AN: This once should have been only the concept for a story, but it evolved into something else. It's a bit of an...experimental style, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. The OC in this story remains unnamed; he's the same as in 'Dawn', but if you haven't read it yet, all the better. Oblivion Main Quest, mostly, so be warned. Edited a few hours after publishing, but only to fix a couple of typos.
At first, he hates them. Every day - every second - hatred is burning inside him like an eternal fire, searing in his veins, painting his vision with a crimson haze, he isn't even able to tell why. Maybe what they do, what they make him to do, what they make him.
He hasn't killed in his whole life until the day his cell door opens and a dead man walking steps through it, his bodyguards - already destined to fail, to die at his side - guarding him. Granted, he deserves to be in prison, but he follows them nonetheless, a long bone in his hand, and when they attack what is he doing he brings the makeshift weapon down on a man's head. He takes a dead woman's sword and kills and kills and kills again, until the dead man falls when a mace carves his head in. The amulet in his hand is almost too hot to touch, but when the Blade takes his weapon - he can see the hate burning in his eyes why is he still alive - he is told to play errand boy and he does because he is all the world has.
He can see it again when he meets the old man and his hatred ignites his own for sending him out to find someone who is probably already dead and he does because he is all the world has.
Oh, the boy is like his father, looks like him, acts like him, a hypocrite to the bone and a royal born and bred when he demands him to close the gate, who is he to do so and he does because he is all the world has.
Through Oblivion and back, through fire and pain, the coward runs away but he doesn't because he is all the world has and the stone burns his bare hands. Then, retaking the city, he and the captain of the guard who is he to chide him when he has to walk into hell alone, and the hatred in the man says he should have died. Should have killed himself for the dead man lying facedown in a puddle of blood. But he didn't because he is all the world has.
The boy does not care, does not allow a moment of sleep, demands to be brought to destiny and he wants to laugh in his face and tell him that's the last he wants but he holds his tongue because none of them has a choice. Because they are all the world has.
Skingrad, passing through in the black of the night, the dried waters of Oblivion staining his scavenged armour, the gifted old chainmail, and of course he looks like what hole has he crawled from but it's been a long day and then his blade is buried in her stupid chest. The boy says nothing, doesn't realise it at all, and that's fine. He does realise the attackers at Weynon, the monk lying in a puddle of blood, and jumps headlessly into the fray and he has no choice but follow. When it's over, he wants to slap him and tell him he is all the world has so he has to keep back but oh, like his father, so like his father. The old man has lost the amulet, lost it to the attackers, he almost wants to cry when he hears they have to move on but he doesn't because he is all the world has.
So they ride, north and east and north again, and he freezes to the bone and he is so weary he almost falls asleep atop the horse but he has to stay awake, alert, because they are all the world has and none of them can die.
Cloud Ruler Temple all right, so high and mighty the Blades can't step down and do the dirty work when they are needed, only cheer for the boy. He accepts the old man's offer out of pure spite - oh, how must it pain him, to see some scum from the Waterside be a Blade - and because they have some nice parts of armour. Then he has to go back to the big city where everything began, to find the only Blade who can actually do something more than sit around all day, of course it has to be him, never mind there are a dozen trained warriors up here, because he is all the world has.
He goes down to Bruma, gladly paying ten Drakes for a room as long as he's not up there, and when he's woken in the middle of the night by a man with a cruel smile, who offers him a blade - hah! - and a home - sanctuary - and a family, he only says he has a lot to do, but if he finds the time between slaying Emperors and rescuing Daedra, he'll gladly accept, and goes back to sleep. Half a day later he stabs a man in the back with his dagger, the Blade made him do it, he was a spy, a threat all right.
At least that Blade doesn't sit around in the Temple, probably because he knows what's going on, has seen it as they killed the Emperor in front of his eyes. They've forgotten each other's names already but they work together. They go down to the sewers but only he comes back, of course, cursing the Blade under his breath for being so stupid and killing himself - getting himself killed. Whatever.
He pays his comrades a visit before he jumps into the next sword, before he puts his fist again in the wolf's maw and waits for the crunching sound. The boy doesn't even notice he's back in the Temple, has probably not even noticed he was gone, but the old man does. He takes the dead Blade's sword and says a few nice words but he can see the look in his eyes asking why he and not him why the warrior and not the thief.
Because he's all the world has. That's why.
Wherever a map scribbled on a dead man's tomb should lead, he finds it. Gives away his motley armour of Blades' steel, the cuirass of Kvatch and the enchanted boots, the weapons scavenged from dead Dremora, just his dagger remains concealed under the new robes as purple as no dawn ever is.
The Altmer, talking, watching, seeing, smiling, vanishing, gone to Oblivion with all ruby-red hope they'd had. His daughter, smile sweet and sharp like the blade she gives him and he has no choice, the Argonian or him. And because he's all the world has, he slits the poor guy's throat and almost drowns in red-drink and congratulations until he snatches the Book away and hides while the world tumbles down, beating sweet-sharp smiles from sweet-sharp lips.
He almost vomits as he reclaims his stuff, touches the cold metal and he doesn't want not again never again but he doesn't because he is all the world has, so he straps his armour back on again and marches off to the Temple.
He shoves the Book, the nine-times-cursed Book into the boy's face - he has to be good for something - and wants nothing more than sleep but then he has to search for spies, him of course, none of the Blades freezing their lazy backsides off atop this mountain. So he does - he searches and he finds and he hunts and he beats them into a bloody pulp in the streets of Bruma.
The next impossibility awaits at his return: create a gate to bring the amulet back which he already should've done but hasn't the old man all but says. The old man who has lost it. But he says nothing, swallows his anger, because they are all the world has.
The blood of a Daedra, as if he hasn't seen enough of it already but he doesn't complain, not as he hunts is hunted by shining balls of flirring brightest light, not as he hunts is hunted by vampires, not as he has to give up the blinding star to the hungry eyes of the boy, not as a messenger arrives the moment he wants to lie down and sleep, just a few hours, and says Bruma's being attacked. Of course he goes because he's all this world has, downs a healing potion while he's running - one of the vampires got him good, he doesn't want to scream like them when he has to go into the fire again.
And yes, there's a gate alright, but he even can't go in alone. Three trail behind him, follow him into a nightmare, and he's jealous of their innocence and furious because he has to help them and relieved because for once he isn't alone and jealous because it should be him, he's all the world has, not them.
They are one soon enough and he drags him through, yells at him, spills words about the danger in rapid fire at the frightened man and is secretly proud because he knows, he still is all the world has. They escape finally, covered in soot and their comrades' blood, and he almost feels pity when he looks at the man with the wide blue eyes where the flames are dancing to never ever stop again, like a mirror, it's all Kvatch again.
The city watch, an untrained lot, of course he has to go and find help all alone because he's all the world has. So he goes, Chorrol first, the teary-eyed countess trembling atop her throne and sure, he is glad to go, in and out, saves the city because who else could do it? He's all the world has.
Skingrad. The count is just annoyed his city, his people, his, his, his, not Dagon's treats him like a pawn, directs him with sharp words from sharp teeth. He frees a besieged city from one gate where three more are already open, there's a real need for a hero for once. At least he's honest, and there might be a trace of respect well done in those red eyes as he leaves again.
Kvatch, or what's left of it, still-furious glares but also help, more than he expected, more than he deserves.
Anvil, fire and salt in the air until the skies are darker than the seas, and nothing has made him shiver more than golden hills under clouds of the darkest grey. But he saves it, saves it all, the gulls and the horses running in panic on the paddock, their bulging eyes the brightest colour he's ever seen.
Bravil, not that that city-shaped pile of dung deserves rescue, not that anyone in it deserves rescue, but he does because he's all the world has. He receives a drunken stare from that walking wineskin, turns and goes before he can do anything he regrets.
It has become easier and easier with every time, he muses on the road. Easier than this world at least, at last. Oblivion is easy, just rules to follow, just death to await if he fails, no pained looks, no disappointed glares, no furious glances, no why has he survived he hasn't deserved to he doesn't he never will look at him how can he be a hero.
It's pure chance, but then, living at such an inn is almost a challenge for the gods, for fate, for luck. Ill Omen indeed, stupid old man should've thought more, and when his small dagger slips into a thin neck it's as if he can breathe for the first time in weeks. He leaves with a smile on his lips and blood on his fingers. In the next inn, he sleeps deep and dreamless till he is woken again and is rewarded with a sharp smile under glittering, hungry eyes and a word, a phrase, a spell, a key: Brother.
Sanguine, my Brother.
Leyawiin. Even Oblivion is better than the fly-filled swamps, and those are better than the court. The countess looks down at him like he's a piece of filth and he plays with the thought of taking her down before the guards get him but he doesn't because he is all the world has. At least the count seems grateful, sends him off with a weak handshake and the promise of help and an offer for work he politely declines for now, later maybe, if they are still alive when it's all over.
At last, Cheydinhal. Stupid boy like him just like him that's no way to lead men, even he knows it better, big surprise they die and only he steps out alive. Stupid father too just like his father all over again, teary talk of honour and order and he has to leave before he is sick all over the fancy place. He looks at the house in shambles. Sanctuary - what a seducing word, a promise of safety he still wants to dream about, so he's on the road again.
The capital. White streets, whiter still at the palace where the guards frown at his dirty, muddy, bloody gear but he doesn't mind, he's proud, he's doing something and anyway, he's all the world has.
The Chancellor doesn't think so, all apologetic smile and pristine clothes in a hurry and oh but those rebellions oh these soldiers oh the provinces, sorry, back to your kennel.
The smile vanishes, the clothes crumple, and the guards too dirty their armour when they keep him from strangling the damn Altmer. They throw him out and if he ever comes back... and he stares at the closed doors and asks himself how, why, does he not care?
They are all the world has!
Opposites do attract, he thinks back in the Temple, whyever he comes back to these off-worlders who don't know reality he can't fathom. Maybe because they are all the world has, and so he goes on another errand. The blood of a god - shouldn't it run in the boy too, that peaceful descendant of the slaughtering deity? Dead soldiers, dead Blades, and those are the first of that order he can relate to. They are his future, he senses, one day he'll be like them until someone comes and frees him from all that's holding him back. And then he thinks that maybe he is already like them, and the thought sends shivers up his spine.
Miscarcand is little different: men and mer die all the same, and when they rise again, all difference is gone. He pities the dead king clawing into the air, searching for what has been taken by invisible fingers, never to be returned. But he needs the gem, the star, the sky child, because it's all the world has.
When he returns and sees the boy dressed for battle like a man, when he hears his mad plan, looks into his shining eyes, he screams his throat raw but in the end he goes because it's the only chance the world has. He feels the same as the countess, judging by her face, until she stares at him with eyes that say why does he do that to her why why why.
The boy is gifted, maybe it's the familiarity of the chapel, maybe the bad blood running through his veins but he can convince the countess. The old madman stands next to him, listens and nods and radiates authority and not an ounce of worry. Then the boy announces he'll lead the charge himself, and suddenly his blood runs cold. He says nothing, though. They are all the world has.
The next morning their sorry lot gathers on the snowy ground. Nobody has slept, as much as they wanted to; he has prayed for the first time in his life to the gods that made his life the miserable wreck it is now, for - enlightenment. Revelation. Common sense, at the least. After the boy's flamboyant speech he pulls him aside, asks, pleads, begs him to go back to safety because he's all the world has, but one look into his innocent, stupid, brave, honourable eyes and he knows his cause is lost.
He wonders how many will die for him that morning, how many will throw their bodies before him as a shield for someone who doesn't deserve their protection - protection? Where is his guard, where are those Blades - honing their useless swords atop their mountain? Only the old man is here, without a helmet of course. Like they aren't all the world has.
The first gate opens, and the boy charges, ahead of his soldiers so like his father all his father and he charges after him, brings his claymore down on a Dremora who tries to gut all the world has.
Bloody, bloody, bloody minutes later, the worst becomes worse, the second gate opens and the world drowns in a flood of red. He loses himself in the fight and the taste of metal on his tongue.
He almost weeps when the third gate opens, because that means it's over soon, he can go into the familiar fire and blackness, into the simple world where everything is neat and orderly and follows twisted, unbroken rules. He doesn't know where the boy is, has lost him somewhere in the sea of bodies, but he can't die anyway, he's all the world has.
The great gate, the most beautiful sight in his life, he runs through it. No time to think and marvel at the red-dark world, hurry hurry, this way and that, where to go, he's running out of time-
The stone's heat embraces him as he embraces it, and together they return to the plain of the dead where the coldness tries to burn the life from them. The siege engine collapses, crushes the living and the dead, but nobody minds. Those who are left watch the boy as he gives yet another speech about bravery, freedom...he doesn't listen, walks around on the field of battle, searches for armour parts to replace his broken ones because he hasn't got the money to repair them, until he sees a man face-down in the snow. The armour, the hair - it's the old man, and judging by the blood dying the snow around his head crimson, he's been hit quite literally by the proverbial mace to the face. He doesn't turn him around but lingers, sits down next to him, idly listens to the boy drone on and on about honour and justice, and is glad he isn't the only one the boy gives nothing about.
When the boy is finished, he stands up, pats the old man's head - he can feel the pieces of the skull grinding together as he does so -, takes his sword. Maybe Steffen or any of the others will take it from him with the familiar glare why him why not you.
Enter Paradise. Why not? After all that has happened, why not? Just another point on the long list of torturous trials he'll survive because he's all the world has.
A dream in beauty, painted in unimaginable, impossible, incredible colours, a swirl of perfection only marred by the screams of the dead as their flesh is torn apart again and again with no-one to blame but themselves. But it's Oblivion, simple rules, simple game. Past the guardian, over the bridge, through the caves, and he stands in front of the palace. Mankar Camoran, dead before he can say a word because all of a sudden he's sick of it, sick of it all but he can't quit now because he's all the world has.
The boy snatches the amulet from his hands as soon as he returns in a flash of blinding light and as he watches the heir examine the gem greedily he dares to think that maybe, maybe everything will be alright.
Oh, of course he was wrong, and now they are caught in the middle of this disaster with a giant tearing down the walls. The heir looks at him, mouths something, and realisation hits him like a flash of lightning. He runs towards the heir - the boy -, wants to scream, to tell him he can't because he's all the world has, but it's too late, and the world burns.
Later, in the ashes of reality, of sanity, he accepts the sudden gratitude, the payment - once he would have killed for a set of free armour, although it's poor quality, all shine and no steel - and then, when he wants to escape, he finds all the gates have closed and he drowns in despair until he remembers a sharp blade, a sharp smile, a soft word.
He knocks on the door, whispers the key, is received in a family like the one he never had. He loves them because they love him, but most of all he loves the sweet oblivion - Oblivion? - that overcomes him with every kill. He rises quickly in their ranks, admired by everyone, fulfils every order to the letter without hesitation and only feels a little tiny bit of loss when he sees his family's blood sticking to his hands.
And then...everyone is dead, the peak is reached, the thrill is gone from the killing. Endless nights in Bravil's stench, only with Mother's voice in his ear, are enough to play with the dagger given to him so long ago by a dead man walking too close to his throat, until, one day, rumours run breathlessly through the streets, spread like wildfire till they reach the Listener's ears.
He takes only his dagger with him.
A few steps before the shining, seducing glow he hesitates, contemplates for the shard of a moment - he's all the world has, all this world has left.
Well, there's a new one waiting for him.