Author's Note: Hello all. This has been sitting on my desktop for perhaps two years since I first beat Oblivion. For those of you who have yet to beat the game, be prepared that there are SPOILERS involved, as well as a heavy portion of imagination. So with that said, you have been warned.
While the main story occurs about five years after the game, this first part of the prologue starts the night before the climactic final battle of the main quest storyline with my imagining for Martin and a female Hero(ine) of Kvatch. I was quite choked by Martin's fate, as wonderful as the storytelling was, so I suppose that's how this whole concept was birthed. Call me sentimental.
© of Bethesda's characters and world goes to Bethesda. © of my characters goes to me.
Read on and I hope you enjoy,
-Mintermist
PROLOGUE I
31 Evening Star, the Year of Akatosh, 3E 433
Tirdas
Bleaker's Way Goodwill Inn, 11:42PM
"It's really happening…isn't it?" Martin chuckles, low and rich, running a hand through his tangled mane of chestnut and ironwood. Firelight dances in the grate, casting flickering shadows against the rough-hewn walls, and the crisp scent of the winter-kissed breeze gusts through the open window. He shakes his head. "I can hardly believe it." Wonder colours his words.
I smile involuntarily.
"Well, you'd better start believing. Despite the Blades' loyalty, Jauffre and Baurus wouldn't be pleased to be sharing such close quarters for nothing." My grin is impish, as I slip through the doorway, pulling my robe closer to my frame. "We'll be meeting with Chancellor Ocato tomorrow afternoon. Declaring you Emperor of Cyrodiil. So you'd better get used to it."
A quiet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Framed against the window, leaning against the sill, he looks every inch a king. Self-assured, strong-willed, yet cloaked in a humble grace. He towers a head and a half above me, eyes filled with fire, draped in a mantle of silken midnight. Befitting a ruler. Beneath the unlaced collar of his crimson brocade robe, the Amulet of Kings hangs at his chest. The symbol of the divine right of the Cyrodilic emperors, it marks him as the Dragonborn. The heir to the throne.
"Anyways," I continue, setting my favoured dagger onto the armoire, and slowly releasing my hair from its pins. Blonde tresses fall to my shoulders. He turns from the starlit window, observing me with amusement. "That trinket suits you well. It would be a shame to give it up."
"Yes, a shame, indeed," he mocks, nodding semi-solemnly, glancing at the pendant's scarlet gemstone, "the very pinnacle of reasons to take the throne: the jewels." A merry laugh escapes his throat, his eyes crinkling.
"Of course. Forget noble causes and ending the Oblivion crisis. You're in it for the jewellery, Emperor Farmboy," I grin.
He brays loudly, deep mirth lighting his eyes brighter than I've seen since Kvatch.
"I'm so glad I have you to remind me of my true motives, Lady Knight."
"Yes, what would you do without me," I smirk. His eyes falter, darkening, and his gaze falls to the angry scar at my collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of my robe. A Daedric reminder of my clash with Mankar Camoran in his hellish Paradise.
"I would be dead without you right now," he murmurs sombrely, "Cyrodiil –maybe all of Tamriel—would be lost to Oblivion. We all owe you our—"
I shake my head.
"Please. Not now. You can deal out honours another day, maybe. Let's just celebrate this. Here. Now. A moment of peace; I doubt you'll have many once the madness begins." Already, whispers of a Septim heir has spread, a flood of hope surging forward with a tide of triumph. The Oblivion Crisis will end soon.
"If they'll even have me." He rakes a hand through his hair, before shaking his head. "But you're right. There's just so much to do…"
"And, what would your first act as Emperor be, my Lord?" I tease, bringing his hand to my lips. His fingers are rough and capable, strengthen by years of common work and healing.
The corner of his mouth curls like parchment, his eyes flashing wickedly. His fingers reach and tenderly trace the scar at my collarbone, slipping beneath my robe. Pulling me close. A shadow of stubble scrapes my cheek, his breath hot as his lips press at the hollow of my neck.
"I would have my Lady," Martin Septim rumbles, slipping the robe from my shoulders.
2:26 AM
"They'll never let me keep you," I murmur into the darkness. Sleepless eyes fix on a fray in the linen covers, rough against my bare skin, the realization of reality unravelling my bliss. The Inn room is swathed in indigo silence, velvet shadows. Martin stirs beside me, face burrowed in my hair. His arms tighten around me instinctively, and I sink against his gentle strength, feeling my own leeching away.
"Don't talk like that—"
"You know it's true, Martin. You'll be an Emperor—the Emperor—"
He laughs, a strained chortle, and his voice is dark.
"Yes… an Emperor who grew up believing he was the son of a farmer. An Emperor who turned out to be the Septim bastard. A reformed Daedric worshipper. I'm no better than the lowest of my people, really. Worse, maybe," He drapes a leg over my hip, drawing my body closer to his warmth. The contours of his torso press against my sturdy frame, silently whispering promises of desire. "I'm alive and here because of you, Kayta. I would not have survived Kvatch without you, let alone the weeks since." I shiver as he breathes my name, turning to face him. My fingers find the rough planes of his face, breathing in his scent. Sandalwood. Parchment. Spices. Strength.
His eyes glint in the darkness, and I take in their warmth depths.
"You know what I mean, Martin," I murmur. "The Empire is fragile. It needs to put on a show of strength and unity. Its hold on the provinces will fail otherwise." A sound of protestation escapes his throat, but I press on. "They'll want heirs, Martin. Noble heirs. And for that, they'll need a noble wife by…by your side." In your bed, I silently add. The truth is an acrid poison in my mouth.
"Perfect; I know just the woman for the job." He kisses my navel, his hands tender with passion. "I can't think of a nobler person." I brush him back, sitting up with the creak of the timber bed.
"Martin, not even a year ago, I was rotting in a cell in your father's prison. I don't think Chancellor Ocato or the council would be thrilled to have someone like me as your… Empress," The word is full of longing, and I press on, "or even as your consort." Dank memories of the dreary Imperial cell creep across my spine like a ghost. Martin sits up, placing a kiss on my temple.
"And yet here you are, not even a year later. Saving Cyrodiil. The Hero of Kvatch. Archmage. The Second Divine Crusader. I don't think anyone can complain about your record, milady. Who is there in all of Tamriel better than Imperial lioness Kayta Pelenix to stand by my side? To be my better self?" He props himself up, a hand resting on my knee.
"I'm lowborn." The words catch in my throat, "Nobility marries to secure allegiances. It's inevitable. Besides, I've done… terrible things…" My fingers absently twist the Black Band at my finger, an unspoken secret, and I shudder as images of the Nightmother's victims bleed across my vision. A past put to rest, yet a constant bloody blemish upon my conscience.
"And I haven't?" Martin scoffs. "When I worshipped Sanguine, those boys –my friends— died, Kayta. I thank the gods that we aren't defined by the past."
I shake my head, fingers splayed across my temples.
"You're Dragonborn, Martin. You were born for this. To rule."
"And what good is that if you're powerless to be with the woman you love?" Frustration spits out with the steam of a dragon.
"Your father understood…" I murmur. "It's the burden of a ruler—"
"And yet here I am, his bastard son. He knew something, clearly, and it's not what you'd think."
Silence crackles, heavy and poignant.
At last, Martin sighs. "I don't want to fight with you," he murmurs, drawing me back to him, caressing my hair. "Not tonight. But perhaps others," he teases, kissing my forehead. I press against him, and he sighs again. "In truth, I don't know what will happen, Kayta. But I know that I love you and that I need you to stand by me. I know that I will fight for my people. I will fight to end this crisis. And I will fight... for you."
"And what of Ocato? The council? What about what they think?"
"We'll deal with them later," he growls, his body eclipsing mine. I sigh at the consuming crush of his lips, sinking into glorious oblivion.