AN: Never before have I actually had any sympathy for an NPC in a computer game. Then Martin came along with his underdog story (and Sean Bean's wonderful voice, which, I'm sure, helped too) and my imagination went wild... This story is the result. I'm not quite sure what happened... Lack of sleep from spending too many nightly hours in Tamriel?
Disclaimer: All hail to Bethesda! Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls lore are not mine. If they were, Oblivion would have had a vastly different ending... (thank the Nine for mods...)
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Blood and death filling his entire vision, Brother Martin was on the verge of losing his faith in the Nine.
Granted, in his youth, his faith had been in different gods, and the consequences of his ill-made choices still haunted his dreams from time to time. The absolution of his sins, bestowed upon him after he had completed a pilgrimage to become a priest of Akatosh, had made the memories more bearable.
But in his heart, deeply hidden from the outside world, there was still a large festering wound he didn't really want to go away. It served him as a constant reminder of his foolishness in the past, preventing him from ever making the same mistakes again.
His work provided a welcome means of distraction, and he devotedly tended to his duties, and more often than not, went far beyond them. He had learned that long days (and nights) trying to alleviate other people's suffering, be it spiritual, mental or physical, caused an exhaustion even the nightmares wouldn't penetrate. Allowing him precious, albeit too short-lived, rest.
His fellow priests all thought very highly of his zeal and dedication, but whenever they mentioned this to him, he felt like a traitor, an egoist who did it for his own peace of mind rather than someone else's.
Of course, they countered by suggesting that he was judging himself too harshly and that, in fact, he cared so much more about other people's happiness than his own.
He never tried to pursue that argument further. He did wish for everyone around him to be as care and pain free as possible. He tried his best to find those who were deviating from the right path and to talk some sense into them. Preciously few people ever showed any gratitude or appreciation for his help, but he never expected anything in return.
He even didn't hesitate to place himself into harm's way if it meant he could save another life.
But he feared that he didn't do it from a noble heart, but rather from a wounded one. A heart that would only welcome death over the constant pain.
Still, he didn't want to die on purpose. He would never even consider suicide. Not because he loved life too much , but because he was convinced that he shouldn't take the easy way out. He should suffer for his past sins if he wanted to have at least a feeble chance at a less harsh afterlife.
Atonement. The very thing he gave to every sorrowful sinner that came to confession with him, he wouldn't allow to give to himself.
He did have faith in the Nine. With every child he helped into the world, with every matrimony he blessed and even with every dignitary passing of a content soul into the afterlife, he had found more faith. He had learned to see the good side of things over the bad, and to accept that although the Nine's plans with the Mundus were not always obvious to a lowly priest, there was a greater purpose behind it all.
A comfortable thought that made his days easier, his burdens easier to bear, and allowed him to lock away his inner feelings so as not to upset anyone else.
No one knew the Martin buried below the quiet gentle man, the hurt and the insecurities and the desperation.
His faith helped to keep that Martin from revealing himself to the world.
But when hell opened and spilled out all its ugliness and horrors into Kvatch, his faith trembled harder than the ground as the city fell apart around him.
Within few heartbeats, he saw people die in the most horrible ways at the hands of Daedric creatures that had previously only existed in the worst of nightmares. He saw how the bravery of the guards was rewarded with the most horrible suffering from which only death provided a relief.
And there was no mighty fist that swept down upon the invaders from the heavens, no booming voice cursing the Daedra back into Oblivion, no reason at all why the Divines would allow innocent children to be murdered...
His faith trembled in that moment of realisation, but it did not shatter.
For his wounded heart reminded him that he shouldn't presume to know the way of the other-worldly, and that the only thing he could and should really control were his own actions when faced with this terrifying situation.
Strangely, the realisation brought an unusual calm and clarity to his thoughts. He felt like it was a different person that ran out of the temple's safe embrace and straight into the hell outside, yelling for people to retreat to the sturdy stone structure, liberally casting offensive an restorative spells around, supporting and carrying the wounded to safety only to run back out into hell to find more survivors...
Certainly, he was afraid. Deep inside, he was terrified and the wound in his heart, opened afresh, ached more than ever. But his mind wouldn't allow room for such distractions. He could break down later. ..
If he lived long enough to meet that moment, at least...
The situation seemed beyond all hope, but still he prayed to Akatosh, and to every other Divine, for the strength to keep going, to keep doing the right thing, even if Oblivion would finally overtake them all and all his meagre actions would have been in vain...
He kept herding people into the relative safety of the temple, only his small dagger and his knowledge of offensive magic standing between them and the hordes of seemingly endless Daedra.
He was hit several times, by falling debris, spells, weapons... But his focus didn't waver and he regained his footing every time he was knocked down.
But in the end he was just a man, and his magicka wasn't endless nor was his body capable of handling more than a certain amount of abuse.
When he finally went down, it took him an unordinary long amount of time to realise that he wasn't moving anymore, and was, in fact, not seeing much more than the dirt of the courtyard.
He tried his best to move, to get up and help the panicked voice that sounded quite close. But even though his will was strong, his body refused to cooperate any longer. The pain of his injuries, that he had been pushing to the back of his mind so successfully before, suddenly rushed over him and overtook his senses.
The sounds of the battle around him dimmed and darkness started creeping up on him.
His last thought was a prayer to Akatosh, that somehow, in the unpredictable way of the Divines, there would somehow appear a rescue for all those people currently taking refuge the temple, that his decision to herd them in their would not become their grave.
But the only answer was a cold indifferent silence.
His faith trembled.
Then, something heavy slammed into his head, and his consciousness flickered and died.
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Not far away, a lonely figure prayed to Divines for strength, before stepping through the flaming gate, into the hell of Oblivion...
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