Obviously going for eventual Martin/Erin, but this story is going to address subjects such as self harm, suicidal thoughts, death, gender, and a bunch of other mature topics. This is not going to be a healthy relationship by the end. Should follow the main plots closely enough up until after Martin dies and the Shivering Isles quests.
Most dialogue taken straight from the game. I wanted it to feel like a novelization, but it will also diverge eventually. I didn't want to just try to rewrite dialogue for events already in game-I wanted to flesh out dialogue that was already there, make it come alive and be more vivid instead of coming from such stiff animations.
My head aches. It pulses, throbs, has me cringing before I can even tell which way is up. My cheek rubs against cold, hard stone, digging tiny picks of dirt and rock into my skin and past my lips. I open my mouth to sputter, and only inhale more of the dank dust in the air. I'm coughing now on top of everything, and somehow I'm miserable already.
I push myself up, slowly. I'm far too heavy—why do I feel so heavy? It's not normal, not the weight I'm used to. Every part of me aches now, not just my head. My arms are sore and barely hold me up, my legs are shaking and I'm only on my knees. Everything is dark and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust. My eyes burn much like my throat. My chest is tight, shoulders thrumming with pain.
What is wrong with me?
I start to adjust to the light—or lack thereof. Only thin streams of white-gold come provide any illumination at all, shining in through a short rows of bars high on the wall in front of me. There are walls on either side of me, too. All made of the same gritty stonework as the floor, where my face had been pressed.
It's chilly, smells of rainwater and mold, and nothing looks familiar.
Wobbling slightly, I lean myself against the wall and push the rest of the way to my feeet, then collapse against it, back on the coolness of the stonework. It sends a small respite through me.
I can now see the forth wall of my room—or cell, as it turns out. There's just bars and a locked gate. A cell.
"Oh, look. You're finally awake."
Across the hall from me, the inhabitant of another cell stirs. He approaches his bars, smiling cruelly.
"I was begining to wonder if maybe they hadn't just thrown a dead body in there. You certainly stink like one."
I take a stuttering, gasping breath involuntarily, cough agian, and take a moment to try and even out my breathing. I just want to fall back over and sleep. Everything hurts, is so heavy, heavy.
"Oh, maybe I spoke too soon. You hardly look like you'll last very long at all. I suppose I best not get used to the company then, ehehehe." He laughs. His red eyes almost glow in the pale darkness.
He might be right, though. I feel so weak. Empty inside, aching. So much aching. Why is the air so heavy? Or is that just me? What happened? Why does it hurt so much? Where am I? How did I get here?
I try to straighten up, but the world twists and tumbles. There's a wooden table—I hit it, hard, as I go down—and then there's just the cold, damp stone again, rough against my cheek.
Everything hurts. Everything.
Why get up? Just lay here. Lay.
He doesn't stop talking, though; that Dunmer in the cell across from mine. My head pounds with his every word, makes the sound bounce around my head. My ears ring. The world spins around me, even though I know that's impossible; I'm still pressed to the floor. It's so cold.
"Hm, should I call the guards? They probably won't care; they threw you down here to die, anyway. Did you know? It must be so tragic for you, in a stone cell, surrounded but nothing but rock and iron, underground, so far from the beautiful trees and grassy glades of Valenwood. Are the walls closing in, Bosmer? Can you even breathe?"
My heart is thudding too quickly. I don't know what's wrong with me. Is he right? Am I dying?
"Before you snuff it, can you answer a question for me? Are you a man or a woman? I just can't tell—you have such a delicate, pretty face. But you don't look built like a woman at all from here; all angles and frumpiness. It makes for an ugly combination, really."
He prattles on, but his voice isn't the only thing echoing around the halls anymore. The clanging of a door, the scuffle of footsteps . . .
There's someone coming.
"It looks like I won't have to call the guards after all. They've come to finish you off, put you out of your misery. Don't worry, Bosmer, it'll all be over soon!"
He's laughing again. His voice is grating. But by the gods, I won't meet my end laying on the floor without a fight.
I stand. My joints are still sore. All my muscles ache. The dull pounding in my head hasn't stopped. The Dunmer's silent. The sound of voices is nearing.
Stepping slowly, I reach the door and lean against it, feeling it give just a tiny bit before the lock catches it in place. I realize my hands are shackled, rusted iron manacles chaffing against my skin. The room, and now the accompanying hall, are still spinning, but this new flurry of activity is giving me something to think about besides the pain in my skull.
A small group appears, coming down a spiral stone staircase at the end of the hall. One is carrying a torch, and they are all dressed in full armor—all but one, hidden in there midst as though guarded, a treasure. The one with the torch gives me a dark look and I quickly back away towards the far wall of my cell. Pebbles dig into the soles of my feet.
The guards are barking at each other, frantic. One voice cuts above the others.
"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off limits!"
They are all standing around my gate, a mixture of concern and fury in their eyes. There's only four of them, I can see now. They must be in a hurry, as the woman who spoke before cuts off her companion's stuttering excuse.
"Stay where you are, prisoner. Don't move. Or we will strike you down."
I obey. I wouldn't pose much of a threat even if I didn't. The walls continue to twist and tilt as the gate swings open and a guard stomps towards me.
I wonder, for a moment, if he'll simply kill me. But he stops short, appearing to merely stand sentinal between whatever threat they see me posing and their precious cargo. Behind him, their treasure is ushered in.
He is just an old man. Dressed regally enough, yes, adorned with large gems, golden jewelry, and fine robes of purple, red, and fur. But he is an old man none the less, with shoulder length white hair that was probably thick once, thinning with age now, and a wrinkled old face, round and pale.
He appears startled by the sight of me.
"You . . . "
He knows me. What an odd thought. He does not seem familiar to me.
Nothing does.
"You are the one from my dreams." His tone is breathless, shocked, his eyes wide and bright, a brilliant blue against how ethereal he appears. Almost all of us, gathered around him, are darker. My own hands, covered in dirt and grime, are a warm, coppery brown. Two of the guards are darker still, though the woman is pink and creamy. The old man almost looks like he could fade away.
I narrow my eyes at him. How do you know someone from dreams? Is he truly fading, memories and thoughts all a mix in his head as old age robs him of reason and rationale?
He is obviously someone important, so I do not reply. If a false memory and his influence could have some pull and free me from this hole in the ground, who am I to say otherwise?
But these are not important thoughts—only selfish ones. There is something very wrong going on here.
"If you are here, then . . . this is the day. Gods give me strength."
His eyes shut and he gives a heavy sigh, his whole face falling. But when he opens them again, he still appears strong. No fading old man.
"Your Majesty?" Royalty. A guard steps a bit closer to him, eyeing me. "Do you know this pri—person?"
Opinions of me are already changing, just by a few simple words. But to what end?
"We need to keep moving," the female snaps.
"She's right," I say, my voice causing a painful scratching in my throat. "You must not waste time."
"How do you know that?" The third guard pulls his blade, glaring me down. "What do you know of the attempts on his Majesty's life?"
"He's being escorted through the prison by armed guards who are obviously in a hurry." I keep my tone even. "Of course he mustn't waste time. You are most likely pursued."
A thought jumps into my mind, clicking pieces into place. "Is there some route of escape through here? You should not be slowing down to speak with the likes of me. Go."
"You do not give orders to our Emperor." The Redguard growls.
Emperor. This is very, very bad then.
"It doesn't matter." The woman has opened a passage in my cell, a wall giving way to a tunnel that seems to run deeper under the prison. "We truly must go, please your Majesty."
He nods to her. I expect them to go, but am surprised when he turns yet again my way.
"Come with me."
"Your Majesty! We cannot take this convict with us—"
I flinch back, but the Emperor turns on his guard with steel in his gaze.
"Whatever crime they have commited does not matter. It is the gods who have put them on this path with us, and they must follow it to the end. They come. I trust them, and so you must trust me."
There is no arguing with an emperor. There is resentment all around, but when he follows the woman into the tunnel, the other two wait for me to follow after him before closing ranks behind us.
"Leave it open," the leader calls back. "There's no way to open it from this side."
"Is there any hope in turning back if we are ambushed?" I ask.
"More than there is in being trapped down here with no escape."
"Even if we are followed? Surrounded?"
She is losing her patience with me. "Would it be better that we were trapped against a dead-end if the sewers are flooded with assassins?"
I concede the point.
The silence does not last long.
"What is your name?"
The Emperor gives me a small smile as we walk.
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. No thought is there to answer. I literally stumble, almost stop, and then have one clear moment of sense enough to move away from the Emperor as I try to steady myself. My sudden movements have the guards reacting quickly, hands on their swords, and they only settle back as it becomes apparent I was not attacking.
The tunnel has given way to ruins of some long forgotten structure. It's ornate, beautifully carved, with large columns and crumbling details.
"Are you alright?"
I nod, even though it is a lie. "I . . . cannot remember my name, your Majesty."
I cannot remember . . . anything.
He seems just as shocked as I, and then his face softens, his hand reaches out and rests on my shoulder. He starts to speak—
And the captain cries out.
The two guards rush past me to her side, but she is already down, blood seeping from her armor, eyes wide and unseeing, frozen in surprise.
We are assaulted. There are four of them, wrapped in in a fierce light, garbed in jet black armor over crimson cloth. Even their faces are masked in the black, hidden behind a blank expression of metal.
Maces collide with katana. The guards slash at their foes, but are outnumbered. Two come charging past, headed our way. The Emperor shrinks back, pulling a silver shortsword.
I twist in front of him and am caught across the collar with a slice of pain by a blade. Swinging my arm around, I feel a pulsing blaze bubble beneath my skin, coursing through the veins in my arm, riding up my flesh until it bursts, burning, from my palm. I cry out, and fire roars, engulfing the assassin in heat. It catches their clothing, burns bright against the dark of his armor, and heats the metal against their skin.
Again. I need to do that again!
One assassin stumbles back, startled, then rushes forward once more, their companion at their side, flames sputtering out. I feel the heat build in my chest, up my neck and across my shoulders, and I am the one roaring this time as fireballs are tossed from my clawing hands.
The flames blind them for a moment, and I throw myself forward into one, tossing us both down a flight of stairs. Everything is spinning, pounding, burning, but this one is still moving under me, and I press my hands to their mask, pumping heat into them, and I can hear their screaming as it sears their face. They hack at me wildly with there mace, tearing at the skin on my arm, grazing my cheek as I strain my neck away. Soon their pain is too much for even that little retaliation.
I feel powerful.
But this is only one of our enemies. Leave them; get the others!
I want to finish them, make them stop moving, but there are four, four to fight, three others that could kill, this one is down, behind, check behind—
I leave the screaming figure, twisting back on to my feet and stumbling, unsteady, in a rush back up the steps to the figure flailing against the Emperor's meager defenses. I launch spell after spell against them, gasping for air, charging, and they are down before I reach him.
A quick look shows no immediate injuries, the Emperor still on his feet. Two more, find them—
Turning back around, I find only bodies. Black armor disintigrates into the air, leaving only blood red robes and dead carcasses. The threat is gone, and the two guards are sheething their swords.
Over. Over. It's over.
For now.
I can barely breathe. My pulse is thrumming, pumping energy through me, and I can barely see straight. It's so hot. My arm is searing, my cheek throbbing, my collar a combination of the two.
Trying to swallow, I find myself parched. My eyes burn when I close them. I take in deep gulps of air, slowly. I must calm down. I am safe now. We are all safe now.
The body at the Emperor's feet is still smoking, a pile of collapsed limps.
A few steps has me standing at the top of those few steps, the prostrate, hooded form laying sprawled at the bottom. The face stairs straight up in silent agony, skin almost gone, burst bubbles of blood and puss marring what was once a woman's face.
Death. I have dealt death.
The stink of seared flesh, released bowels, and blood polutes the air.
I manage two steps back before I fall, and I can't even pick myself up to avoid the mess when I vomit. I can't see. The world is black, everything hurts, I can't think, can't move.
"Air. I need Air. Air. Air."
It hurts.
"Are you alright?"
"Leave them—your Majesty, we have to go."
"They need our help!"
The emperor's voice is powerful, but the two remaining guards are urgent.
"The assassins aren't after them, your Majesty. They're safer where they are. We need to get you out of here. Please."
"They're injuries aren't fatal, they're just exhausted—they should never have been mixed up in this to begin with. We're doing them a favor."
The voices are mixing, slowing, fading. There's some arguing, indistinct. Everything seems far away.
It hurts. I need air. Air.
There's a new pain. I'm barely aware, but it's there, strange. Tickling, biting, gnawing.
I flinch away from it. There's a high pitched sqeak, pinching, more pain.
Gasping, my eyes shoot open. I try to push myself up onto my knees. A large rat lunges for my throat.
"Gah!"
I shuffle back, swing my hand around, and feel the momentary swell of heat beneath my skin before the creature goes up in shriek of pain and fire. It skuttles away from me, but another has attacked itself to my leg, has bite down deep to the bone.
Grabbing it by the scruff of the neck, I sear it, fur, skin, and the muscle beneath. It convulses as it boils from the inside. Dropping it, I raise my hand and simply hold it steady. Fire flashes forth, claiming the other rat feet away.
My breathing is heavy, but the panic is abating. I just feel tired. The full body ache is returning. There are bites all over me, chunks of flesh torn away, gaps in my skin. My previous injuries are still bleeding, still screaming for my attention.
I press my palm over one of the bleeding wounds, feel the flesh mold beneath my fingers, slick with blood. Gods, the room stinks so much.
Glaring down at my hand, I concentrate. As instinctual as the flames I had used in battle, a new feeling threads its way down my arm. Not hot, but a weightlessness, instant relief. A glow trails across my skin with the sensation, blooms from my hand, and is absorbed into my leg. Raising my arm, I find the wound gone. So is the ache in my muscles there that have plagued me.
I repeat the process all over my body, finding every bite, scratch, cut, gash, or pain and pressing that saving glow into it. I have to down a weak potion of sorcery I scrounged from a dead assassin, but by the time I'm done, even the tiredness and dizzy spells have been chased away.
The smell has not. The room is still littered with the bodies of the dead; four foes, the captain of the emperor's guard, and two burnt rats. My vomit barely registers in the churning stench of lost life.
Slowly, I stand and make my way around them, down the steps, past the blistered face of the woman I'd killed, and to the gate. Somewhere in these tunnels, the Emperor is still on the run, and more of the assassins could be laying in wait. I don't know how long I've been unconscious; I have to catch up. Even if the other guards don't want me there, this is too important to just stand aside and let the man's fate be decided without trying to make a difference.
The door is wooden, solid despite it's age and disuse. It's also locked.
I could burn it down. But that would waste energy. I don't have an unlimited amount of magic, and I've pushed myself enough as it is. I can feel the strain trying to restore itself inside me, but the almost-emptiness is there.
Backing up, I search the room. It isn't large. And the hole in the wall is obvious enough—the size of a rat.
Falling to my knees, I begin to dig at the crumbling stonework, first with my hands, then with a rock. I chip away at the morter, the dirt behind it, working inward, inward, towards the faint glow behind. Soon enough, the space is adequate. I crawl through.
The cavern is large, with rough dirt columns scattered about, obviously old, makeshift supports for the surface above from long ago when this might have been used. There are cracks in the ceiling above, shafts of daylight filtering through, illuminating the area.
There's also another rat. I despense with it quickly, low on magicka or not. I can still feel the gnawing of those elongated teeth through my skin, hitting bone. It makes my skin crawl.
Shuffling forward, I find crates littered about the room, remnants of when this place was maybe a storage area. There's little inside, but what's there is mostly useful: lockpicks, torches, a weapon or two, some gold. I pocket a rusty dagger and the lockpicks, forego the torches (I can light fires in my palm if I have need, after all) and ignore the scattered coins that would take too long to pick up individually. Priorities.
Sticking to the light, I travel along the wall. And find a body.
It's a skeleton now, so old not a bit of flesh is left that I can see. It's garbed in leather armor, a shield and bow piled at its side. It's directly below a hole in the ceiling. Some poor fool that fell through and had no chance.
I send a silent prayer to Arkay . . . and stop, startled by how easily the name of a god came to me. I have knowledge then. But my name—
I swallow. There is no time to think on that. As reverently as I can, I pull the bones from the armor and put it on myself, tossing aside my sackcloth. The whole ensamble is made for someone of a much bigger build than I, and sags on my frame. But illfitted protection, at least in this case, is better than nothing—at least, I hope so as I tug my ponytail from beneath the cuirass and let hang free. I note apathetically that I have pitch black hair, thick and straight.
The boots feel uncomfortable, and I don't think it's the fit. They stomp loudly with every step; I take them off quickly, opting for bare feet instead. I make a similar decision about the guantlets and helmet, opting to go without. It feels better, despite the lack of protection. Oh well, I have a healing spell.
Lastly, I take a lockpick and pause over my shackles; after a curious moment I put the pick away and run a hand over the lock. There's a subtle glow, a quiet click, and they come off easily enough. Huh. That's a handy spell. I hold the manacles out, ready to drop them. They hang there in my grip, one second, two.
Slipping them back on, I flex my arms to test the weight, then head off again.
A dead goblin provides a few more trinkets and warning of what else might lay in store for me when I find the door.
More rats. Gods, I hate this place.
But this room gives way to tunnels, and I hope I'm making progress in the right direction as I follow them. A whole swarm of rats ambushes me around one corner, and I make to fry them—only to find them distracted by yet another foe.
Rotted flesh hanging from a sickly frame, green and black and rank. Naked, almost hairless, and spotted with holes, the undead being swats with annoyed grunts at the rodents as they take nips at his body. By the Nine, it's disgusting.
I launch my flames from a safe distance. Over and over again I toss balls of fire their way, watching as, one by one, the shrieking little beasts fall. But the zombie does not go down so quickly. With the rats gone, it turns its eyes to me, and charges.
My magicka is all but run out. Fumbling with my sack, I pull the tiny potion bottle I'd taken from the goblin and down it—feeling the blossom of power inside me grow expenentially, flood me. The fire is back at my fingertips, the zombie is upon me, I'm back away as I surge the flames foward, roasting him. Dimwitted in death, the creature doesn't even try to evade. Just as I feel my back collide with the wall behind me, cutting off my retreat, the dead man falls—for good.
Sighing, I take the long way around him and recover my lost distance down the tunnel.
Despite being fairly large targets, the rats continue to be a menace to me in my progress. The are evasive, persistant, excellent jumpers, and never ending. My magicka, on the other hand, is not. I'm quickly reduced to flailing wildly with my pilfered dagger while waiting for my magic to recover. The blade is rusted almost beyond use, and requires more stabbing than slicing to do any damage. It doesn't feel bad in my hand, though, and I quickly find a rhythm with it enough to not get eaten alive, at least.
I also find food. It's startling to realize how starving you are so suddenly just at the sight of a head of lettuce and a slice of cheese, especially when both items are laying in a pile of dirt and bones, and have chewed marks on them from these ungodly critters I've been slaughtering.
But they appear fresh enough, dropped through the iron grate above fairly recently, by all appearances. Swallowing my misgivings, I dust them off and stuff them in my mouth as I rush on—two slices of cheese, the whole head of lettuce, and a bruised tomato. I try not to think about the taste, or what had been eating them before me. My previously emptied stomach needs the sustainance.
Sometimes the dirt walls give way to true stonework and wooden support beams, and I have hope I'm on the right track. The thought that I'm going completely the wrong way, or that there is no escape at all through here, plagues me, but I push on none the less. I have little choice. I will not return to my cell.
And should I find escape, but not the Emperor?
. . . I would go back, and burn that locked door down.
I don't know why. It feels right. I cannot just let someone be hunted. Possibly die. I can't.
Am I a moral person then, that I should be so concerned for the life of another when my own life is at stake as well? What sort of moral person wakes up in a prison cell with amnesia, but can recall the name of all the gods with ease? Reacts on instinct with fire in battle, whose first impulse said to make sure the enemy died, not just was unable to fight, yet throws up at the sights and smells of death?
I am a mystery to myself. My stomach churns in protests of my anxious thoughts.
Push them away. Find the Emperor. Save him.
That is what matters, not me.
I find hope that I am headed in the right direction as the tunnels begin to show more signs of life. The fact that these signs of life are goblins is something I try not to let get me down.
The monsterous little people are green and grey and garbed in the bones of dead men, armed with actual weapons and basic sense of how to fight—and kill. Still, I find the battles that ensue still preferrable to the rats. I hate the rats.
Soon enough I realize that fire and knifework go well together, not just as replacements for each other, and I develop a nice little style of my own that involves heat and flame and blade and moments of healing that has me overthrowing my goblin adversaries. The panic of battle starts to give under the cold thought of strategy, and I find I am much more efficient as I ignore the pounding of my heart and think. It's also easier to just take hits and heal after the battle than waste time defending when I could be attacking—probably not the best method, but it works for me. Pain is not something I enjoy, but I am by no means fast on my feet or very good at fending off attackers.
I also find the goblins have taken to roasting the rats and eating them. The idea is not appetizing, but I snatch up a seared steak anyway and wolf it down as I continue.
Ahead, my tunnel finally gives way to the handiwork of man—I am back in the crumbling halls like before. I can even hear the soft echo of voices.
I jump down from the hole that my cavern ends in onto the smooth stone floor, and move swiftly towards the voices. I find myself on a ledge above—
And the Emperor and his guards below. I've found them.
But so have the assassins.
As an enemy jumps from above to join his comrade in an ambush below, so do I leap from my perch and rush into battle in a whirl of flames. My tromp through the underground seemed to have taken forever, but it appears to have been worth it—I have found any warrior that I might have forgotten in myself with the practice I acrued defending myself, and my flames flare brighter and hotter than before as I take down the black armored fiend.
This battle is over much faster than the other had been. I feel more confident, quick, practiced, because fighting people still causes a turning in my stomach, and I take as many hits as I give. I'm running healing spells over myself when the two guards round on me.
"You again! And you appear right when the assassins find us again! Accomplice!"
I narrow my eyes. "Certainly. That's why I keep helping you kill my fellow assassins. The perfect sense it all makes."
"Why you—"
"Enough!" The Emperor's word silences us both. "They are not our enemy, but our aid. The gods have brought you to us again, and so no more will we part before the end."
He looks to me now, and I give a partial bow to show my respect. But what he's said leaves a twisting in my gut that I do not like, let alone understand. I don't comment on it, though. "As you say, sire."
The angry guard grudgingly relents as well. "At your word, your Majesty."
The other guard taps me on the shoulder and hands me an unlit torch. He, at least, does not appear hostile. "Make yourself useful."
I take the stick in hand flick my fingers at the rag wrapped around the top. It ignites easily.
"Let's get moving." Angry guard in the lead, we start walking.
"You appear to be natural with magic," the Emperor comments lightly, as though this were only a casual stroll. "Were you born under a sign that governs the art?"
"The Mage," I reply without thinking. Oh.
With a knowing smile, he merely continues. "Then you will be celebrating your birth soon."
"Will I? I do not know the date."
"This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed, the Year of Akatosh 433. These are the closing days of the Third Era . . . and the final hours of my life."
He says it easily, with no moroseness or finality, and yet no doubt. He catches my look and continues to smile, his face soft.
"My sons are dead. I feel it in my heart. I've seen my end coming; in dreams of darkness and fortunes of doom. Your presense here is my certainity. Try as my guards might, I will not survive this day."
The guard behind me steps closer. "Please do not speak like this, Sire."
The Emperor smiles at him, too. "My hope is that the two of you will not fall in my defense. No matter what happens, please do not blame yourself. My destiny is laid out before me, and I meet it gladly."
"How?" It's hard to ask; my throat is tight.
"The Nine have blessed me in this foreknowledge. I have known the circumstances of my death for some time, and I have made peace. I am ready. It is the lot of all that live to face their mortality, and I have had long to prepare. Eighty-seven years I have walked this earth, and for sixty-five I have ruled Tamriel as her Emperor. And though it has not been easy, I know I have been blessed."
There is an strained silence at his pronouncement. The only sound is the scuff of our shoes on the floor as we walk.
I work up to speaking, gathering my thoughts. "I don't—"
Turning my head away, I catch movement. I've dropped the torch and my dagger is out, sentence forgotten, as the next wave of assassins charges us with cries of death upon the old man.
There is a queezy feeling inside me as I swing my blade. An emptiness, and yet . . . an underlying anger. He does not deserve this. I do not know him, I do not know his rule, and yet . . . his smile is soft and sad and kind, sad for others and not himself, and he is dignified but not proud.
And these people want to kill him. For what reason? He says this is his fate, the gods have chosen it. Why? I hate it. I hate it with a ferosity I do not understand. From memories I do not have?
I take a mace with a blocking shoulder, pain shooting through me. Abandoning my dagger, I grab the mace, yank the assassin forward and into one of his associates. I wrap my arms around both of them, then feel the fire flare up at the back of my neck, over my shoulders, burst from my hands and engulf us. I am ablaze, buried under a haze of stiffling heat, fire licking at my from all sides.
The black armor in my embrace goes up like dust in my fires, signalling their summoners' deaths, and I squash the flames in a huff. Breathing heavy, I check on the others; the guards have slain the last two, the Emperor stands uninjured.
But for how long? Hours? Minutes? In a blood of blood like that guard woman, left in this old maze of passages to be forgotten in time? What kind of god plans something like this?
"If this is your end down here," I say to him, and nod to the guards standing feet from me, "we meet it with you. And so do as many of them as we can take with us."
I kick one of the assassins at my feet. The motion is callous, and my stomach twists, but I stand by my words. These were evil people to try and murder this man. I will not be sorry I defended myself and him.
The angry guard looks at me with something like grudging respect. "A convict with honor, are you? Well said none the less."
He claps me on my uninjured shoulder as he trudges past. The other picks up the torch and hands it back to me with a nod. With the Emperor between the two of them, and I beside him, we continue, letting my magic recover and healing periodically while we walk.
But my words are not the last on the subject.
"I do not know of my guards, but it is not your fate to fall here."
His words are quiet, but heavy, as is his gaze when I meet it.
"In your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. Besides this, I do not know your destiny. But it is enough to give me hope, and strength at the last."
I don't know how to reply to that. His words feel weighted on my heart. This man is a stranger to me, but when all men are strangers, such things seem to not matter. His kindness—and his resignation—eat at me.
So when the next assault is mounted against us, I kill. When their bodies fall, I do not look at them. The air around me simmers.
"Can't you stop that?" The angry guard is back to being angry. "It's so hot I can hardly breathe."
I shrug. "I am merely trying to be efficient, my magic at the ready. Would you have me be unprepared to defend our Emperor?"
"A felon we drug out of a prison cell shouldn't be defending the Emperor at all." He snaps back, eyes narrowing. "What were you in for, anyway?"
My throat tightens again.
"You don't know?" I ask mockingly.
He growls.
It is the Emperor who responds. "It hardly matters. Perhaps it was merely the gods positioning our fates to intertwine."
"They could be a murderer for all we know," the guard mumbles. His eyes flicker to my hands, where a haze rises off my skin.
I keep walking.
For all I know, I could be.
The Emperor continues to keep pace beside me, regardless. "You look as in need of fresh air as Glenroy."
So that's the angry guard's name. I wonder what the man behind us is called. I don't even know the Emperor's name, for that matter.
Of course, considering I don't know my own, that hardly seems surprising.
Uriel, some part of my brain supplies. I think the current Emperor's name is Uriel.
Why can't my own name come to me as easily?
I lick my lips before I speak. "The heat may be necessary, but I enjoy it no more than he does."
"Do you wish for green trees and open skies, woodelf?" The guard behind us asks with a mild curiousity.
I find I do. "Very much so."
"Don't we all," Glenroy snorts, then holds up a hand. "Wait here a moment, I think we're almost to the sewers."
Sewers. Lovely. What an improvement.
"You should have a name," the Emperor says suddenly. "Even if only a temporary one for our time together. I shall call you Erin, for it sounds like the air you so desire."
Erin.
My chest swells at the name. It feels good.
Glenroy calls us to him soon enough with the all clear, and makes for an iron gate on the wall. He moves to open it.
"Wha—it's barred from the otherside! This is a trap!"
The other guard pull his sword and gestures back. "There's another passage here."
"It'll have to do—we need to move away from here, quickly."
I am raking my eyes over the wall, searching for any sign of attacck. "Unless this is the path the enemy wants us to take, and the ambush is ahead."
"We have no other choice, move!"
We all but back down the tunnel, prepped for battle—but we are twarted again.
"It's a dead end, Glenroy."
"Blast! I here them, they're coming!" He turns to me and practically spits as he commands, "Stay here and guard the Emperor. Baurus, with me!"
Baurus and I both agree in unison, and the two guards take off back through the doorway and at the enemy. The clash of blades sounds almost immediately.
Thinking quickly, I back the Emperor against the wall with a quick apology, snuff out the flame on my torch, unwrap the fabric and toss it on the floor across the doorway.
"Haaaaaaa—" I relight the cloth powerfully, raising the flames higher than any natural fire, doing my best to keep a blaising wall going, blocking the entrance. It's hard to keep up, but worth it if it keeps any enemies from getting through. In this small room, we are barricaded and safe.
The room is almost a furnace, however. I am doused in sweat, hardly able to breathe.
"Are you alright, Sire?" I call over my shoulder, keeping my eye on the flames, hands held up in a physical show of my concentration and the connection to my magicka.
"The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire." His voice I can hardly hear, but it sounds like steel behind me. "I am sorry, my new friend, but I go no further than this."
"What!?" I turn enough to see his face. It is set like stone, blue eyes flashes in the light of my flames.
He steps forward and grabs one of my hands, yanking it back. The wall of fire wavers, and I turn sideways and push my magic through my other hand to restore the flow. Something cold is pressed into the palm of the other.
"The enemy must not have the Amulet of Kings! Take it to Jauffre—he alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."
I look quickly between the wall and the Emperor behind me, fear flooding me at his urgent tone. His hands are clasped around my one, a chain dangling from between our fingers.
"This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength. This burden is now yours alone. You hold our future in your hands. Go, Erin. Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire."
His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment I feel frozen in his gaze.
Behind him, a hand is raised.
"NO!" I drop the fire wall and throw my arm around, but no more flames emerge, my magicka spent. I try to yank him forward, away from the blow, but he releases my hand when I tug and the momentum carries me back, away from the Emperor, away from the man I need to defend.
The hand comes down, dissappears, the Emperor closes his eyes, jerks, a groan of pain bubbles wetly as steel rips through his neck and the tip comes out his throat and he falls to his knees.
I don't know what I'm screaming, but I'm screaming all the same. I throw myself forward, unarmed, magicka spent, and full body charge the armored assassin. He slams into the wall, the points on his cuirass dig into my leather, bruising, and his knife finds its way into my side with a wrenching jerk. I pull my own from my belt, and in an instant, I've put it through his neck like he put his through the Emperor's.
It's that easy. It's over that quick. I shove the blade in further to make sure, all the way to the hilt, then wrench it free, tossing his body aside.
"Your Majesty—"
I collapse next to him, a magicka potion already unstopped and halfway to my mouth. I down it, drop the bottle and press both hands to his throat.
Heal. Heal. Heal.
My hands glow, the magic leaves me, but his body doesn't change. He doesn't take on the glow, his skin doesn't knit back together, his chest doesn't move with breath.
He's gone. Gone.
His eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. My shaking hands move away slowly to reveal the gaping, red hole where his adam's apple used to be, blood trickling out beneath him.
It feels like everything inside me is constricting; wrapping, choking, and yet there is nothing to choke. It's empty. But if it's empty, where does this sensation come from?
I couldn't save him. Gods, why couldn't I save him? Why did he accept it? Why didn't he fight? What do I do now?
Gods. Gods.
I turn back to the body of the assassin. He's dead, too. So easy. So quick.
It shouldn't have been that quick. Not for him. Not for Uriel's murderer. Why did I make it so quick? Shouldn't he have suffered? Why doesn't it help that he's dead?
The Emperor's blood is splashed over the front of his robes. I can barely tell, it blends in so well against the red. The shade is just a bit different, though, like waterstains on wood.
The same blood is still wet on my hands.
Blood on my hands. A laugh bubbles to the surface, dark and humorless.
I should have saved him.
He knew I wouldn't. That changes nothing.
Footsteps run into the room. Since I'm not struck down once they stop, I assume it's Glenroy or Baurus.
"Oh, gods—The Emperor! . . . we've failed."
I want to laugh again. My eyes burn.
Reaching down, I pull the hood off the assassin's head. I don't even look at his face; it doesn't matter. I don't care. I strip the hole robe from him. He deserves no dignity. He doesn't even deserve for me to remember his face.
He can vanish into Oblivion. No one will ever know his name.
I burn his face off with a flash of my fingers and not a single glance.
"What are you—"
Ignoring Baurus, I pull off the leather armor that had taken from a pile of anonymous bones. I roll it up and tie it, determined to keep it, to remember the dead man who is nameless in this underground. He, I will give more honor to than this murdering worm.
The robes, stained with the blood of the man who gave me a name, I slide on, and pull the hood over my head.
As I stand, I spot a large, jeweled necklace on the floor a few feet away.
The chain the Emperor passed me. I must have dropped it.
I pick it up. It's heavy, the gold knit together like a thread. A red diamond is set in yet more gold, the edges studded in eight smaller gems and engraved with wavy patterns. The surface of the stone is smooth and glossy.
"The Amulet of Kings!" Baurus approaches slowly, wide eyed at the sight of the jewel.
I have to swallow before I can speak. "'Take it to Jauffre,' the Emperor said. He knows where to find his son."
"His son? But the Emperor has no more sons—they've all been killed."
"Apparently not."
Baurus smiles at that. "That's wonderful news! We still have hope, then. A Septim heir still lives."
I close my fingers around the necklace, then tuck it away. "We must find this Jauffre, and then we'll find the Emperor's son."
"That's easy enough—Jauffre is the grandmaster of the Blades. He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, outside Chorrol. You should go straight there. The exit to the sewers should be just through beyond the gate—try that passage in the wall there—and then they'll lead you out of the Imperial City."
I glance at him. "You're not coming?"
His smile fading, Baurus lifts a hand and lays it on my shoulder. "His Majesty entrusted this mission to you, and I have seen your loyalty myself. I do not doubt you will take this seriously, and will waste no time in fulfilling his wishes."
His hand lingers on my robe, eyes flitting to the blood flecks on the front, and then slips away as he turns back to the Emperor's body. "I will stay here, and guard him. He shouldn't be left alone. And I'll make sure no one follows you."
I, too, face the fallen monarch. It is hard to look at him, but I do. I make myself.
"Thank you. I'm glad you'll be with him."
"There's rats and goblins in the sewers, but from what I've seen, it's nothing a mage like you can't handle. May Talos guide you, Erin."
I start a bit at the name. It's only twice I've been called it. Uriel Septim gave it to me, and yet only once used it; just before his death.
"And may Stendarr strengthen you, Baurus."
Placing a fist to my chest, I half bow, and Baurus does the same. I step up through the passage and follow it around a corner and past the barred side of the gate he mentioned, and continue through a door. There, in the floor, is the grate leading to the sewers. I push it aside and climb down.
It's wetter, darker, and dirtier than the ruins above, but honestly, the atmostphere is not much changed. I follow slick steps down into the caverns. Rivets run through the floor, diverting murky water into larger channels or through drainage grates. Thankfully, walkways run along the channels, and I'm able to avoid most of the muck. Still, gunk manages to find it's way between my toes and stick to the undersides of my feet as I go; I should have taken the assassin's shoes, as well.
Baurus was right about the rats and goblins—I run into both almost immediately. They come rushing over the stone bridges across the canals, and I feel too drained to even summon up any fire at first. The rat goes down by my blade, I take several hits as I hack at the first goblin, and by the time the second is upon me, I'm blast him full force in the face. He curreens over the edge into the water, and I send my flames down with him. They hit the surface, sizzling out at first, but the temperature quickly rises and the goblin starts shrieking as it steams and bubbles. When he claws his way back up to the walkway, I'm waiting with my knife again.
After that, I don't have much trouble. The path is fairly straightforward, and soon enough I can see light ahead, shining through the bars of my last obstacle before freedom.
Freedom. A strange concept for someone with basic knowledge and yet no memories. Do I want out of this sewer—out of the prison above? Yes. Do I want out there in some strange place to live a life I don't remember, own up to crimes I don't recall commiting, being confronted by people I don't know? What's ahead is . . . daunting.
What I want is the comforting voice of that nice old man, Glenroy's aggrevating insults, Baurus' calm purpose, the captain back and a chance to know her. Even the familiar confines of those stone ruins are better than the idea of freedom with no real place to picture. My life as of now consists of only a few hours, if that, and I have nothing else. And so, I miss it. I am afraid of what lies ahead.
But then again, the life that I don't remember didn't belong to the woodelf named Erin, friend to Uriel Septim. Maybe that person can be just as gone as my memories. I have a new existance to live.
And existance that now centers around finding—and protecting—the son of the man who gave me this new life. To that end, I can let no petty fears give me pause. I cannot let a past that no longer exists try to eat at me.
I am Erin.