Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls nor The Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.

The sky blazed red, angry, inhospitable, as it glared down upon those who dared stand below it. The air was grimy, and humid, one of the worst environments for those clad in heavy armor to work in. And yet, those who slogged through the air were not weary, nor miserable, nor even tired.

Nay, they cheered, they celebrated, and they made merry, as fireworks burst in the air and songs were sung of the Imperial Legion's victories.

Bands of Imperial Legionaries celebrated, clinking together glasses of wine and mead, groups of Nords sat at fires and regaled each other of stories of their heroics and their experiences. Troupes of Redguard warriors mock-dueled, while singing and cheering in the native languages of the lost continent of Yokuda, and the varied Breton Knights that were intermingled amongst the others held their shields and swords high, praising the Nine Divines for their mercy.

But, in any war, there are always two sides, and as those who hailed from Cyrodiil, Skyrim, Hammerfell, High Rock, and Morrowind cheered and gloried, the few Altmer, Bosmer, and Khajiit that remained were clad in steel manacles, pushed along the streets as they were shown off as the spoils of victory. In a ruinous backdrop against a victorious celebration, the city of Cloudrest, the last stronghold of the Aldmeri Dominion, burned, its people displaced, and its garrison nearly decimated—only a handful of defenders remained, the sole survivors of the losing side, in a war that tormented the entirety of Tamriel. The Second Great War was over, and the Empire was victorious, as its soldiers reveled, its commanders took charge, and its leaders watched for the next sign of trouble afoot. It had taken six long, hard years for the war to end, and it had only been thirty four years since the end of the last war. The people of Tamriel were weary of fighting, and they had only wanted the long, grueling conflict to end, so that they could once more attend to their hard lives.

As the soldiers reveled and celebrated, they did not notice one of the key members of the siege watching from afar on a balcony, his arms crossed and his face hidden by a leather and cloth mask and hood. A black cloak rippled behind him, and on his back sat a sword of ebonsteel, a daring combination of Cyrodiilic steel and rare ebony. He smiled grimly, watching both the cheerful and the miserable, the victors and the defeated. He was not exempt from the celebrations—he had killed his share of Aldmeri soldiers, after all, and his blades were by no means untainted. And yet, the man only watched, unwilling to take part in the reveling.

Suddenly, his head turned an immeasurable amount to his left, his ears perked slightly. Green draconic eyes narrowed for a second, gauging the potential danger. After a moment, his head turned back, his focus now divided.

"Tullius."

A pair of eyes widened behind him, before a man walked out onto the balcony, clad in a lorica musculata, the standard armor of Imperial Legion officers. He joined the first in watching the soldiers, before his mouth opened slightly, words at the tip of his tongue.

"I could never get the jump on you, Haleth. You always seem to know who and what is behind you or around you." The man clad in black simply nodded. "I get it, you're still not much of a talker. That's fine, but I do wish you'd open up a bit more, my friend."

"I've never been the charismatic sort."

General Tullius chuckled, a hearty smile on his mouth, before turning to look at Haleth. "Yes, indeed, no one would ever label you as the 'handsome rogue.'" His smile disappeared, as he focused his attention fully on Haleth. "So, what are you doing right now?"

"Watching. Our men are happy, they cheer, they celebrate, they drink, and they sing. The Aldmeri, on the other hand, they suffer and they weep at their losses," he said. "There are always two sides to a war, and I intend to focus on both. It helps me to cope."

"I would expect so. The blood on your hands… I expect you've killed thousands by now with that blade of yours. No sane man could deal with that easily."

Haleth simply nodded. No other words were needed.

"And now the Empire has to reform the governments for the Isles, Valenwood, and Elsweyr. Replace the old ones with new governments that don't support the Aldmeri Dominion." Tullius groaned, weary at the mere prospect. "It's going to be hard, and it's going to be painful."

"Titus Mede the Third is a good emperor, a sensible man. He'll do well."

"Indeed he is. He's young, and many in the Elder Council think he's too inexperienced to do his job." Tullius leaned towards Haleth, his voice lowering. "This is just between you and me, but I'm pretty sure Titus Mede II, his father, wouldn't have done as well in this war. Probably would have lost it, too."

"Agreed."

The two men resumed their watching in silence, one curious as to the thoughts of the other, unable to spark more conversation. For several minutes, this continued, as the fireworks continued to burst in the sky. The occasional Imperial Battlemage engaged in the celebrations, firing off different spells into the air to signal their achievements. It was a night to be written in hundreds of different books and novels, yet none would be able to capture it in essence and spirit.

Tullius suddenly looked at Haleth, clearing his throat to gain his attention. Haleth's head turned slightly, nearly unseen. "So, Haleth… what will you do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You erased the dragon-threat—even now, many of the dragons see you as their…what was the word? Thur?" Haleth nodded, affirming Tullius' query. "The Civil War in Skyrim was ended, arguably by your hand, and we hunted down those responsible for assassinating Titus Mede II." Tullius took a breath, before continuing. "The Thalmor are defeated now—the Aldmeri Dominion is no more."

"What are you getting at, Tullius?" Despite asking, Haleth knew exactly the purpose of Tullius's question.

"Haleth, everything you told me you were working for is done. Finished. And you seem like the kind of man to always keep a goal in mind. So, what will you do now, since all of your goals have been accomplished?"

Haleth said nothing in return, merely contemplating the question. It was true, everything Haleth had worked towards since that fateful day in Helgen had been achieved. He had nothing left, nothing to do…

What now?

"I'll wander."

"What?"

"You heard me, Tullius. I'll wander. I'll adventure. Keep moving, with no end in sight. That's how I've always lived, hasn't it?"

"That's it, Haleth? No home, no family, nothing? I'm a soldier, but even I have a family to provide for, a home to keep comely, and a legion to keep running. You're telling me you don't want any of that?"

"No."

Tullius's hands raised slightly, gesturing his resignation to Haleth's resolution, and his inability to change Haleth's mind. "When will you start?"

"Now."

Slightly alarmed, Tullius fully turned his body towards Haleth, unsure what to say. "What?"

"I'll start now. Tonight, if you will."

"Don't you want to stay for at least a little bit? Rest awhile, take part in the celebrations? The men out there look up to you, Haleth. You could at least oblige them."

"No."

Tullius sighed, defeated, and again turned away, putting his hands on the railing. "Then, that's fine, Haleth. But remember, the Empire, the Legion, and me? We'll always be there for you."

Haleth simply nodded before turning around, his cloak whipping to the side. He made for the door, meaning to leave and start his journey, before he stopped to the sound of Tullius' last question.

"By the way, Haleth… everyone knows you as either Haleth, or the Dragonborn—Ysmir, even, or the Dragon of the North. But… you've never told me your surname. Your family name."

"Carvein."

"What?"

"Carvein."

Tullius thought for a moment, before his eyes widened, reaching a conclusion. "Carvein? That was the name of the last royal family of Bruma, before the Thalmor assassinated them. The Count was murdered, and the Countess fled with her child, presumed taken by the wilds. Doesn't that mean-?

"Yes, Tullius. My father was Karlath Carvein, the Count, and my mother was Rostei Carvein, the Countess."

With that, Haleth left, his job done, and his will to wander peaking. He left Tullius behind, the Imperial General spluttering as his mind spun at the possibilities.

Reaching the stables of Cloudrest, Haleth reached the stall where Frost, the mare that he had bonded with long ago, waited, her head raised high as she waited for Haleth. As he mounted the ice-white horse, Haleth took one last look at the celebrations and fireworks, before urging Frost forwards, unknowing of where the world would take him.

Haleth would wander the wilds until he died. He had no other duty or goal in his life.

It had been a week since his departure from the Summerset Isles—days had gone by slowly, and Haleth could see that nearly the entirety of the Empire was still celebrating their victory over the Aldmeri Dominion. And yet, Haleth could not will himself to take part in the reveling—the fall of the Aldmeri Dominion had symbolized the completion of Haleth's last goal.

Wandering as he had done in his early years had brought no satisfaction to Haleth now. The land was bland to him, and as he looked over the former battlefields of the Second Great War, still strewn with bodies, weapons, and magical residue, Haleth wondered if his existence meant nothing, even as the mighty Dragonborn.

And now, Haleth found himself near Chorrol, in the forests that had been the birthplace of the Second Great War. The red-streaked snow that had capped the land then had cleared, opening the way for summer, and the sounds of the night rang through the trees. Moonlight strove to shine down through the woods, but failed to do so. The darkness overcame everything.

Here, Haleth was in his element. And so, as the eighth day of his journey concluded, he sat down, leaning his back against a tree. Sleep would take him soon, but for the time being, he resolved to simply meditate.

Meditation took many forms. The mages of the Empire would often meditate through the studies and the integration of the essence of the magicka within them. The warriors of Hammerfell would meditate by dueling and performing battle dances, while the Khajiiti monks who traveled Elsweyr's deserts often chose to sit under the desert moons and simply clear their minds.

Haleth, however, chose a very different method of meditation. His mind was full of the souls of hundreds of dragons, and they all called out to him, screaming, yelling, cheering, and even crying. The presence of such beings in Haleth's own soul and blood would drive any normal man insane, and even though he was far from normal, the call of the dragon, the imperious horn that sounded for domination and conquest, would not be denied. Eventually, Haleth would have succumbed to it—he might have gone insane, like some of the old Dragonborn emperors of old, or he might have become hell-bent on power and control, much like the First—Miraak—had become. Others in his lineage had attuned themselves to the call well, like Uriel Septim, but they had not been subject to the maddening throes of the dragons within Haleth.

Haleth had once submitted himself to the inevitability to the eventual loss of his self, to his draconic side. And yet, on a fateful day early in his time as the Dragonborn, Haleth had come across not one, but three different Daedric Princes, all who had a specific reason to find him.

Nocturnal, the Daedric Prince of Thieves, had been one of them. Typically one to refrain from contact with mortals besides her cherished Nightingales, Nocturnal had contacted Haleth, seeing a chance to seize power to defy the Aedra. Hircine had quickly joined her, and soon after, Azura herself put a stake on Haleth's soul. The three Daedric Princes had quickly resolved to integrate their desires, and had marked Haleth, a piece of Akatosh's last child.

In return, Haleth had received powers, abilities that marked him above any other mortal, Dragonborn or not. Each Prince had given a piece of his own sphere of influence, and he had been quick to find out how. And now, the darkness, the night, called out to him, cried at him, and merged with his soul, creating a blend of man, dragon, and the dark.With his powers had come an extremely strong resistance to magic, but his shouts had become handicapped as a result. They were stronger, yes, but caused Haleth no short amount of fatigue.

Thus, the Dragonborn had a means to escape the once inevitable damnation to insanity that came with his new soul, and had eagerly accepted it, despite all potential consequences. He was still linked to his father, Akatosh, and was still Dragon in blood, yet now, he was able to connect to the dark, and could give himself to the darkness when need be to clear his mind. And so, in the shadows of the forests of Chorrol, Haleth gave himself to that darkness, and his mind fell into the Abyss.

Everywhere he turned, it was black, oily shadows pervading the air—if it could be called air. Haleth breathed in and out, silently appreciating his escape from reality. This was his soul—or, rather, a section of it—and here, Haleth could escape the Dragon blood.

The other sections of his soul, his "lightsong," as some of the elves called it, were dominated by the dragon within him, and his humanity. Of course, the dragon part of him threatened to rout his humanity all the time, held back only by the throes of his own living body, yet with each dragon soul absorbed, came the greater risk of becoming subjugated by the draconic being given to him by his father, Akatosh. Yet, the darkness within him guaranteed that a portion of him would survive—and so this was the place where he retreated to meditate.

Haleth willed his consciousness to sit down, upon the inky nothing that was all around. Closing his eyes, he simply cleared his mind, eager to begin what had long ago replaced his sleep.

And then he felt it. Haleth's mind was suddenly invaded by another entity…an intrusion on his soul, something that should not exist within it. Immediately, his mind was fully aware, and his metaphorical eyes snapped open as he jumped up, attempting to sense everything around him.

A being… old as Akatosh, as powerful as the Daedra themselves, yet… weak, in a sense—losing power by the second. Haleth looked forwards, and in front of him sat… or, rather, floated, a glowing light of a myriad of colors—a rainbow, really. Haleth scrambled backwards, shielding his eyes from the kaleidoscope of bright lights in front of him.

"W-what…"

"Peace, Dovahkiin. Do not be afraid." The light in front of Haleth seemed to flicker, as if it were chuckling. "I assume this is the physical representation of your soul?"

Haleth, alarmed and confused, simply nodded, unable to comprehend the existence of someone within his own semi-divine soul.

"Ah. It is… unique." The light seemed to flicker a dark red, as if signifying a slight bout of anger. "It… sings to me, in the language of the Daedra… what have you done? I'm not sure my fellow Akatosh, your father, would approve of that…"

Haleth said nothing in return, electing to simply watch. For the first time in his life as the Dragonborn, he was unsure of what to do.

"Ah, but that is not why I am here. Do you know who I am, Dovahkiin?"

Haleth shook his head, narrowing his eyes while searching his memories for what this being could be.

"I, my dear dragon, am Lorkhan—the Trickster, the Missing God, Shor, or whatever suits your fancy. Do you realize, now, who I am?"

Haleth's eyes widened—it was impossible! Lorkhan, the dead god, whose heart was pierced by Akatosh, or Auriel, himself! A dead god, the first and sole Aedra to have died and disappeared! And yet, Lorkhan himself was in front of the Dragonborn - though without physical shape.

"Do you know why I have appeared to you, Dovahkiin? Ah, what am I saying, of course you don't. Not even Akatosh knows that I still live, that I still exist."

"Many think that I have simply died, disappeared. Yet, that is not the case. I still breath, I still live, and yet, I cannot re-enter neither Aetherius, Oblivion, or Nirn. My soul is banished, forever. So, I created my own world, out of what remained of Magnus, and I have watched over it, nurtured it, since. Ah, but I won't tell you the entire story of my own plane of existence—that will take much too long, and I do not have enough time for that."

In response, Haleth's eyes narrowed—whenever an Aedra or Daedra came to him, they always wanted something, neededsomething, from him. Haleth would not be fooled by the friendly manner of the dead Aedra in front of him—Lorkhan obviously wanted something out of Haleth, and he would rather hear what it was. "What then do you want, Lorkhan?"

"Ah. Straight to the point, are you? I like that, no questioning, no brash refusal, nothing. That's smart, that is." The light circled Haleth, flickering between different colors. "Yes, I do need something… Haleth. We all do. But the world I created… it is dying." Haleth raised an eyebrow, waiting for Lorkhan to continue. "Magnus' remains provided leaps and bounds of the magic that I needed to create it, and for thousands of years, the inhabitants of that world have existed off it. Yet, it is not enough—the people in my world are godless, and their magic is running out. In fact, there has always been such a lack of it, that its inhabitants were forced to use their own souls to bolster their magic. Now, Magnus's remains have almost exhausted themselves, so I am forced to come up with a plan."

"Which is?"

"You see, my dear dragon, or wolf, or nightingale, or moon, whatever you are, that plan requires you."

"What?"

"You are the Dragonborn, my boy! The last son of Akatosh himself, damn that fool! Where you go, they will follow! The Aedra will, as you are the child of their liege-lord. The Daedra have obviously taken a vast interest in you, seeing as how your soul has been split into three. They will all follow, and with them, comes the magic I need to sustain my own plane of existence!" The light suddenly turned a deep shade of red, shaking in its place. "I absolutely hate to bring those fools into my own world, but I have no choice—I will have to risk their taint to allow my creation to survive. And so they will. I will disappear, eventually—I am always losing more of myself. But my creation, my child —it will live! It will continue my legacy, and that, Dovahkiin, is what I have always wanted."

Haleth started to back away slowly, alarmed as the now dark red light in front of him followed slowly, creeping towards the Dragonborn. He grasped behind his shoulder for his blade, but found none—this was his mind. He only had himself.

Lorkhan should not be here!

"So you, Dovahkiin, will come with me! I will take you, and place you in my world, in Alagaesia! And they will follow… eventually. All endeavors start with baby steps, and you, my boy, will be the first of these steps."

Suddenly, Haleth could not move his body, and he felt a choking sensation – he was unable to breath. He could no longer feel the ground under his feet, and as his vision slowly turned black, he heard Lorkhan speak one last time.

"And you, Haleth, will have much fun in my world."

Author's Note:

Hey, guys. Welcome to my latest story. Hope you all enjoyed! All reviews are appreciated, both criticism and praise, so don't forget to review! Anything would help, be it for grammar, story cohesion, dialogue, etc. etc.

Also, many thanks to my beta, Skyflower51! She has helped out a lot, so give her a round of applause.