise as to cause the least pain possible. "He's one of teh Nine, 'ight?"

Martin hummed in affirmation. "What about the name?"

"The 'ame?" He repeated. "What 'bout it?"

He scraped off another spot of crimson, looking at the patterns embedded in the metal. "Before Miscarcand," he reminded. "I have been trying to find a decent name for you for a while now, my friend. It seems nice."

He tilted his head. "Akatosh?" Martin met his eyes, studying the confusion buried in warm irises. He set down the rag, reaching out a hand, and his finger brushed against the shorter's forehead. Wisps of Magicka came out, encircling his small form, healing the diseases he picked up from the Ayleid ruins. He took his hand back when it was done, rerunning to the armor.

"Yes, you," Martin answered. "Why not? I think it's fitting."

"Fitting?" He quirked an eyebrow, cheeks still surprisingly red from the cleaning before. "In'it blasphemous?" He struggled with the word slightly, pronouncing each letter slowly, but Martin understood just fine.

"I don't see why it should be," he said. "Akatosh has been a name I have prayed to for years. It has brought me hope, consolation, after the sinful deeds I had done under Sanguine's will." He stared long and hard into the Breton's eyes. "The god has saved my life in more ways I can count. And now you, you have done just the same."

"Mar'in-"

"No." He held up a hand. "If you don't like the name, that's fine. But you have saved me. And I won't forget that." The Breton have a small nod, looking down at his hands, and Martin continued his work.

It was a while until he finally spoke up again. "So, uh," he faltered, considering. "'M like, teh 'ortal Akatosh?"

Martin chuckled. "I suppose so," he agreed. "The mortal Akatosh."

Chapter Text

"This is mad, Martin!" The former priest sighed.

"Yes, I know," he said, standing from his bed. It was early morning, only a small candle to light the room with the absence of a window, but it was enough. "It's the only chance we have."

"How?" Akatosh set down the plate of food he had brought up for his friend, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "You can't be serious."

"I am!" Martin promised, coming over to the Breton. His bright blue eyes revealed his own doubt, and Akatosh's frown deepened. "We need the Sigil Stone to complete the ritual and go into Paradise. There isn't any other way to get the Amulet back."

"I have Sigil Stones!" He pressed. "I have lots of them! Can't you use one of those?"

"The Stone has to be from a Great Gate," he said, but the hero already knew it. "We have to let the Mythic Dawn continue on with their plan."

"Martin..." Akatosh looked down, fists clenched. The heir sighed again, reaching out a hand. He let his fingers brush against the shorter's cheek, over to where the bandages were from the night before. He was glad that his potion seemed to have worked overnight, healing the wound well enough for his friend to be able to speak. The Imperial lifted Akatosh's chin up, looking straight into his eyes.

"I know you can close it," he said. "You've done this many times before." Martin dropped his hand, trying for a reassuring smile. "I believe in you."

He fidgeted nervously. It was a short time before he responded, regretting his decision every second, but there simply wasn't another way. "What do we have to do?"

Martin walked past him, opening the door wider for them to step through. He closed it behind Akatosh, leading them down into the Blades' sleeping quarters. "First," he said, walking alongside his friend. "You should talk to Narina Carvain."

The room was empty, beds abandoned, the candles having been put out. He grabbed a helmet as they went outside, holding it against his unarmored chest. "Who?"

"The Countess of Bruma," Martin said. Snow was falling from the sky, little flecks of white being lost in the air. It was cold, too, and Akatosh wished briefly that he could replace his thin shirt with a heavy coat. "I have a feeling she wouldn't be very pleased to have a gate to Oblivion outside her walls without someone informing her ladyship first."

"I don't think she'll be pleased either way," he replied. "But why should I be the one to tell her?" They stopped walking by the edge of Temple's drop, looking over at the view. Akatosh could make out the fuzzy imprints of mountains through the heavy layer of fog but that was about it, and the height was a bit disconcerting. It was like walking across the thin daedric bridges in the Deadlands, feet pressed together and movements slowed in order to not topple off the edge and fall. One step in the wrong direction, and he could easily catch himself going over the mountain and down into, well, oblivion.

Martin's voice lead him away from his thoughts, and he couldn't say he wasn't grateful. "Who else?" He asked. "Around Cyrodiil, people have recognized you as their hero. And for good reason, too. If the Countess is going to listen to anyone, it's the hero of Kvatch."

He laughed nervously. "But not the emperor's son?" Akatosh asked. "I mean, you're not exactly a nobody."

"Actually, I am," Martin said. "My birth has been kept a secret. My existence has been kept a secret. No one knows of Uriel Septim's son, because I haven't done a deed to prove my worth. I don't have a legacy, Akatosh, and my word won't account for anything at all."

His fingers traced the symbols engraved in the helmet's metal briefly, running across the delicate designs. "Not yet, maybe," he agreed. "But, I, uh- I think you'll be just as great as your father was. I mean, I didn't really know him," he hastily went on. "But I knew enough. Uriel was a good man, that was for sure, and he used to be the reason I'm still here."

You're the reason now, he wanted to say, but didn't.

Martin didn't seem to know how to respond to his mess of a speech, and the shorter didn't blame him. "So, you'll do it then?" He finally asked, and Akatosh gave in.

"Yeah, I'll talk to her," he replied. "What do we do after that?" Martin shrugged.

"After that," he spoke, looking at his companion. "We prepare for Dagon's wrath."

Bruma was quiet, the morning lazy as the sun broke through the clouds and tried to dispel the snow. He pushed his way through the doors to the Castle, Kvatch armor a nice weight on his shoulders and iron boots thudding against the carpeted floor.

Narina was a beautiful woman, hair curled around her lovely face and irises glimmering in the flames of the fire places. Her posture was stiff, legs crossed as she sat in her throne, talking to Burd.

The two both turned as he approached, the Countess cutting off the conversation swiftly. "Ah," she greeted. "What news do you being from Cloud Ruler Temple?"

Burd gave him a little grin, one that he retuned to the captain of the guard as he answered. He told the ruler of Martin's plan, watching her face contort in doubt and disbelief. Akatosh quieted when he had finished telling her of the battle strategy, waiting.

She crossed her hands over her lap, frowning. "A desperate plan indeed," Narina said. "This, what, prince? Emperor? This Martin would risk my whole city to gain a Great Sigil Stone?"

She didn't sound happy, that was for sure, and he winced. "We need to recover the Amulet." He glanced behind her throne at Burd, but the Nord was waiting for her answer just as he was.

"This is the only way to stop the invasion from Oblivion?" He nodded, trying to look as apologetic as possible, but he had a feeling she understood.

She looked up at Akatosh, considering him. "I must confess, you are the first person to speak of victory against these daedra," she admitted. "This war has seemed hopeless to me, but what else was there to do but hold on and wait for a hero to arise and save us? And now it seems there is an heir to the throne after all, hidden at Cloud Ruler Temple... and maybe, a hero as well?"

He felt that there was something else to the Countess' words but he didn't understand it, giving the best answer he could. "Whatever Martin is, he awaits at the Temple." She actually laughed, a small little thing, but it wasn't of happiness. It was more like hope leaving her heart than a sign of joy, more like hope that drifted off into the air as a symbol of her loosing it.

"You misunderstand me," she said, leaving him little time to follow that train of thought. "Or maybe you purposely avoid answering my question? Very well," she dismissed. "Don't think that I doubt you. The rulers of Bruma have had long dealings with Cloud Ruler Temple. We know whom they serve." He didn't really understand anymore, feeling relieved when she continued. "I will meet Martin at the Chapel. When all is ready, I will order my men to stop closing the gates and prepare for battle."

She stood before he could speak, offering him a nod before walking forward. Burd gave him a clap on the back before hurrying to follow, and Akatosh had no choice but to tag behind.

He walked close alongside Martin as they strode past the lines of citizens, all cheering them on as they left the Chapel. It had been a short meeting, Cyrodiil placing its fate in their hands, but the crowd waiting for them outside was something different on its own.

Having Bruma cheer them on, to acknowledge the small army as their saviors... it stirred both a sense of dread and awe in him. Nobody had known him before he had woken up in the Imperial Prison, at least judging from how not a soul recognized his face, and he had been all over Cyrodiil. But now, as the townspeople applauded them as they left for war and called him a hero, that feeling of uselessness went away. Maybe he did deserve the title hero of Kvatch, maybe he was the savior of Bruma. Maybe, with Martin, he could end the Oblivion Crisis.

If anything was possible, as it seemed to be, there was no reason why a little Breton like him couldn't save the world.

The snow had stopped falling but it hadn't melted away, crunching under their feet as they lined up outside the lone Oblivion gate. Overhead, the skies had yet to darken into a fiery storm, instead leaving the pale canvas to light their vision, and he supposed he should be thankful for the little things.

He stayed with the troops as Martin marched forward. Before he could pass, however, Akatosh grabbed his hand. The heir's fingers were protected by the golden armor of Tiber Septim, the Divine's chestplate fitting on his form, and he resisted the urge to tear up just then.

"What is it?" Martin asked him, voice quiet. The soldiers were talking amongst themselves, waiting for their leader, and he knew he was disrupting that. But...

"It's just," he fumbled for a sentence. Martin waited patiently, easily the most beautiful person in Tamriel, and suddenly he knew what to say. "You're pretty amazing," he told his closest friend, words exactly the ones he had said to Uriel Septim moments before the man had died, and there couldn't be anything more perfect than that span of few seconds as Martin registered the pathetic praise. And then, although he didn't speak, he smiled the most heartfelt smile Akatosh had ever seen, and they both knew it was more than enough.

Martin waited until the hero let his hand go, walking out in front of his army. "Citizens of Cyrodiil!" He shouted, voice carrying over the group. "The Empire will stand or fall by what we do here today. Will we let the daedra do to Bruma what they did to Kvatch? Will we let them burn our homes, will we let them kill our families? No!" He shouted, and Akatosh jumped. "We make our stand here today, for the whole of Cyrodiil. We must hold until the hero of Kvatch can destroy the Great Gate, and we must kill whatever comes out!"

The skies darkened, bursting with red lightning and flames, and the men unsheathed their swords. "Soldiers of Tamriel," Martin called out. "Do you stand with me?" They all yelled in fury and affirmation as the first of monsters stepped out of the gate, running forward, and Akatosh was right with them.

He stayed back as the soldiers grouped up and attacked, battling away the monsters with metal and spirit. The Breton spotted Jauffre cutting away a Dremora, keeping the monsters easily at bay, and he ran over to Martin.

They had talked briefly about their strategy back in the Chapel. Akatosh was to stay behind in the battle, only fighting when necessary, preferably near Martin for easy healing if the need arose. Baurus and a few other Blades had been stationed near them at all times but by no means away from the fight, making sure that no one fell. It was a smart plan, but he didn't know how much it would hold.

Martin, for his part, was firing a series of lightning strikes at the beasts, not enough to draw any out but just the right energy and Magicka to kill them. He stopped as Akatosh approached, barely any demons outside the Deadlands, and he could feel the tension it caused as they waited.

"Are you okay?" Martin looked painfully anxious, sparks running up and down his hands, but he let the spell fall at the question.

"I don't think I could give you a proper answer right now," he answered, being as honest as possible. "I'm just," he faltered, looking at his friend. "Worried about you."

He was a few seconds away from answering when the air rippled, an explosion of fire coming from the left. Several shouted in alarm as the second Oblivion gate formed, the portal dispersing a larger cluster of enemies that ran toward them at full speed.

Baurus came up in front, taking on a nasty looking Dremora head-on, while most of their army scrambled to join him. Akatosh stayed back with Martin, hand posed at his hip, but his friend had already started rushing forward. The Breton yelped, trying to follow, but he only fell to the ground as the earth rumbled underneath his feet.

The third Oblivion gate took form as it did with the two before it, coming to creation in a burst of flames. He could actually feel the heat from where he was as a fellow soldier hoisted him up, getting him to his feet before returning to the battle. Akatosh didn't have time to thank him, instead wincing in pain as he realized his bandaging had come undone and the still fresh scar on his cheek had taken damage from the fall.

It was a shallow enough scar considering the wound it had been hours before, fingers managing to wipe away the blood, and for that he was thankful. Akatosh didn't dare try his luck at a healing spell, instead pressing a hand to the side of his face to numb the pain and looking for Martin.

The heir found him before Akatosh got very far, frowning as he caught sight of his friend. "What happened?"

"The zombie bite!" He said, opening up his fingers. Martin reached over to close the scar with his Magicks but the ground rumbled worse than it had before, and they both struggled to stay upright.

The ground burst open, the Great Gate crawling out from the earth. It was taller than the White-Gold Tower in the Imperial City, standing above their heads, and the view of the Deadlands flickered and came to life inside the gate's spindly daedric structure. The whole battleground went silent for a moment as it rose, and Akatosh realized he had never felt fear so prominent in his gut before than looking at the very thing.

"I can't make you do this," Martin murmured, eyes wide and voice barely tangible, and Akatosh let the fear go.

"It's fine," he promised, words slightly muffled by the wound in his cheek and the sounds of battle all around, but it was strong enough to be heard. "I've got this."

He started to head forward, Martin following close behind, both worming their way through the battle for Bruma. "Akatosh-"

"I love you," he spurted out. And as he ran to the Great Gate, rushing through the other dimension before he could change his mind and back out, the hero only fully registered what he had said when he was completely gone.

Chapter Text

As soon as Akatosh entered the portal, he knew something was wrong.

Hardly anything was ever right in Oblivion, of course, but a giant metal gate blocked his view of the Deadlands much like the first part of the realm he had entered so long ago in Kvatch. This time, the gate was much larger, and he could only stand and gape as it opened.

He ran forward, ducking through the opening cracks in fear of it closing shut quicker than it would open. However, it only stopped moving when he was inside its walls, and Akatosh had a feeling that meant that this fight was for him, and him only.

He was met by a large ocean of lava, daedric towers built to look like they may crumble on the spot stretching up to meet the smoke covered skies. Something in the haze gleamed through but he didn't stop to peer much more closely, hearing the snarling of monsters already approaching.

He rushed to the tower on the left, taking a chance, and it crumbled apart at his touch. The Breton charged inside, finding a lever on the other sighs of the wall. He pulled it, hopping on a plate lined with spikes that served as a centerpiece to the room, and the platform began a slow ascent up.

He took the time to catch his breath, heart already racing nearly as fast as the adrenaline in his veins. The Breton could hear a constant pounding noise from outside, and he guessed that it was the dreaded Siege Machine. He had heard about it from the Blades, even caught glimpses of its told power in the many ruins engraved along the Deadlands, and he knew it was only a matter of time before it would be able to crash through those gates and escape into Cyrodiil.

But he would stop it. He was a hero, after all. He had his greatsword, lucky Kvatch armor, dagger, extra potions in his spare bag from Martin-

Martin.

He cursed under his breath as the platform reached halfway to the top of the tower. Why had he been so stupid? The heir probably didn't even- he shouldn't have-

"You better be alive when I come back," Akatosh murmured under his breath, dismissing the train of thought altogether. The platform finally reached the top and he jumped off, glancing down at the small group of scamps hissing at him from underneath his feet. "See you guys!" He taunted, picking a door at random and watching as it broke apart at his will.

Akatosh took off across the narrow bridge. He realized with a start that he was going the wrong way, instead heading towards the tower to the east, but a couple of raging Dremora already blocked his path. They must have come from the tower he had meant to go, he noticed, but it would do little to help him now. He didn't have time to fight.

Akatosh continued on to the wrong tower, pushing his way through the cracking entrance. He was met head-on by the teeth of a Clannfear as it latched onto his left boot, tasting only metal. He kicked it away as the larger enemies started rolling in, bursting out of the tower as he had the one before. Akatosh stumbled across another bridge, this time headed the right way, fingers coming up only once to relieve the constant sting on his cheek. His wound seemed to have re-opened from the earlier battle but there was nothing he could do about it, healing Magicks beyond his range of power.

He was able to glance down, higher than he had been before. He could see past the smoke, spying the Siege. It was a large machine with a fury of spikes at its head, shooting balls of fire at his form but missing all the same. The hero pressed on without another glance, finding the last building from across the ocean of flames.

A group of enemies had gathered by the door, awaiting his arrival, and he untangled a burst of lightning from his fingertips. Akatosh was able to push through the mess, attempting to run down the passageway and back to the ground. Getting an idea, he focused a burst of pure cold in his palms, bending down to let the frost cover the bottom of his boots. The Breton couldn't help but yelp in excitement as he began to skate down the ramp, leaving the daedra behind.

He broke the thin layer of ice when he reached the bottom, heading through the doors. The angry mouth of the Siege glinted at him like a large red eye, watching his trek across the platform leading to the Sigil tower. The beams that held the wide bridge were dotted with glowing ruins, but he didn't have time to read words from the beasts that inhabited the world he was destroying.

Akatosh jogged across, getting a decent look at the side mechanism of the Siege. It was an amazing construct but terrifying all the same, and it had gotten closer. "Damn," he murmured, spitting out some blood that had gotten into his mouth, but he didn't stop moving.

He came to a pause when the bridge broke off, an impossibly large gap between his side and the rest of the way across. Akatosh's eyes widened, strands of sweat-soaked brown hair falling in front of his face and making him wish his helmet hadn't fallen off his head at the battle outside for Bruma. It was a lost cause; he simply couldn't make that jump.

He turned around, cursing as the hero saw the group of approaching enemies. It seemed to be a wave of scamps and Clannfear lead by a few high-ranking Dremora, and they would all reach him within a few seconds. Akatosh turned back to face the edge. Maybe, if he managed to jump far enough, he could grab onto the edge...

But what then? He wasn't strong, there was no way he would be able to hoist himself up from there. He would need a spell or a potion-

He nearly cheered, thoughts clinking together to form a tangible idea. Akatosh wasn't the smartest, memory dysfunctional under pressure and ideas sketchy at best, but even a troll would be able to remember a certain strength potion in their bag.

The hero opened up his borrowed and sadly unenchanted pack, digging through. He threw a few glances over his shoulder, managing to reach his prize as they advanced closer. Akatosh tore off the cork of the bottle, downing the potion in one go and through away the glass. Damning it all to Oblivion he readied himself, backing up only to run forward and give more fuel to his leap.

His heart nearly gave out in the few short seconds when there was nothing but him and gravity in the world, and then he hit the bridge. Hard. Akatosh gasped in surprise, strong arms keeping him from falling, and he hoisted himself over the edge before even his mind could fully catch up. The hero stumbled over the bridge, breathing heavily at the crazy wave of fear, barely managing to duck a spray of arrows.

The hero pressed on, throwing a lightning bolt behind his back whenever an arrow came at him. Either they must be terrible shot or his luck might have started to pull through, but he wasn't going to complain. Akatosh jogged until he reached the end of the walkway, coming short at the sight that awaited.

The Sigil tower looked more deadly and pronounced then it had ever before in the shadows of the Siege, the very top of it opened up instead of closed. He could see the glowing power of the stone inside, it's energy shooting up into the flaming skies and causing waves of thunder to roll through the air.

"World Breaker," he whispered, in awe. It was beautiful.

Akatosh furrowed his eyebrows, running to the side. There wasn't a door waiting for him at the bottom, that he could see, but two world towers flanked its sides. He chose one at random, knowing they would both get him to his destination.

The hero went through the rubble of the entrance way, having to pull out his sword for the first time. It was cool to the touch except when it hit the Dremora, fire bursting at its tip. It was simply enough to distract, Akatosh running up the ramp of the tower without a second thought.

Burning corpses met him on the way, and he didn't make the mistake of looking up. He knew where the monsters kept their prizes; stripped and strung up by their entrails. Akatosh shuddered, running to the Magicka essence near the exit, and he took its power before moving to the lever.

Akatosh pulled it down, flinching at the creaking of old gears as they turned. He heard the surrounding gate as it opened outside the exit way and made to move there, being stop by a blood-curdling screech. Akatosh held up his greatsword, coming to meet the beast. He knew the potion had wore off but adrenaline seemed to be enough, and seconds after yielding his finger reached out to send a blast of cold through the monster's heart.

The Dremora crumbled, not yet dead, and he didn't bother to finish it off. The world needed to be saved, after all. He had better things to do then kill senselessly.

Akatosh gulped down an invisibility potion before blasting through the door, running from the clutter of high-ranking Dremora as they rushed towards the commotion. He allowed himself a grin as he jogged to the tower, the grin spreading as it broke away from its frame and he was let in.

The beam of light that came from the top was larger than it had ever been, a huge mass of heat and raw power in the center of the entrance way. It could only mean the Great Sigil stone was a bigger beauty than the ones before it, tucked away at the temple. He readied himself before dashing through, invisibility washing off and revealing his position, but the hero was already through the Dread Halls.

He ran through the hallway, barely avoiding a barrage of traps that fell from the ceiling. Only the scamps from outside awaited him and they hadn't even caught up, so he allowed himself to slow his pace. His lungs burned and his legs ached, but he supposed running around in another dimension as an army hunts you down will do that to you.

Akatosh waited for the flesh-like material of the citadel door to split apart, pushing through the goo before it was fully open. He went up the ramp and out the hall, onto another level.

The level didn't go out into another hall but instead carried him straight up to the top. As he boarded the walkway, rushing past daedra as he went, he couldn't help the insane buzz of excitement. This, this feeling of rushing through the World Breaker, of any other Sigil Keep, miles of enemies behind your back; there was nothing like it, and only him to take it in.

It was a job for the hero of Kvatch, sure, but to him he almost couldn't live without it.

Akatosh jumped the Dremora at the top, unlatching his ebony dagger from inside his boot and burying it into its skull. He took out the knife just as evenly, giving himself a few breaths. There wouldn't have been another way to easily unlock the door without eliminating its guard, anyway.

He kneeled down, pulling the slit of a key from his neck. It slid into the slot by the entrance door at the top, the door to the Sigilium Sanguis splitting down the middle and letting him through. Akatosh dove in, running through the entrance halls and out into the main section.

The Sanguis' roof was exposed to the thundering skies, and Akatosh could feel the heat from this high up beat down on his form. The smell of smoke was almost intoxicating, the Deadlands pulsing lazily from all around, and he could hear the Siege as it clawed its way to Tamriel.

Akatosh ran up the spiraling ramp to the top, getting out his sword at the Dremora that awaited him. He prepared for a strike but they didn't move, staring at him. Frowning, he approached, giving them a wide berth, and they didn't follow.

The hero put his sword away, confused. The group of monsters he had encountered on the way up waited at the base of the Sanguis, but none moved forward. It was as if they were simply watching, as if they knew something he didn't, and they probably did.

Akatosh quickly ascended to the very top, keeping an eye on his entourage, and they kept their eyes on him. He looked at the Great Sigil stone as it shone on its pedestal, brimming to the top with the same energy that gave the portal power. The whole of existence came to a stop as his hand reached out, but it stilled inches away.

He didn't have time to pause, he knew. But Akatosh- he couldn't.

The thunder stopped, skies darkening, and he looked up as ashes started to fall from the heavens above. It was like the snow that falls everyday in Bruma, dotting his hair with white and spiraling to the ground. He held in his breath, and the Deadlands waited.

Why was he still here? There were people outside the portal, counting on him. He had to take the stone.

But if they did, if he did, Oblivion was closed forever. And it was a strange thing that happened when a mortal entered a realm for the gods. When their soul explored its depths time and time again, becoming part of it. Oblivion was not like Tamriel, not in the slightest, not in any of its different sections. When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee.

"I have to take it," he spoke out, voice loud over the silence that had never been. The words weren't in his own tongue but in the language of the world he had intruded on, of the world that had welcomed him without him ever knowing. "I have to."

The daedra only started forward when his hand touched the stone, but it was too late. It was gone from its pedestal, realm exploding into the richest flames, and the hero of Kvatch was pulled out from the chaos.

He heard the Siege Machine as it broke apart over his head before he saw it, a tumbling mass of machinery that arched over his form. He crouched instinctively, pulling his arms over his mouth to block out the dust and smoke.

His hands clutched tightly to the Great Sigil stone, feeling warm and pure in his hold. Snow crunched under his boots, ashes lost in his hair, brown eyes blinking at the brightness of Tamriel.

Martin's voice wafted over the few excited cheers. "Akatosh?" He shouted, sounding worried, and the Breton crawled out. He couldn't help but glance back at the Siege, big mouth of flames now dead, body halfway through the portal. It was almost poetic, gleaming in the sun's light rays and the snow that had started to fall like ashes, but he wasn't one much for poetry.

"Akatosh!" He found himself stumbling back at the hug, armored arms wrapping around his chest. The hero couldn't stop the laugh from escaping his lips, returning the embrace. Martin pulled away in what felt like too soon, facing his friend. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he promised. "They didn't manage to touch me." Martin brushed a finger against his cheek, the soft glow of Magicka leaving his hand and washing onto his face.

"I don't think I can take away the scar," he admitted, putting down his arm. "But I can at least stop the bleeding. I'm sorry." Akatosh shook his head, dismissing the apology.

"It's fine," he said. "I'm just glad to be back. Look!" He held up the stone, and they both saw as it pulsed and hummed with energy. "We've won!"

"Not yet," Martin reminded, but they shared a smile nonetheless. Akatosh turned away, glancing around. A few lingering soldiers had stayed, some already making the trek back to Bruma, and there was more than a few allies' corpses splayed around with the dead daedra.

"Did Jauffre and Baurus already leave?" He asked. "We should bury the fallen when we have a chance."

"I think the Bruma guard and townsfolk will take care of it," Martin told him. "But we can help after this mess is over." The heir seemed to be avoiding the hero's gaze, and he frowned.

"What's wrong?" He questioned. They had been fine seconds before. "Is it about what I said before I went? Because it's fine if-"

"No!" Martin cut off. "I want to talk to you about that. But," he faltered. "You should take a look around. Near that contraption, at least, but be careful."

Akatosh furrowed his eyebrows, walking clumsily to the machine. He spied the glint of bronze near the first gate's remains, and his jaw dropped. The Breton limped over, coming to a stop in front of the body.

"Baurus!" He yelped, kneeling down. The Redguard was still wearing his helmet, arms spread out on the snow like wings and armor dusted in frost. "How did he-?"

"Same as all the others," Martin answered, walking up behind him. "Protecting the town. Like a hero."

"He is a hero," Akatosh swore. "Is Jauffre the same?"

"I don't know where his body lies, but I recall that it's a tradition of the Blades to bury their fellow knights. I am sure they'll find the Grandmaster." Akatosh scrunched up his features, holding back the tears.

"But we were winning," he muttered. "They were supposed to live!" He looked up at his closest friend, golden armor shining on his chest. "What do we do?"

"We keep fighting," Martin told him. "For them." Akatosh shook his head.

"How are we supposed to? We need Jauffre, and Baurus, and-" he broke off. "This is terrible. I should have been quicker."

"There was nothing you could do, and I mean that when I say it," Martin told him. "We won a great victory today. We now have the means to recover the Amulet of Kings from Mankar Camoran."

"Just like your father asked," he murmured.

"I don't know a thing about my father," Martin told him. "But if I was him, I would be proud of myself for choosing such a righteous hero."

Akatosh looked up. "You think so?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I do." He helped his friend up, both of them on their feet, alone on the broken battle ground. "We need to act quickly. Camoran will not take long to recognize his danger."

"How long do we have, you think?"

"I have no idea," Martin admitted. "But the portal closes behind you. Anything you need, bring, and anything you need done? Finish it."

"I'm all good," he promised. "But what next?"

"I'll have to prepare the ritual," Martin said. "I'll have it ready in the Great Hall."

"Okay," he nodded. "Wait for me there." He left without a farewell, making the jog back to Bruma to ask if he could help bury his friends.

Chapter Text

"It's ready," Martin said, looking down at his friend. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Akatosh answered, sending him a reassuring grin. "I'll come back. I promise you that, Septim."

"We'll see, my friend." The portal erupted from the ground, a mass of gold and pure light, and they both knew it was the way to Paradise.

The hero was seconds from stepping in, foot just leaving the ground, when he heard it.

"I love you, too."

If he listened closely he could catch the singing of birds, sounding true and permanent in the strange world he had intruded on. It was a weird place, even weirder that there was no portal behind him to retreat back in, but he supposed he had never been one to run away from unfamiliar realms.

His feet had landed on a marble pedestal, iron boots thudding against the stand. Large pine trees were stretched to the indigo sky, light wind rustling their leaves. The sun had diminished into a pinkish hue in the horizon, bouncing off the ocean's waves in the distance.

Akatosh took it all in, stepping forward tentatively. A white stone path marked the way he was meant to go, bright purple and blue flowers blooming along the trail. He fingered Baurus' katana, strapped to his waist, newly repaired Kvatch armor set on his chest.

The hero walked only a few paces through the woods before being stopped, a booming voice reaching his ears in Paradise. "So, the cat's paw of the Septims arrives at last."

He drew his dagger, flames igniting at his fingertips. "Hello?"

It continued on as if his words hadn't been said, tone flaunting around him from all directions. "You didn't think you could take me unawares, here of all places? In the Paradise I created?"

He narrowed his eyes, continuing on in the small clearing. It traveled upwards slightly, climbing up a hill, and he ascended the even steps. "Look now, upon my Paradise," it invited, and he did. "Gaiar Alata, in the old tongue. A vision of the past. And the future."

"I'm sure," he murmured, coming to a bridge. It hung over a slow and lazy current down below, and he didn't doubt the fall would kill him.

Akatosh stepped over, walking past to the other side. He was welcomed by an eyeful of autumn-turned trees, standing tall and strong over his head. More flowers bloomed, followed by strongly colored mushrooms, popping up between lush bushes and from rich soil.

"Behold the Savage Garden, where my disciples are tempered for a high destiny: to rule over Tamriel Reborn." Akatosh couldn't tell if his speaker could see his every move, but he didn't feel like taking a chance. "If you are truly a hero of destiny, as I hope, the Garden will not hold you for long. Lift your eyes to Carac Agailor," it told him, but the hero could only see trees. "I shall await you there."

He continued to walk through undisturbed, scenery becoming more lovely as he passed. The trees wilted into spring, full of fresh green blooms and ripening fruits, marble arching over his head. The evening sky was lazily trailed with puffs of clouds, wind stinging at his skin.

He turned the corner, only to be met with a decision. The path was split, one half leading downwards and the other leading up. Frowning, he went right, going down and deeper into Paradise.

The path rounded out, leading into the distance, and the hike continued. With Camoran's voice absent it was silent, and he grew more unnerved with each passing moment.

Akatosh simply didn't understand. He wasn't much good at puzzles or even basic comprehension, as much as he hated to admit, and this was a bigger puzzle than most. This realm seemed to pure, so perfect, but he could feel a darker energy within. Something was terribly off.

Martin had warned him of what may be lurking inside, but this hadn't been anywhere near what he had imagined. It hardly mattered, either way. He had been through the Deadlands countless times, and this was no different. This time, Mankar Camoran was his Sigil stone, and this was just another trek through a hellish word.

He broke into a slow jog as the path cut once more, both choices leading out to either side. Akatosh veered his head to the left, seeing the path slope down, and craned his neck to the right. He immediately jumped back, unsheathing his katana, eyes wide.

The Dremora stalked up to him, beady red eyes trained on his features. He didn't attack yet, though. It seemed to be observing him, armor stained with blood, face broken and covered in a multitude of bruises.

"You destroyed the Sigil tower at Ganonah," it greeted, voice sounding uneasy in Akatosh's tongue. "My kin say you fought well."

He dropped his katana but didn't unsheathe it, loosing the protective stance. "Ganonah?" He repeated, remembering the plains of the Deadlands. He switched languages with some difficulty, words being registered carefully before coming out. "It was an exceptional battle."

"So the legends are true," the Dremora muttered. "Our clan sacked your city of Kvatch... a trifling task fit for scamps. Your swift retribution earned you much respect among my people. We had not expected that a mortal would act with such resolution and honor. It is no dishonor for us to speak, especially if you bare the means to our language."

Akatosh nodded. It was a strange thing between them, a mortal speaking in daedric and a beast speaking as a human. There was an understanding between them, something not tangible but instead felt, felt underneath his skin and deep in his gut.

"I seek Mankar Camoran," he told the daedra, and the other grunted.

"You speak directly like one of my people, almost," it admitted. "I am glad I did not kill you immediately."

He narrowed his eyes, loosing his train of concentration. "What do you want, then?"

It considered. "I am Kathutet," the Dremora told him. "There is one way out of the Garden, and I guard the key to that path. You will travel that path, and it will bring me great honor to defeat you. But..." It hesitated. "You shamed my kin at Ganonah. To bring you into my service will also bring me honor. So I offer you a choice."

He narrowed his eyes, waiting, and Kathutet continued. "Would you confront me in battle? Or will you offer me service?"

Akatosh blinked. This Dremora, offering him a choice? Judging by the armor it wore Kathutet was a Kynval, but he couldn't be sure.

"Is this not demeaning to your own honor?" He taunted. "Allowing a mortal to decide his own fate?"

Kathutet did not grow angry, as Akatosh knew it wouldn't. "I admit, your claim would be true if what you say is correct."

"Oh, but it is."

"No," it reinforced. "What was a daedra is always a daedra, even out of time or place. You have not changed."

"I am no daedra," he promised in a language not his own.

Kathutet chuckled, the sound reverberating through its throat. "What is that mortal saying?" It questioned. "Yes. Every man to his own."

He opened his mouth to object, closing it just as quickly. Akatosh had a choice to make, after all. Honor was a flitting thing, sure, but he cared too much to loose it. Even so, he would abandon it in order to keep his life, but he simply didn't have time to serve while Camoran continued on with his plans.

"I will meet you in battle, Kynval." It appeared to sigh, obviously disappointed.

"Your mind follows the simple path, the choice of an animal," Kathutet told him. "But you have courage, at least. You will fail, mortal, and then where will you be? Dead, and nothing."

"Oh, but you have it wrong," he told Kathutet, drawing his katana. "I will take the key from your corpse."

"So be it." The Dremora charged forward with a blade he didn't see, aiming to slice his head off cleanly. Akatosh moved, but the edge of his neck was snagged by the tip of the sword.

Its enchantment rippled across the decent wound, flames licking at his exposed skin. He gasped in a mixture of surprise and pain, raising a hand to the thin cut, and the Kynval took that as an opening. This time, Akatosh met him with Akaviri metal, sending a high-powered charge of electricity down the length of his sword.

He hadn't planned very well, current sending some feedback down his way, but it produced the desired affect. Both he and Kathutet were knocked apart, gaining the hero some space.

"You have unusual methods, Breton," it told him, sounding snarky.

"Glad to hear it," the hero replied. "And the name's Akatosh, daedra." He raced forward, swinging his katana, at it managed to catch his enemy by surprise. The end of his sword was lodged deep into the Dremora's thick skin, and he used the distraction to launch himself on top of the beast.

Akatosh doused his hands in flames, letting the fire consume Kathutet. In a quick span of seconds he launched a field of frost over the Kynval, ending the spread of heat and taking out his dagger.

"Give me the key," he threatened, holding the ebony weapon to its throat. "You have lost."

It looked at him, long and hard, red irises gazing into his soul. Akatosh gave a sudden gasp as his shoulder was struck, body jerking, and his hand was forced forward in the motion. The blade cut cleanly through the Kynval's neck but he could barely see it, falling over.

It was an arrow- he could see its daedric-made tip poke through his cuirass, longer than any type he had seen in Cyrodiil. It was lodged straight through his right shoulder, and he tried to bend over, only managing to jerk wildly. Black dots were starting to take over his vision but he couldn't let them, couldn't let himself fall into unconsciousness.

"Divines," he got out, coughing up spots of blood. He dug into his bag, ripping off the strap and dumping out all its contents. Potions spilled onto the marble path, some cracking, and he took some of the healing bottles and downed them.

Akatosh winced as the liquid crawled down his throat, tasting copper. Remembering what Martin had done for his countless scrapes, he brought a trail of frost over the wound, trying to numb the pain. The hero twitched crazily, unused to damage this extreme, and he brought his hands away when he nearly conjured a spike of ice to impale him.

He needed to get the arrow out, that was for sure. It didn't appear to have struck any vitals but it hurt like Oblivion, and he doubted he would live very long with the amount of blood he was using. Sending a quick prayer to the gods, he tightened his fingers around the arrow's shaft, tugging it as hard as he could.

Akatosh screamed, falling forward and back onto the ground. He didn't know how much it had moved, didn't know if it had even moved at all. The hero struggled to sit up, panting. This was pretty bad.

He needed another strength potion. Scooting over to the torn bag, he searched through its scattered contents, finding the ornate bottle. It had suffered a crack in its side, liquid oozing out, but the half left was enough. He brought it to his lips and drank, waiting for the extra kick of brewed Magicka.

Taking another healing potion, he brought his fingers to the arrow once more, readying himself. With a hard pull he slid the entire weapon piece out, letting it clatter to the floor. Akatosh seethed, blacking out for a few seconds, allowing himself the small token of rest.

The Breton had no clue where to go from there. He was fresh out of healing potions, and he doubted he could hold on until the battle with Mankar Camoran.

He closed his eyes, thinking, body sprawled out on the ground and hands putting pressure to his shoulder. Back at Cloud Ruler Temple, when he had been training with Baurus and Martin, the heir had warned him never to attempt healing Magick unless there was no other choice. It was arguably one of the most tricky schools to learn, and the easiest to go awry, but he didn't think he had a choice.

He didn't have any supplies or help, and he was short on time. Sitting back up, he pulled away his hands, taking a shaky breath. He had practiced conjuring the actual Magicks with Martin, and he knew he just needed to focus.

Akatosh let the full pain of the wound get to him, imagining it consuming his whole body. He clenched his fists, closing his eyes, focusing his raw emotions into energy.

He could see a burst of golden light behind his eyelids, and he opened them, watching as the stream of gold swarmed up his arms and struck his shoulder. It was a tricky thing to cast, flitting and spanning, as if it might erupt into flames and destroy him at any second. Akatosh tried to keep the flow going, doing his best not to fall unconscious, and only had it die out after a few minutes.

The hero breathed in deeply, prodding his shoulder. He thanked the Divines when it only gave into a few waves of pain, and it would have to do for now. He shakily got to his feet, feeling lightheaded, and stumbled over to Kathutet.

The Dremora was dead, that was for sure, and he couldn't muster up any pity. He looked for a key but found none, instead being drawn to the set of arm braces on it's wrists. They came off with a simple tug, glowing ruby red, inscribed with unintelligible symbols.

Akatosh furrowed his eyebrows. He had a feeling this was it, and his gut was yet to let him down. He pulled the bands over each hand, watching as they clicked in place, and he gasped in surprise as a field of red overtook his skin.

It didn't hurt, and he frowned. It seemed like some sort of enchantment. Not caring to test it out, he stood, attempting briefly to pull the braces off. They didn't yield, and he knew he was stuck with them.

"How little you understand," Mankar mocked him. "You cannot stop Lord Dagon."

He huffed. "Shut up!"

Akatosh stood there, waiting, but Camoran's voice did not come again. Making sure he had all his weapons, leaving the bag behind, the hero started forward to the cave recently blocked by the dead Kynval.

The entrance was sealed by a boulder, depicting strange drawings and more ruins. Akatosh raised his hands to push it, jumping back when it burst apart. He nodded to himself, drawing up some courage.

"I will stop you, Camoran," he whispered. "You can count on it."

Akatosh stepped forward, into the darkness. It sloped downwards, farther away from the light outside. The Breton's feet splashed in water, the Grotto inside drowned and flooded.

He made his way through the tunnels, wishing for a torch, but he didn't dare waste anymore Magicka. His eyes made out people, standing in silence, the immortal reincarnations of fallen Dawn.

Akatosh pushed on, brushing passed the enemies. There was no point in striking them down, that he knew, and they saw no victory within slaying him.

He climbed up a slanted hill within the Grotto, leaving behind the pool of murky water. A Clannfear came at him and he struck it down with a simple swipe of his katana, hurrying onwards. More of its kind met him on the journey through the caves, just as easily brought down, and his shoulder had began to ache as he killed the last of them.

Akatosh was met by another boulder, crumbling just as the last as soon as it was touched by the bands. He kicked his way through the rubble, having to back away as a scamp lunged at him through the dust.

He killed it swiftly, rushing into the new area of the cave, and two of the Mythic Dawn ran at him. Akatosh blocked their strikes, dodging rapid balls of fire that had no true aim. There were trenches filled with boiling lava in the area so he pushed one of his attackers down into them, stabbing the other in the head.

Akatosh made to continue through the side passage, another robed figure coming out of the darkness as he attempted to pass. He swung his sword but was stopped, a hand lashing out to grab his wrist and stop the attack.

"Wait!" The figure ordered. "I'm not here to hurt you!"

Akatosh narrowed his eyes. He tried to tug himself out of the grasp, failing, and was forced to submit. "What do you want, elf?"

It had to be an elf, judging by the sound of his voice and the tall, willowy stature. He simply didn't have time to wait, but it didn't seem like he got to choose, either.

"You wear the bands of the Chosen," he observed, gesturing towards the braces on his wrist. "But you are no prisoner."

"They're the key to getting out of here," he muttered, trying to grab for his knife. The stranger saw what he was doing before he could get it, taking his other hand and slamming it against the cave wall.

"Who are you?" The elf asked. "What are you doing here?"

Akatosh gritted his teeth. It hurt more than he wanted it to, and his shoulder was complaining. "I'm here to kill Mankar Camoran."

He could see pale skin in the darkness of the cave, eyes widening under his hood. "Really?" The elf asked. "You truly think you can do it? Can you bring this eternal nightmare to an end?"

"Nightmare?" He questioned. "Paradise seems pretty sweet, especially for the damned souls who reside in here."

The elf backed off, allowing him freedom, but he didn't strike. "They hunt us down everyday," he said. "The beasts. Daedra. And each time we are killed, we are brought back, only to live through it again."

"Why would Camoran do that to his own followers?"

"I do not know," the elf admitted. "Listen. I can help you. You need my help if you are ever to leave the Forbidden Grotto."

Akatosh crossed his arms, being mindful of his wound. "Why is that?"

"The same binds that allow you in here will keep you from getting out," he said. "The next door will not open to those who bear the bands of the Chosen."

Akatosh blinked. He supposed that explained why Kathutet gave him a choice. Either way, if the elf was telling the truth, the Kynval thought him to be dead meat.

"Who are you?" He asked, deciding to place his trust.

"I am Eldamil," he introduced. "You?"

"Akatosh. The mortal one," he added, before his new companion could get out the question. "Tell me, why would you want to help me? Why should I believe you won't betray me?"

"I was at the sack of Kvatch," Eldamil admitted. "They had no chance. We took them by surprise, and we carried the walls in the first assault. But," he paused. "But they fought on, anyway. Desperately. They seemed to think this decadent, mundane world of theirs was worth living."

Akatosh put away his katana, listening, and Eldamil continued. "I was slain after the battle was over. Three townsfolk hiding in the cellar attacked me when I entered their house, hunting down survivors. They tore me to pieces, although I have no doubt they were immediately killed by my companions."

"Okay?"

"I've had..." He sighed. "I've had plenty a time to ponder my deeds as I came here. Ponder, and regret. And eternity of regret. For my weakness, the Master sent me here. To torture my fellow comrades who showed similar ingratitude for his gift of eternal life."

Akatosh considered. "I believe you," he decided. "But how can you help me?"

Eldamil smiled, lifting off his hood, and although he couldn't see the elf's features he appreciated the gesture.

"I can remove the bands," he said. "But I will need time. The Dremora overseer will be here anytime to check up on me. You need to play along until he leaves."

"How?"

"Just act like a prisoner, and do as I say," he told the hero. "Once Orthe leaves, we can find a quiet spot to remove those bands."

He nodded, understanding. "I should probably give you my weapons," he realized. "But I'm keeping my dagger. And I will not hesitate to carve out your heart if you try anything."

"I won't," he swore, but there was only so far Akatosh could go. The Breton slung off his greatsword, hiding a pang of displeasure in his chest as it was given away. He unstrapped Baurus' katana as well, handing it over once Eldamil had secured his sword.

"You need to be careful with this," he said, tightening the straps around Eldamil's waist. "It belongs to a friend."

"I'll guard it with my life," he told the other. "Now, come on. Follow me."

He was lead away from the side passage, going out into the adjoining room. There was another trench filled with lava, a cage hanging over its depths, and he came to a stop by the edge.

They didn't have to wait long before Eldamil's superior came out, finding him instantly. "What's going on in here?" Orthe questioned. "Who's this?"

"A prisoner," Eldamil said. Orthe was a bulky daedra, strong horns protruding from his forehead and eyes a deep coal black. "He was sent in by-"

"Show me some respect, worm," the Dremora warned, Akatosh keeping his head bowed. His brown hair flailed around his cheeks, falling into chocolate colored eyes that burned holes into the soil under his boots.

"Yes, of course, sir," Eldamil backtracked. "This prisoner was sent in by Kathutet for questioning. I was just about to begin."

"This is not one of Mankar Camoran's chattels from the garden," Orthe observed. "Who is he?"

"Nothing escapes your great knowledge, sir," Eldamil praised, though he could hear the evident sarcasm. "Kathutet wanted to know the same. This is why he was sent in for questioning."

"Well, carry on," he ordered, and Eldamil nodded.

"Prisoner," he demanded, voice strict. "Get in the cage!" Akatosh was forced to follow, hesitating only slightly as his weight tested the durability of the cage. It was crudely made, tittering slightly as he got in, and as the door closed behind his back it shook.

Akatosh held in a shout as it started to go down, sending Eldamil a fearful look, but he didn't catch his companion's expression. His sight was obscured by the inside of the trench, boiling lava getting closer and closer. Just as he was afraid it was about to go in the cage stopped, liquid inches away from his feet.

The cage slowly started to rise back up, and he was greeted by Eldamil's face looking worriedly at him. Orthe lay dead at his feet, presumably struck by surprise.

"There's no way I can get to you from there," he called. "But I know a different way through. Just keep going! I'll meet you there with your weapons."

"Got it," he promised, and the cage door opened up to the opposite side. "And thanks."

"No problem," Eldamil replied. "Now go!" He obliged, stepping out quickly, and Eldamil disappeared into another passage. Akatosh jogged out, following the cave and heading right.

There were more torture chambers on the way, and it proved to be a challenge to get through all the Mythic Dawn with such a small weapon. He was grateful for the time when daggers had been all that he had used, able to get through with only a few cuts and scrapes.

Akatosh ran through the tunnels swiftly, coming out after a near hour of being hunted down by enemies. Sure enough, Eldamil rushed over to meet him at a small clearing, looking exhausted but grinning all the same.

"You made it!" He exclaimed. "I didn't doubt you would be able to get through."

Akatosh laughed. "You should have," he said, taking back his katana. Eldamil moved to unstrap the greatsword but he shook his head, holding out a hand. "It's fine," he said. "Why don't you hang onto that until this is over?"

Eldamil nodded, smile spreading. "Let me take off those bands," he proposed, and Akatosh straightened out his arms. His companion shot a thread of red-hot Magicks at the braces and they flew off at the strike, thudding as they hit the ground.

"That's amazing," he breathed. "You wouldn't by any chance know healing, would you? I'm not that good at it."

"Where's the wound?" He asked. Akatosh jutted out his right shoulder.

"Outside, I was battling Kathutet," he explained. "He managed to push an arrow through my shoulder while I was distracted. I pulled it out and tried to heal but I think it's starting to open back up."

Eldamil reached for the wound, and he winced. "Try to spare the armor?" He asked. "It's grown on me." It was probably the only reason he lugged around the cuirass at this point, and if it was good enough for Savlian it was good enough for him.

"Of course," the elf promised, and blue light flowed from his fingertips and into the wound. It did its job in a matter of seconds, taking away the ache and leaving only a scar behind. "You did pretty good before," Eldamil told him. "Just need some practice, but you healed most of the damage."

"I've got a great instructor," he replied. "Now what?"

"Well," he considered the question. "You're not a prisoner of the Forbidden Grotto anymore. You're free to continue on. But..."

"What's wrong?"

"Let me come with you," he proposed. "Let me help you kill Mankar Camoran. I am not without power."

"Sure," Akatosh answered. "I'd be glad to have your help."

Eldamil grinned. "I'm not match for the Master," he admitted. "But perhaps together we can find a way to defeat him." Akatosh shared his hopes. "Lead on."

The hero clapped his companion on the back before descending deeper into the cave, turning left and heading through its tunnels. A Clannfear jumped out but he stabbed it in the head instantly, kicking its corpse away.

Mankar's voice came back to haunt him. "Well done, champion!" He congratulated. "Your progress is swift and sure."

Akatosh glanced behind him at his friend. "You can hear that, right?"

"Indeed," he murmured. "Let's just continue."

The Breton silently agreed, heading into deeper darkness, but their watcher didn't stop. "Perhaps you will reach me after all," he considered. "You think I mock you? Not at all. In your coming, I hear the footsteps of Fate. You are the last and greatest defender of decadent Tamriel, and I am the midwife of the Mythic Dawn, Tamriel reborn."

Akatosh only sighed, but admittedly, his attention was drawn. He rounded the corner, being ambushed by a couple of scamps, but Eldamil killed them before he could react.

They went along through a series of torture chambers, enemies admittedly weaker than they should have been, and it smelled too strongly of a trap. Akatosh brushed that off. They didn't have the luxury to think this through, only push on.

"I welcome you," Mankar continued, just as he did in the Grotto. "At least, if you truly are the agent of Fate, hero of Cyrodiil. I tire of the self-styled heroes who set themselves on my path, only to be proven unworthy in the event. But I have a feeling, as does my Lord, that you are not like them."

His speech stopped just as their path did, the cave ending at the last door to outside. And Akatosh?

He went onward.

They were greeted by Paradise's lovely land, flowers smelling sweetly of nectar and skies still a rosy evening color. He could feel the wind blow across his sweat-covered face, hear Eldamil's laugh of joy, but the singing of birds was now absent.

"We're so close, Akatosh!" He promised. "I can taste the victory."

"I hope it tastes sweet," he replied, looking out into the horizon. He could spot the ocean still, calm and glimmering in a sun that wasn't there, and he could see why so many had fought to reach this realm.

"Let us continue," Eldamil invited, holding the hero's greatsword in his hands. "Mankar Camoran will suffer just like he ought to."

"Yeah," Akarosh agreed, and they started to walk up the marble path. "Eldamil?"

"Yes?" The Breton thought for a moment.

"What are you going to do?" He asked. "I mean, after we kill Mankar." There war wasn't over yet but it was drawing to a close, and he could use the elf's help to end it in their favor.

"Well, I'll be dead, I suppose." His hood was down, silvery hair pulled into a low ponytail. Amber eyes looked at the serene world around, framed by pale skin, and he smiled even then.

"Dead?"

"Well, Camoran is what holds my soul here," he said. "He won't once we kill him. I have no body to return to, and even now, I have no life."

"But you..." He trailed off. "You would still help me?"

"Of course," Eldamil said. "It's only right I die. I deserve this punishment even more, admittedly, but my suffering is not worth your own victory."

"I don't know what to say," he realized.

"You don't have to say anything," Eldamil shrugged. "You're the hero, here. And I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out to be the greatest hero Nirn ever knows. You, my friend, don't owe me a thing."

"You really think that?" He questioned, and Eldamil laughed.

"I wouldn't be able to think any different," he replied. They neared the hill's top. "Now, actually, I have a small request. And I doubt you will have trouble fulfilling it, if you choose to accept."

"Of course," he promised. "What is it?"

Eldamil actually stopped, looking him in the eye. "Never become what I did," he begged. "You, Akatosh, are a better person than I have had the pleasure of knowing in a long time. Don't stoop to the level that I have, that others have done before me. Kill with a faithful purpose, not with the means to pleasure or wrongdoing." He faltered, continuing upwards, and Akatosh followed. "Be a hero."

"Of course," he said. "I promise."

It was an Ayleid temple. Not a ruin, but a temple, glimmering and standing tall, architecture intricate and deserving of great praise. Akatosh gasped, seeing the blooming gardens held inside and the way it stretched to the heavens, unable to register the sight in his mind.

They walked in, stepping towards the entrance, open to the outside. Akatosh made sure to catch all that he could of the beautiful place he had wandered into, not seeing the figure rushing toward them.

"Watch out!" Eldamil wanted, drawing Akatosh's sword, and the shorter turned. It was a woman, a woman he recognized, dressed in the same robes he had killed her in.

"You did not expect to see me again, did you?" Ruma Camoran asked, teasing, Altmer eyes flashing dangerously. He unsheathed his katana. "You have no grasp of the power that my father holds at his command."

"What do you want?" He sighed, ready to slit her throat for the second time. "I'm a little busy."

"You think you can stop us?" She seethed. "Soon Mehrunes Dagon will walk upon Tamriel for the first time since the Mythic Age, and our victory will be complete." She took in a deep breath. "Come," she invited, sounding sweet. "My father is waiting to welcome you to Carac Agailor."

He and Eldamil both shared a look, having to oblige. He brushed passed her and who appeared to be her brother, walking into the entrance of the Ayleid structure. It was even more beautifully built on the inside, walls carved with words in a forgotten tongue and low blue lights giving brightness to the interior, but he only had so long to gape.

Mankar was seated on an elegant stone throne atop several rows of stairs, dressed in a unique set of blue and gold robes. His face was oh-so precious, holding a set of glittering blue eyes and a row of white teeth that was used to show off a bright smile.

His children stopped near the door, Eldamil several paces behind as Camoran addressed the hero. "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel."

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he quirked, and his rival only chuckled, irises showing mirth.

"You are the last gasp of a dying age," he told the Breton, voice less ethereal sounding than it had been before in person. "You breathe the stale air of false hope. How little you still understand! You cannot stop Lord Dagon," and it was another claim he would have to prove wrong. "The walls between our worlds are crumbling. The Mythic Dawn grows nearer with every rift in the firmament. Soon, very soon, the lines now blurred will be erased. Tamriel and Oblivion rejoined, the Mythic Age reborn!"

Akatosh snorted, holding his katana tight in his hands. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, but I would," he agreed. "Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade. The new age shall rise from the ashes of the old. My vision shall be realized. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire. My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery. The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. And the last defender of the Septim line stands before me, in the heart of my power."

"You don't understand, Camoran," Akatosh intruded, and the mer let him speak. "I will defeat you, and I will save Tamriel. Nothing has stopped me this far. What makes you think you will?"

"If that is what you believe," Mankar said. "Then let us see who has proved stronger."

He drew his staff, his children coming forward. "I've got them!" Eldamil promised, charging towards the back. "Good luck, Akatosh!"

And then he was on his own.

The Breton went first, aiming for a nice clean hit across the Altmer's neck. Mankar dodged, shooting a string of lightning at him from his mage stick, and he jumped back just in time.

The brunet tried to cut at his legs, being blocked with a kick to the stomach. He stepped in close, igniting his fingertips with fire, but the Magicks only lasted a few seconds against Mankar's enchanted robe.

"Akatosh, did your friend say?" He seemed to consider the name humorous, and the hero replied by striking out towards his heart. It was, of course, dodged, and Camoran laughed. "Just a question, you know. Perhaps if you-"

"You sure talk a lot, you know that?" He interrupted, encasing his fist in ice before swinging it at his enemy's face. The punch connected, jaw cracking, and Camoran stumbled back. He used the opportunity to lunge again with Baurus' katana, being brought down by a heavy charge of electricity.

They both backed up, recovering, and Camoran glared. "Nice hit," he snarked. "It's the only one you'll be getting." He charged his staff again, more lightning spraying at his body, and Akatosh was shot back.

He landed hard at the base of the steps, temple banging against the stone floor. Akatosh managed to roll out of the way of another strike, getting to his feet, but his attack was slightly slowed due to the sudden wave of nausea.

Mankar sighed, stepping out of the attack's range. "You're already proving to be disappointing," he remarked. "And here I had such high hopes."

Akatosh grunted, legs giving under, katana dropping to the ground. He coughed, hands bracing the ground to keep him from face-planting, and Camoran laughed. "This is the pitiful excuse for a hero Fate throws my way?" He taunted. "It brings me little honor to kill you."

He brought down the end of his staff hard, Eldamil shouting out from afar. Akatosh rolled out of the way swiftly, dropping the façade, and Mankar stumbled as his attack hit the ground. The hero quickly jabbed Martin's dagger in his rival's heart, catching Camoran before he could fall.

Akatosh set the man to the ground, pulling out his ebony knife. His children had stopped fighting, gazing at him in terror, and Eldamil held wonder in his gaze. Mankar stared up at him, bleeding out, not yet dead.

"Mankar Camoran," he whispered, voice soft. "You feel that pain, deep in your heart?" He heard as Eldamil made quick work of the other two robed Altmers with his greatsword, keeping his distance when Mankar nodded shakily. "That is nothing compared to the pain that the survivors of Kvatch feel everyday. Nothing compared to Count Cheydinhal's pain as he grieves for his son each day, or to the empire at the death of their King." He took in a deep breath. "What you feel is not a thing next to all the ones you have made suffer, and your life is worth even less compared to theirs."

His fingers ripped the Amulet of Kings from around Mankar's neck, holding the precious necklace in his hand. "As you die, wherever your soul may take you, my only wish is that you understand two things." The whole world came to a standstill, realm trembling at every word, but he knew it would hold on. "One of them, to finally understand their grief. And the other?" A tear fell down Mankar's cheek, and he brushed it away, determination set in the hero's features. "To know that I will do anything to take away all their pain."

He stood, holding his knife and the Amulet, watching as Mankar's life left his form. The hero of Kvatch didn't have time to say his goodbyes to Eldamil as the roof fell over his head, only managing to grab his katana as Akatosh was carried away into sweet oblivion.

Chapter Text

"You did good, you know."

Akatosh blinked, the sentence traveling to his ears and waking him from his slight daze. His arms were wound tightly around Martin, the horse they were riding on just beginning to leave the snowy mountains of Bruma behind.

He considered that for a moment. It was late, stars dotting the sky, and they didn't have a torch to light the way. Only instinct, at this point, and luck.

He lit a flame in his hands. "Thanks, your Majesty."

"Don't call me that," Martin barked out, sounding hurt, and he realized his mistake.

"Sorry."

They rode in silence a bit longer, only the pounding of hooves interrupting the serenity of night. "What happened in Paradise, Akatosh?" Martin asked him, using the name he had given the hero himself, and he swallowed.

"I already told you," he said. "It was this kind of heavenly world, and I went through it and into this grotto-"

"I mean," he interrupted. "What you haven't told me." The Breton shrugged.

"The details aren't important," and they both knew it was a lie.

"You don't have your greatsword anymore," the heir noticed.

"I suppose I don't," he agreed. Martin turned on the Imperial roads, following the signs. He had to marvel at how good the former priest steered his horse, having much more control than he had in his short time of riding. It was interesting, to say the least, and did enough to distract him for the time being.

"You know," the Imperial said. "There was once a time when you would only take that cursed weapon off to sleep. It was the first trophy you ever had to prove of your hardships, the sword you grabbed from the corpse of a beast who killed your comrade." He let that sink in, just for a mere moment. "But now, you aren't even fazed that it is lost forever."

It stung, sure, but Akatosh kind of deserved it. "It served a purpose."

"Akatosh," he scolded, and the shorter narrowed his eyes.

"Martin!" He snapped, and the heir stopped. He let the fire fall away, already feeling the guilt as it pounded against his heart. "Sorry."

Martin was quiet. "We're about to go to war," he muttered, voice hushed, just above a whisper. "If I must fight the beasts of the Deadlands, so be it, but I will not fight with you. After this... it may be over, for either one of us."

"Don't say that," he demanded. "We stick together."

"But if you die-"

"I won't," he swore.

"Then, then what if I do?" Martin asked. "What then?"

"If you die," he faltered, and then he was speaking in the tongue of the daedra. "Then I kill myself along with you." And Martin didn't dare to ask what he had said.

They strode up along the walkway to the Imperial City's main gate, the sun starting to crawl up into the sky's depths. It blinked at them through the gaps of leaves in the trees, sunlight making the marble of the city shine.

Martin got off his horse swiftly, helping the brunet down. Akatosh let one of the stable workers take their steed, following his soon-to-be emperor.

The knights at the gate let them pass, throwing a few curious glances at the armor Martin wore. Any marks of battle it had before had been cleaned off, golden metal shining beautifully on his chest. Akatosh smiled at Martin when the former priest caught his gaze, leading them through the city.

"Okay," he said. "Ocato should be in the White-Gold tower. We need to get you crowned, first."

Martin blinked. "I suppose," he said. "But shouldn't we light the Dragonfires before the whole ceremony?"

"It's not a ceremony yet," he promised. "We don't have time for that." He considered. "Uh, before the battle for Bruma, Jauffre told me what we were supposed to do if and when we got to this point. I didn't think I would have to take charge," Akatosh admitted. "My memory isn't that good, really, but I do remember that he said we had to get you crowned first."

"Why?" Martin asked. "Mehrunes Dagon could be coming at anytime."

"A minute or two won't change anything," he promised. "And if anything, it's what Uriel would have wanted."

Martin seemed to understand. "For my father, then," he said. The hero ignored all the mysterious glances being set their way, keeping one hand on the hilt of Baurus' katana as they went through another section of the city.

The Talos Plaza was magnificent, and he had to bet it was the most well-kept area in the entire hold. It almost appeared empty, not many people up this early, but it didn't mar the elegance of its tall buildings and polished statues. They went through one more gate, entering the Palace district, and it seemed too familiar for an area he had only entered twice before.

The Elven gardens gave off the scent off sweet-smelling flowers, the White-Gold tower stretching to the heavens where it could be seen from even the mountains of Skyrim. Akatosh's iron boots thudded on the stone grounds, leading Martin up the stairs.

They walked through the doors, the inside of the Palace dark and silent. It was out of respect, he knew, glancing at the guards standing by the door and waiting for the warning. It didn't come, but instead sounded a quiet gasp of surprise.

"Emperor Septim?" One murmured, as to not break the everlasting peacefulness of the building, and Martin smiled.

"Not yet," he answered. "Could you tell me where Chancellor Ocato is?" The guard nodded.

"Just the door ahead," he answered, and Martin thanked him. Akatosh opened the door for his friend, now unlocked unlike how it had been the last time he had visited, and the taller sent him a nod as he entered.

Ocato was dressed in silk velvet robes, head held high as he stood in wait. He greeted them with a large smile, addressing Akatosh.

"I have been expecting you," he said, Martin watching the exchange. "The full Council has already considered the matter of Martin's claim to the Imperial Throne in detail."

The hero nodded, tattered Kvatch cuirass displayed on his torso. "Okay," he responded. "And?"

He stared as the Chancellor kneeled down, facing his best friend. His mouth opened, words on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't get a letter out as the doors stormed open.

"Chancellor Ocato!" The guard from outside interrupted, and Akatosh looked over with a painful weight settling in his gut. "We're under attack!"

"What?" He asked, and the warrior looked at him.

"Oblivion gates have opened all around the city," he told them. "You have to help!"

"C'mon," he grunted out. "Lead me there." He glanced behind. "Martin, you should stay here."

"It's Dagon, Akatosh!" He urged. "You can't light the Dragonfires without the Amulet of Kings," he reminded, said necklace strung across his neck. "And you can't use the Amulet without me."

The Breton made a strange noise in his throat even he couldn't explain. "How many?" He asked. "On the way to the Temple District, that is."

"The Temple District?" The guard asked, and he nodded anxiously. "Two, I think, on either side. Maybe more." He inhaled deeply.

"Fine, Septim," he consented. "Just stick by me, okay? Don't leave my side."

"Of course," he swore, and the Breton barely had time to appreciate the promise. "Let's go."

"After you," he told the warrior, and he lead them out of the tower. Sure enough, the morning skies had been taken by fire, blood red lightning streaking across its length. He could hear the screams of citizens and snarling of monsters, the very essence of the Deadlands pushing itself to his home.

"Watch out!" One of the guards called, readying an arrow at an approaching Clannfear. Akatosh kicked it away swiftly, crushing its fragile skull with the heel of his iron boot. He wasn't about to let anything touch Martin.

There was a small group of soldiers waiting for them by the base of the structure, ready for orders, and Akatosh stepped aside as Martin took charge. "Let's get on with it!" He shouted out, and the mere sentence was enough to get them cheering.

He let wave after wave of lightning fall out from his fingertips as they walked along the gardens, too many monsters on the main path. Akatosh considered it for a moment, finding Martin beside him.

"Come on," he muttered, grabbing the taller's hand. Martin said something but he didn't hear it, leading them through a small trail in the gardens. They stepped over graves and little clumps of mushrooms, but the not nearly as much daedra rushed over there to meet them.

He didn't let go of the hand gripping his own as Akatosh pushed his way through the doors, their small army following quickly. More guards awaited them at the battle outside, two large gates to Oblivion blocking off the path to the Temple's entrance. Group after group of nasty beasts came out of the twin portals, all heading for the heir.

"We need to get to the Temple, and fast," he told his best friend. Martin murmured something in agreement, exact words lost in the screeching of the gates. "Listen, can you hear me?"

Martin nodded, diverting his attention from the chaos to the hero, and Akatosh continued. "I'm going to go scout out the area near the gates. I need you to stay right here." He didn't let go of the Imperial's hand until its owner agreed, running from the door and towards the Temple.

Akatosh dove through the few enemies that approached, unsheathing his katana. He held it in one hand, taking out his ebony dagger in the other. He only made it a few paces past the right gate before stopping, jaw dropping at the sight that awaited him.

Mehrunes was a being unbelievably terrifying, skin a dark red that burned the air around it. He wore no clothes, naked form taller than the Temple itself, four arms wielding a single gigantic axe. He couldn't see the Prince's face but the Lord could apparently see him, stepping forward to crush the hero underneath a huge, clawed foot.

Akatosh scrambled away before he could get caught, running back. One of his iron boots got caught on the ground and he fell forward, face planting onto the floor. The hero gasped, struggling back to his feet, racing faster than he ever had before in an attempt to make it back to Martin.

He raced up the steps to where the Imperial had waited, his face clammy and pale, and Martin managed to catch him before he could fall once more. "He's here," Akatosh whispered, shaking against Martin's chest, and the world seemed to fall apart at that moment. "It was all for nothing. Lord Dagon is here."

He felt Martin stiffen, closing his eyes and waiting for the heir to give up. He certainly had. All the long months spent in preparation for this moment, all the people who had died just so Tamriel would live- it was all for nothing.

Surprisingly, Martin gently pushed him away, and his eyes weren't on the daedric Prince. They were on him.

"He is not your Lord," Martin promised. "Do not insult yourself with such a claim."

"Martin-" he was swiftly cut off.

"No!" He urged, and his voice was strong, even as their comrades fought to protect the two with the last of their lives. "He has not won yet."

"Then what are we going to do?" Akatosh asked. He hadn't felt this small and helpless for what seemed like millennia, back in the Imperial Prison when Uriel Septim had died in front of his face. "He's here. Lighting the Dragonfires won't help us anymore."

Martin fingered his Amulet, thinking deeply. He grasped it tightly in his hold as a spark of determination flickered in his irises, and for that, it was enough to convince the hero they were going to be saved.

"I have an idea," he said. "Follow me. I need you to be my guard."

Adrenaline rushed into his veins, confidence finding its way back into his heart. "I think I'm a bit more than that by now, Septim," he quipped in a voice only slightly shaky, holding his katana in both hands. His dagger had been lost but somehow, he knew he would find it again. Martin Septim had given it to him, after all.

"I agree," Martin replied, and the look in his eyes couldn't be anything other than love. "Come on."

He lead him down the stairs once more, diving past the still grouping monsters. Akatosh managed to slay several measly scamps along the way, but he didn't know if his luck would last against just as many Dremora. "Ocato!" He called out, sending up a flare of fire and ice, and the Chancellor looked their way from where he was healing his soldiers.

The mage seemed to understand, racing over, and it was one more warrior to stick by Martin's side as he saved the world. The Imperial didn't dare look at Dagon as they passed the gate, and he was the first one to enter the Temple.

"Don't let anyone come in here," he told Ocato, only slightly squeamish at the fact that he was bossing around the head of the Imperial Council. The Altmer didn't even blink, nodding in promise, and he pushed away the bit of wonder to deal with bigger problems.

Akatosh closed the door to the Temple of the One, breathing in heavily with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Martin was standing in the center of the building, waiting, head hung and eyes closed.

The hero of Kvatch stepped closer, boots sounding loud against the sudden silence. The sounds of battle outside were muted by the strong walls around them, and he knew that for this moment, they were protected by the Divines.

"What are you thinking?" He murmured, stopping in front of his best friend. It was hard to think back to when they first met, when he had been prepared to leave Kvatch to its fate just to snag Martin from the chapel. He was thankful, now, that the heir had refused to leave until the gate had been sealed.

Martin smiled gently, cupping his face, thumb tracing over the faint scar on his cheek. "I've made decision," he admitted. "It might be the only one I'll ever make as emperor, if I even am just that. But it'll be the most important decision I've ever made, too."

"I know," he whispered. "And I know you're making the right one."

"How?"

"Because it's you," Akatosh answered simply. "And I trust you." Martin looked at him, carefully.

"I'm not doing this for Tamriel," he admitted. "Or for the Divines. Not really." He pressed their foreheads together. "When I'm gone, I want you to know why."

"Gone?"

Martin closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "I'm doing this for you." He pushed their lips together, and it may as well had been his first kiss. It was over in a span of seconds, and then Martin was pushing him away, regret shining in his eyes like a beacon to lead the hopes of his people to victory.

The heir tore the Amulet of Kings from his neck, dropping it in front of his feet and crushing it with the underside of his boot. Akatosh screamed out as his closest friend was swallowed in a burst of golden light, falling to the ground a mere few feet away from the scene as Dagon smashed open the roof of the Temple. The skies opened up to them all, the golden light rising up, and he watched as it took the form of a great dragon.

Mehrunes Dagon roared, lashing out at the Avatar of Akatosh. He raked the being with his claws, only to be blasted back by a world-ripping roar. The hero found himself unable to move from the spot, caught in the middle of a fight between gods.

Dagon raced forward, ready to smash him to bits, but Martin lashed out with a tail of purest light. It hit the Prince square in the chest, and the dragon lunged forward, enveloping Mehrunes in the same golden light. The Prince disappeared in his hold, taking Oblivion with Him.

Akatosh stared up at the emperor turned god, and Martin turned his dragon head to face his line of sight. The hero of Kvatch was the last person Martin Septim ever saw before his form hardened into unyielding stone, and even as the fight for Tamriel was won by the Divines he couldn't bring himself to care when the man he loved left him forever.