The Imperial City, in all its might, was the very core of Cyrodiil.
It stood amongst large grassy plains and was surrounded by deep forests, south of the Bruma's snow-capped mountains and north of Leyawiin's marshes. Walls of gleaming marble protected its towers, structures that breached the heavens in their vast height. Many roads sprawled out from the city and stretched over the country's length, but each Imperial trail lead back to the same place.
During the day, as the White-Gold tower glimmered in the bright sun, the market district was full of bustling men and mer alike. Traders from distant holds traveled to see what the city had to offer, and none ever left disappointed. Ponds sprinkled with sacred lotus blossoms sat on either side of big oak doors that many entered through each day, and the cheers from the arena could be heard throughout each district. The waterfront was home to shabby little shacks sitting alongside Lake Rumare, the same body of water bringing ships to the city's port. It was the place all in Tamriel aspired to come to one day.
And yet, at night, it was different.
Not many strayed out when the sun blurred into the horizon and let the twin moons take its place. Only by torchlight and by the stars above did the guards see, and it was only them that walked through the streets to make their rounds. Each shop closed as did the houses in the residential districts, beggars retreating to their corners in the dark as the thieves came from the shadows to conduct their business. And amongst all those souls still out, none were more alone then their hero.
The Temple of the One was an almost historic place, now, as revered and holy as it was broken. The temple district as a whole was an area of destruction, with crumbling ruins of houses now gone and crater-marked streets stained with burn marks and dried blood. At the center of it was the Temple itself, the side of its circular wall blasted away, its ceiling long gone and instead opened to the boundless skies.
Many avoided this building, and many more came to Cyrodiil solely with the intention to see it. It held the last traces of the Septim bloodline, all for the statue that stood tall in its walls. The stone figure was shaped in the likeliness of a dragon, marking the forever frozen form of Martin Septim as he won his victory over Mehrunes Dagon. The dead heir had left the world with a story they would never forget, and he had left it as a hero, Akatosh thought, that went unmatched by any of the other saviors Nirn had before.
The hero of Kvatch stood in his best friend's shadow, a shadow barely seen in the night that enclosed him. He was a small thing, even for a Breton, neck craned in an attempt to see the statue in all its glory and failing just the same. Akatosh pushed away the horror wrapping around his pounding heart, pushed away the feeling of pure loss, and only allowed himself this moment of serenity away from his thoughts.
His seclusion from the heavy contemplation that had plagued him for weeks was interrupted with the sound of footsteps. They approached him from behind and Akatosh turned, eyeing the guard as he came through the creaky wooden door. It was rather unnecessary, the Breton thought, glancing at the gap in the Temple where its wall used to be, but each to his own he supposed.
"What?" He spoke before the knight could, tone conveying annoyance and slight exasperation. "Please leave me."
The knight's attire clung loudly in his ears as he attempted a bow. "Forgive my intrusion, Champion, but you have been here for hours." Akatosh blinked.
"And?"
The taller man shifted uneasily. "I see." He seemed uncomfortable. "I'll let you be-"
"No," Akatosh interrupted, taking pity. "You're right." He had traded his usual Kvatch armor in for leather pants and a ragged olive shirt, cold air snipping at his exposed arms. There wasn't any point in standing out here and freezing to death. He sighed. "What's your name?"
He saw confusion dawn on the man's features, face barely seen through the empty spaces in his Imperial guard helmet. "My name?" He repeated, and Akatosh nodded. "Prentus. Gaius Prentus."
The hero scuffed his fur boots against the ground. "Could you take me to the armory, Gaius?" The solider hesitated.
"Why would you need to go there at this time?" Akatosh thought about it slightly.
"I have something to pick up," he decided on. "Chancellor Ocato has given me clearance, although I am sorry for the bad timing. You can check with him if you would want." It was an empty question, of course. Nobody with a bit of sense in them would dare wake Ocato to deal with matters this trifling.
As it seemed, Gaius shared that common knowledge. "There's no need. I'll direct you there immediately." The man didn't wait for some sign of affirmation, turning on his heel and gesturing for Akatosh to follow. They went through the same creaky door, and the hero of Kvatch forced himself not to look back as he left the Temple.
They weaved through the empty sidewalks and passed through several doors, arriving at the prison district. He dared not to speak a word as they strolled through empty cages, and Gaius stopped him at a building at the end.
"This would be it," he presented. "Do you need anything else, Champion?"
"I'm fine," he promised, quickly taking it back. "Actually, I would appreciate it if you dropped the title."
Gaius grunted. "Title?"
"You'll figure it out." Akatosh's hand strayed on the doorknob. "I'm not your champion, Prentus." He didn't let the guard get a word in, opening the unlocked door and shutting it swiftly. The moment's reprieve from humanity was taken gratefully, armory empty of any other life besides his own. It was dark, torch by the door long since died, and he lit it with a flame that dance around his fingers before dying.
Akatosh looked around at the Imperial armory. It was stocked with shiny stacks of armor set on long oak tables, a variety of iron and steel weapons hanging on different racks. Shields bearing a strange dragon-like symbol were displayed on the walls for taking, which he didn't. He came here for something specific, after all.
The Breton walked past the tables, eyes scanning each set and dismissing them just as quickly. He arrived at a desk at the very back of the room, mouth falling open slightly at the sight.
He breathed out a word of wonder in the daedric tongue, shocked. A glimmering chestplate made of pure gold and engraved with silver patterns was laid down along with matching greaves, boots stacked on the wooden floor to go with the arrangement. He ran a calloused hand over the cuirass, and his chin trembled. It looked exactly like the one Martin had worn to battle.
Akatosh felt sick. This was supposed to be an honor. It all was. The custom-made armor, the title only given to six before him, the applause and admiration from all he saw. It was supposed to be something right out of a dream, a kind of fame many aspired to have one day. And he hated it.
He had watched the emperor die. He had been the reason the enemy had gotten the amulet. He had traveled to the corners of the country, to every hold in Cyrodiil, and had seen the dark secrets they held behind their walls. He had gone into places that were the things of nightmares, had fought in battles he still remembered clear as day. He had buried his closest friends when they died, all except one, who now stood as a hundred foot statue for tourists to gape at all day. He was a weak, amnesiac prisoner who had been shoved into an Oblivion gate, and that wasn't deserving of any praise.
Akatosh wasn't a hero. A hero didn't let everyone they knew die. A hero didn't speak in the language of monsters. The only heroes he had known were now gone, and if he was the only one left, the scribe for the world's fate, then he may as well end it all.
The Breton frowned, picking up the cuirass with shaky hands. He forced himself to calm as he held the expensive piece, and although it looked heavy in truth it felt light. He couldn't ever imagine prancing around in something this flashy, no matter the enchantments he could feel stirring in the metal.
He laid it gently back on the table, making to leave, but the helmet that matched the set caught his eye. It wasn't encrusted with silver like the others, surface a stunning gold. He could see his blurred reflection through the headwear, see the distorted outline of his face and the dark brown color of his irises staring back at him. It would have fit his Septim friend perfectly.
Considering, the hero gave into the small temptation, tucking it under his arm. Satisfied, he backed away from the rest of his so-called reward, and let himself out.
He kneeled in the fresh soil, dirt rubbing off on his leather greaves. Akatosh ran his fingers over the pulsing red scar in the earth, tracing the outline of daedric metal embedded in the ground. His horse whinnied nervously, but he paid it no mind, wearing a heavy frown.
It sparked a few times before the glow died out, and he watched until it was gone. Akatosh stood, brushing off his armor. He had been riding through a forest in the Jerall mountains before coming across the remnants of a closed Oblivion gate. It had happened quite a lot, lately, hundreds of them now ruins that dotted Cyrodiil's vast size. Most avoided them out of disgust, but he wasn't like the rest of his people.
The hero mounted his chestnut horse swiftly, turning back the other way. Snow crunched under his steed's hooves, leaving imprints in the dusting of white. There was always a purpose to where he went, and this time was just the same.
They came upon the shrine after another hour, light spreading across the night sky and hiding away its stars. The moons were starting to sink against the weight of dawn as he came to a stop, sliding off his saddle, and his iron boots thudded as they hit the dirt.
The statue was of the daedric Prince of dusk and dawn, Her stone form carved in a flowing dress and two hands holding a crescent moon and a star respectively. One Dunmer stood at a wooden stand and two others on a set of benches, all of them facing towards the Breton.
He nodded in greeting, striding evenly to the statue. The Dark Elf presumedly speaking opened his mouth. "Excuse me-"
"No." He left it at that, opening the bag at his hip. At the sight of the glowing sands inside the mer let him be, seeing the offering already prepared. Akatosh was given room to kneel, grabbing a fistful of the glow dust and throwing it at the statue's pedestal. It shimmered in the air and disappeared before it hit, and he heard a gasp behind him.
The three worshippers abandoned their places altogether, knowing when their Lady had chosen someone to speak to. He thought dimly back to the shrine of Sanguine, of the sultry looks he had received from the Prince's slutty followers, and found the respect rather pleasant.
"Lady Azura," he called, voice loud in the sudden quiet. "I ask for Your favor and guidance." He wondered briefly as he waited if he had gotten the ritual right, but ceased he speculation as he felt Her presence.
While Sanguine was a force that forced itself into his mind and buried itself in every crevice of his body and soul, Azura was a sweet blessing that gently dawned in the deepest reaches of his subconscious. She was barely there, he felt, but Her voice was a loud blare that left his head spinning.
"I hear you, traveler," She spoke. "I have seen your name, I have heard it whispered in twilight. I know what you seek, and will give you My gift in exchange of service."
Akatosh let his eyes slip close. He knew it was not his time to speak, but merely listen and be spoken to. "Many years ago," She continued, "Five of My followers slew the vampire Dratik and its kin, but all were infected by the foul creature. Knowing their fate, they sealed themselves in the vampire's lair. Their suffering weighs heavily on Me."
He felt a shred of regret that was not his own coil around his heart. "Travel to the gutted mine north of here. The door will open for you. Bring the peace of death to My followers, and I will grant you My gratitude." He nodded, a small jerk of his head, and then She was gone.
Akatosh didn't bother wasting time as the Prince let him be. He rose from his deep bow, heeding Her directions and heading north up the mountain. The crisp air cut through his thin armor and numbed his bones, making the tips of his bare fingers tingle at the temperature, and he would have lit a fire in his hands if not for his stunted Magicka. He had a feeling Azura wouldn't have directed him very far, leaving his horse behind for the travel, and found himself relieved as he spotted a trail along the side of the hill.
Akatosh only had to keep his pace for a few minutes, trail cutting through the worst of the climbing. The top of the cave he sought came into his sights quickly enough, and he grinned a small thing to himself. He stepped off the path and wove his way through a clutter of rocks, being weary of the slippery grounds so near to the side of the hill, and resisted envisioning falling over the edge.
The cavern was a lump of boulders at the end of his trail. Sure enough, the door to the mine gave at his touch, nearly crumbling away on its hinges. It was dark inside, the bare light of slowly coming day not giving much insight to the dangers that lay ahead.
With an intake of breath and a shrug, he went in. Akatosh stepped silently through the cave, hand braced against the wall incase he slipped down the slope of the entrance. His foot made contact with a hidden string of rope below, pointed ears hearing the click of metal, and he cursed loudly as he dropped to the ground just in time. A mace swung into the space where his head had been a second before, leaving him shocked and all the more thankful.
As much as it was a lucky save it hadn't been a silent one, and he was made more aware of this fact by the sudden battle cry. Akatosh countered the sword coming down on his head with a strike of lightning from his palm, the burst of adrenaline that rose in his chest giving strength to his Magicks. The opposing Nord woman dodged the spell almost gracefully, orange-tinted eyes glinting threateningly at him in the dark.
He stood quickly, his opponent observing his every move. Akatosh couldn't recall if he had fought a vampire before, and had his bad memory to thank for it. He did know they were cunning opponents, out-matching regular mortals in both strength and speed. The Breton furrowed his eyebrows, attempting to reach for the katana at his waist, but the Nord growled at him and lunged.
He yelped as the tip of her sword grazed along his Kvatch cuirass, cutting into the fabric. Akatosh glared. The armor was dear to him, a gift from the Kvatch captain guard himself, and he would like to keep it intact. She didn't allow him any rest, coming forward again, and he tried a different approach.
Bright light flowed from his fingertips in the way of fire, giving brightness to the dark cavern. The vampire hesitated in her strike and he took advantage, flinging the fire ball at her face. She screamed and he jumped at her, putting his full weight into the tackle, and they fell.
He felt the edge of a rock dig into his left arm, penetrating the leather covering and drawing blood. Ignoring the slight prickle of pain, Akatosh poured more flames from his hands to his enemy's form, letting it incase her body. He sprang back quickly from the burning woman, waiting until the screams died as her soul did, and felt the burden of remorse fall on his shoulders.
He would have killed her less painfully if he had known how. Akatosh doused the flames with a wave of frost, bowing his head in repentance. The hero whispered an apology to the Nord, lips moving almost soundlessly in the chant.
He finished it off, giving the mangled corpse one last look of regret. Akatosh steeled himself from his self-disgust, instead forcing himself forward and deeper into possible death.
The Arcane University was an enigma only the greatest of mages could solve. Its best sights were locked behind stone gates, and although the curiosity burned holes inside his soul, he paid it no mind and carried on through the small island.
Pedestals burning with bright magenta flames gave the night a dark purple glow, lighting the steps for his benefit as he mounted them. The tower to the university rose into the midnight sky, the very top of it outlined in the combined brightness of Secunda and Masser.
He entered through the main door, warmness of the lounge washing over his skin. Akatosh's eyes scanned over the room. Bookshelves lined with hundreds of times lined the walls, desks topped with alchemy tools and crystal globes, quills set aside with every parchment scroll. A chandelier of candles hung above his head, floor carved with symbols that glowed brightly, and he knew by standing on them one would be teleported elsewhere.
His buckled shoes stepped lightly on the rugs beneath, sitting down on one of the two benches. Akatosh looked at the other dwindling person in the room, and the mage smiled at him kindly.
"It is good that you came back unharmed," Tar-Meena greeted, pupil-less eyes blinking at him like onyx orbs. "I was worried."
"It's good to be back." He swung his large bag onto his lap, unsealing it swiftly. Akatosh's fingers pulled out the glimmering star of dawn and dusk's Queen, and it shone like any other star in the sky, if not brighter.
The Argonian gasped. "It's magnificent," she breathed, and he slipped it back inside. The shorter handed her his bag, and she took it hesitantly. "Did anyone see you carrying this?"
"None," he promised. "But it should hardly matter. Out of all the Princes, Azura is the one more loved than feared."
"I agree," Tar-Meena replied. "But my fellow mages may not be so knowledgable. Using daedric artifacts, although not forbidden, is very much unheard of and no doubt frowned upon."
"I'm sure you'll be fine," he reassured. She reluctantly nodded, but he could tell she was thrilled at the prospect of his gift. "Please, allow me to pay you, Akatosh."
He shook his head, standing, and she watched. "There's no need," he objected. "You helped me before. I'm simply repaying the debt." Akatosh's voice grew slightly weak at the last few words, giving a nasty cough. Tar-Meena looked at him worriedly.
"Are you well?" She questioned. "Do you need some water?" He denied with a wave of his hand.
"I must have picked up something on my way back," the hero dismissed in only slightly wavering tones. "I just need some rest." Tar-Meena nodded in agreement.
"I won't keep you waiting, then," she said, standing as well, and the vibrant scales running along the length of her tail shimmered in the candlelight. "Goodnight, my friend."
"And you," Akatosh bid. "May the Divines watch over you." And as he left, he pondered on why exactly the words sounded quite so sour on his tongue.
Here's the first chapter! Sorry for the huge delay in putting it up, but updates should go back to normal now. Hello to everyone joining me from TMA! :)
PS, thanks for all the wonderful reviews I got on the last chapter. You guys are amazing.