Chapter 1: To Oblivion and Back

Just wanted to say hi and thanks for taking the time for checking out my fanfic :)

*MAJOR IMPROVEMENT UPDATE AFTER REVIEW*

The fanfic has a deep romance between two men, not just pleasure, and they progress from strangers to lovers. There's foreshadowing if you pay attention... This fanfic is a shortened version of the whole thing (containing 900 A4 pages and over 140 500 words), so I decided not to publish the whole thing. It would take months, most likely, to get it all out. Includes story, Dawnguard and a few side-quests. Maybe Dragonborn later, but I don't know, so let's see where this takes us...

BTW: When sentences are in italics, it's Corvo's thoughts (unless there's quotation marks - then it's Shouts or "recalling dialogue.")

"Dovahkiin!" the dragon called in defeat, and agony, as he drew his last breath. "No!"

The guards shouted and cheered over their victory, but mostly over Corvo's epic final, in bringing down the dragon who had destroyed the Whiterun Watchtower. He had stylishly jumped onto the dragon's head with clashing blades when he was greatly wounded, and as his feet was planted at the ground once again, he sheathed his blood-riddled blades that he carried on his back. Most people would find it impractical to have a blade in both hands without any sort of defense, but they had apparently not considered blocking with one of them. The dragon's skin started burning up, much to their confusion.

They backed away from the sudden colors that danced towards the dual-wielder in the black of night. It looked like the northern lights had found solace in a man, and would not settle for the sky. Everything that remained of Mirmulnir was a skeleton with huge bones, that could create quite the fitting armor, if you had the strength to carry them. The strange lights were circling around him.

A guard approached the mercenary with firm steps. "I can't believe it!" he called with an astounded look on his face. "You're... Dragonborn."

Alduin, The World Eater, had entered Tamriel to bring destruction upon men and mer… and I, as the Dragonborn, was the only one that could stop him. But how?

Corvo is a charismatic 25 years old brute of a nord in physique. He has grey-blue eyes that sparked of ambition, dark brown hair with the length of only a few inches and a stubble. Because of the heat in battle, he uses armors without cuirass' not to get too warm, revealing his two tattoos: two crossed sabres on his left shoulder and a dragon on the right side of his waist. The nord always wore either a tricorne or hood, covering half his face. What separated him from most others was the small scar across his mouth on the left side, which carried quite the story. He is rather popular with the ladies because of his confidence, adventurous and somewhat cocky attitude.

Nevertheless, he has never been able to move on from his ex-wife, Elena, who was his first and only love.

That changed, three years later. He had no idea what to make of all this. It had to mean something, or Akatosh would never bestow such a gift upon him, and such a responsibility. He wondered why in Oblivion this gift was given to him at all. He stole for the sheer excitement, was willing to murder some to save another, and had a lot on his plate already. There were many men, mer and beasts out there who would fit right into the heroic bravado, so he could not help but ask himself "why me?" When he returned to Whiterun, a thundering sound was heard from the skies, sending shivers down Corvo's spine.

Everything suddenly felt cold as if he had stumbled upon the cold ice that would soon devour him into Oblivion.

"Dovahkiin!"

Acer reared startled as he neighed, so his rider was forced to get a better grip of his reins, to prevent falling off his white-furred horse.

"Whoa, easy, boy..." the mercenary calmed him in a soothing voice, petted the right side of its neck in assurance, understanding of his reaction. Acer was shifting nervously in his brown fur-saddle as if he was a dog, looking for the cat he chased moments ago, who had vanished from where his eyes could reach.

"It's all right," he added comforting.

The mercenary looked up towards the sky, concern reflecting in his eyes. Although the strapping dual-wielding warrior did not dare admitting it, he was afraid to meet the Greybeards, the masters of the Way of the Voice, that could teach him about the Thu'um. He despised having responsibility, but it always seemed to track him down, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. He had a difficult childhood. His mother left at once his father, Cyril, could take care of their son himself. Cyril had been taken away from his son at the bloody end of a blade before Corvo had the chance to reach his teens, leaving little choice but to take to crime.

He was somewhat taken in by the family of a woman named Elena that would have a much bigger role in his life than he never would have expected. He decided to wait.

Months passed.

Riften was not the friendliest city that you could imagine, but without doubt one of the most beautiful ones, overlooking the lush landscape with colorful trees. It looked stunning when the sun was shining brightly outside to saturate the colors, from dull to bright orange. Corruption ran deep through the Jarl and citizens alike, who took advice from an older woman named Maven, a woman that he came to somewhat know during the time he had spent in the city. Maven was one of the Thieves Guild's clients, which forced him to carry out her orders, whether he liked it or not.

The last thing he wanted was for Bryn to give him another lesson on how not to piss off the clients, so he would be forced to drown himself in mead, because he despised being lectured. He was like a scolding older brother, and Corvo loved him, but the dark-haired nord knew how to do his job. He had to admit that he sometimes needed to be put in place, though, so he was never dismissive. The mercenary met a strange little man going by the name of Sam Guevenne at the Bee and Barb, when he had just asked the innkeeper about bounties. The strange little man gave him an offer he simply could not refuse.

Sam leant his back at the counter with an arm resting at the tabletop the mercenary sat by. "You look like someone who can hold their liquor."

Corvo looked up from his tankard with almost of a startled look, was face-to-face with a breton with short, brown hair. The breton had a challenging grin, which was in a way, far too unnerving for the nord's taste.

"How about a friendly contest to win a staff?" he added.

He was dressed in a black robe and looked like a necromancer. Corvo was not very fond of mages, but had nothing against using spells himself, because he was not the one that inconsistently scurried around like a scared skeever. Either way, he preferred blades to magic. Nothing was more personal than blade-to-blade combat. Magic gave the wielder a huge advantage, if they were able to keep their distance, because mages are not as resistant to damage.

"A drinking contest?" the other man echoed questioning with a slight amused smile, forced himself not to laugh. After all, he was a nord, so he took the man's challenge within a heartbeat. "You've got guts, lad, but you don't stand a chance!"

"Ha, we'll see about that! This is a special brew, very strong stuff. Let's get started! I'll start round one. Down the hatch!" he insisted enthusiastic, pleased by the mercenary's willingness to cooperate, as he added his weapon of choice.

Sam, highly sure of himself, filled two tankards with the brew. The breton slid down into the chair by Corvo's side, moved the first drink to his own mouth and quickly ingested the liquid. "Your turn!"

"Here we go..." he said, and sipped the drink with high confidence.

He flashed a smug smirk. "Not too late to back out."

Sam chuckled. It was true. It was strong stuff. He felt a little dizzy already, but that did not stop him. He was not losing to a breton. The mead tasted just like any other mead, a subtle core flavor or character, but there was yet something about it that he could not quite place. Sam seemed to enjoy himself quite a bit, as he took the next.

"And how about you?"

Corvo had no need for a staff, but he would never pass up a bet."A second drink," he tried convincing himself that this was something he could do. "Easy enough."

"So says you. I think I've hit my limit on these things," Sam concluded. "Tell you what. One more, and you win the contest."

What harm could one more drink do me?

He then took the last drink.

"Wow, you've really done it," Sam muttered, somewhat impressed, while Corvo gave him an 'at least you tried' expression. "The staff is yours."

"Hey, that's great, lad."

The nord turned his head to the breton, whose face had started blurring up, as the mercenary could feel he was dozing off. He had not felt this way ever since the last prank he had pulled on the Guild with Thrynn, who was without doubt a horrible influence on his Guild Master. The former bandit never used his boss' friendship to his advantage, however, which was a pleasant surprise for a change. Alcohol was involved. Nothing else to say. It amazed him how well he got along with the former bandit. He despised people that could not stick to one partner, but there was just something particularly lovable about the womanizer, which made him overlook it.

"You know, you're a fun person to drink with," Sam said approving as he smiled smug, seemed like there was something he was not telling the other man, as it surely would backfire. "I know this great little place where the wine flows like water. We should head there."

His eyelids felt heavy. "Sure, but..." he muttered. "I don't... feel so good..."

It all went black.

He wearily opened his eyes, took after his head and sat up.

Where in Oblivion am I? My feet were practically killing me and eyes felt like I had poured acid on them, like I hadn't slept for weeks. That was a feeling I had forgotten long ago, ever since I joined the Circle. Ever since I obtained the beast blood, any attempt at restful sleep was in vain, so I had almost stopped trying. I don't know what bothered me the most. The fact that I can't sleep with the beast blood, or the fact that I couldn't even sleep for five minutes without having nightmares, when I was fully human.

"Wake up!" an angry female voice called disembodied in almost an echo, so he could tell that he was inside, in a rather open interior. When the constant ringing in his head stopped, to his relief, her voice became clear.

"That's right, it's time to wake up!" she added.

"Wh -? Oh, Gods... my head..." he gravelly groaned in pain.

Corvo lifted his head, had a pounding headache, as he could spot a woman dressed in a hooded orange robe. She looked displeased, as she had crossed arms, staring judging down at the man who had just sat up. His left arm was resting at his left knee.

The woman released her arms. "Yes, your head!" she called bothered as if it was obvious. He had been drinking, true, but he did not get drunk that easily. Not after only three tankards. Nothing of this made any sense.

"I'm guessing you also don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage or a goat," she continued.

"I wouldn't exactly call my ex-wife a goat -" he began puzzled. "-Wait, did I... marry a goat?"

"What? No, of course not," she said exasperated, to the mercenary's relief, even if he had a lot of questions. "Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple."

"Gods..." he frowned at the images in his head as he looked around himself, spotted ingredients lying scattered all around the place, and of course... empty wine bottles. "I'm sorry, lass. I don't even remember how I got here."

"Well, you were deep in your cups when you got here," she replied understandably as her expression had softened a little, realized that he may not actually remember anything. "You were ranting but most of it was slurred. You said something about Rorikstead."

It was like he had completely blacked out. It was if Sithis himself had taken him into the Void, and fed on the energy that had completely left his body. He had no memory of what happened, and it would most likely prove to be a bad thing. After he was done cleaning up, he started moving towards the door, took a firm grip around its handle and gently pushed it open. His eyes widened at the sight before him.

"Huh..." he uttered puzzled.

I was in Markarth.

He wearily rubbed his eyes with his right index finger and thumb, felt like his head would explode any minute. The Nightingale dragged his feet down the stairs, taking the colors in so he got used to the auras and made sure he did not step into thin air, as not all the high point edges of Markarth were protected by stone fences to prevent people from falling. He was used to ending up in situations like this, so he continued his journey as if nothing had happened. Turns out that Sam was actually the Daedric Prince of Debauchery, and Corvo was victim of his prank.

It was fun, though, if you disregard the hangover.

While he was in Markarth, he helped Jarl Igmund to retrieve his lost shield, and was humbly titled Thane of the Reach.

He also purchased a home in the city, Vlindrel Hall, and was assigned a Housecarl named Argis the Bulwark. That is when everything happened. The dual-wielder was carefully studying the rustic, dwarven architecture as he walked up the gradual staircase. His hangover had luckily worn off only hours after he had woken up in the temple of Dibella. Markarth was a beautiful city, and he did not understand why so many people disliked it. The gorgeous canal that went through the city reminded him of Cheydinhal, in the province of Cyrodiil, which he knew all too well. The Housecarl was studying some maps over the province at the living room table, his back turned against the door opening, as his hands rested at the tabletop. The mercenary smiled friendly as he approached the first indoors door opening.

"You must be Argis."

Argis gently pushed himself away from the table, let his left hand remain as he turned around. The first thing the Dragonborn noticed was his eyes, which he always does, when he meets new people. They were amber. He spotted three small scar-lines from his left eye which was blind almost reached his chin. The Housecarl had a spiral, crimson red warpaint and circle beard. He was wearing Steel Armor, had blonde hair and a muscular build. Argis was the most handsome man Corvo had ever seen, and his attractiveness only increased as the corners of his mouth slightly curved upwards, revealing a charming smile as he let go of the table with his left as well.

"That's right."

He had a gruff, manly but friendly voice.

"Corvo," the Dragonborn introduced himself modulated as he approached, stretched out his right hand to greet him, so he took it.

He could not help but smile back, because he immediately understood that this was a man he without doubt wanted to get to know better. They held eye contact as they firmly shared a handshake. It was an inviting and pleasant feeling for them both.

"A pleasure meeting you, lad," he added.

"A pleasure meeting you as well, my Thane," he replied genuine. "What brings you to Markarth?"

"Apparently a goat," he said as he turned his head to his left, placing his hands on his hips, amused at the thought. The other man cocked an eyebrow in confusion, looked adorable as his expression was filled with questions about the abrupt statement that his Thane had submitted.

Corvo moved his eyes back to Argis again, interrupting his own thought, realizing that he might sound crazy to him. "It's ah, kind of a long story, which brings me back... to Fort Sungard. Are you known around those territories?"

"It's a large Forsworn occupied fort at the crossroads between The Reach, Whiterun Hold, and Falkreath."

The chance decreased greatly of wandering into the wrong forsworn occupied fort, knowing that it would be a lot easier with a guide. The bastard ravagers with their dual-wielding abilities bothered him to no end. If it was a Briarheart, it would be even worse.

"Would be appreciated to have someone by my side who knows the area," he stated,. "Think you can take me there, chief?"

"Of course, my Thane."

Corvo could not help but comment that he had tried avoiding to do, pleasantly chuckled as he looked a little down and then back to the other man, was not used to be greeted with such formality. It was new, and he could not say that he appreciated it, because there was little he disliked more than being referred to as higher title than the one speaking to him. It made him feel like people looked upon him as arrogant and self-centered, placing himself above anyone else, something he certainly was not and would not.

"What's all this commotion?"

"The Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero. The title of Thane is an honorary title. Guards will look the other way if you tell them who you are," the Housecarl began explaining, so the other man's expression softened a little as he continued, amazed by his sentiment and dedication.

He continued. "As my Thane, I'm sworn to your service. I'll guard you and all you own - with my life."

"Then... I'm honored. Truly."

They set out towards Fort Sungard, where he was sent to retrieve Ghorza's book, Markarth's blacksmith.

They spotted the big tower in the distant horizon, and carefully approached it, so they got the upper hand on the forsworn.

The mercenary drew back the string on his bow, closed his left eye to aim properly and an arrow lining up towards the unfortunate forsworn who was enjoying the view. He silently inhaled, and then let go of the first arrow that in a swift travel through the wind pierced the forsworn's head. They managed to take down about three of them before the fight was on. Swords were clashing aggressively and graceful arrows were swooping in both directions. Before the duo realized, the forsworn surrounded them, and as they were standing back-to back, eyeing every direction, they carefully shielded themselves from incoming arrows.

Corvo removed his guard for a moment, much to the other's confusion.

"Fus!"

The Dragonborn's Shout staggered the forsworn greatly, as they were yelling insults. Argis' surprise was beyond comprehension, as he saw his Thane speak the ancient language of the dragons, and beholding such power. The Thu'um gave the two a huge advantage, as they ended the lives of the forsworn by blades. The area was cleared.

The Housecarl moved his attention to the other man, confusion in his eyes. "Another long story, lad," Corvo replied somewhat sheepishly, changed the subject, not wanting to brag about being the Dragonborn of legend.

"You're clearly impressive in battle," he inquired observantly. "I, ah... tend to end up in bad situations."

That's an understatement.

"Would you be interested in joining me?" he continued.

"It would be an honor, my Thane."

Everything just got a lot more interesting.

Days passed.

"Thane, may I ask you a question?"

The dual-wielder stopped moving, his expression softened a little in confusion, turned ninety degrees so his right shoulder was facing Argis, who stopped moving as well. "Of course, lad," he replied, somewhat apprehensive.

"Everything all right?"

"You were the one the Greybeards were calling?" Argis asked, although it sounded more like a statement.

"It's a lot to take in. I get the feeling that suddenly a lot of people are relying on me," he admitted as his expression softened a little, looked to his left as he moved his hands to his hips, now realizing how ashamed he felt for ignoring it.

"Now I'm doing the worst thing possible..." he muttered. "Running away."

"Thane," Argis began to get the other man's attention before he continued on, which he succeeded in gaining. "Believe me, I get it. But what if what you're saying is true, that people rely on you, that you have that responsibility? For all we know, the return of the Dragonborn has to be... I dunno, important somehow."

He had a point.

The mercenary closed his eyes, exhaled silently, and then opened them again. "You're right, I just... I've delayed this for far too long."