This chapter came out a bit more purplish than intended... But I've rewritten it thrice, and it's about time I decide on something, so here is what came out.

Disclaimer: I own only Anthir the Nord.

The Third Era has ended.

The Empire was once again safe. The invasion from the daedric realm of Oblivion has been stopped, and the barriers between the two worlds are now guarded not by fires, but by the Divine dragon Akatosh himself. The threat gone, the faces happy.

But such a victory does not come without a price.

The Empire was also troubled. Along with the sacrifice of the great hero, Martin Septim, the royal dynasty perished. There was no one to sit upon the Dragonthrone... as there was no Dragonborn. No one knew what would befall the land. How were they to choose a new Emperor?

Finally, the answer came. As was loudly heralded by the "Black Horse Courier", High Chancellor Ocato - much to the surprise of all his people - proclaimed himself Emperor of Tamriel. He was to be crowned in just a few days. Rumours arouse almost instantly. People murmured among themselves about how the Elder Council disagreed, not wishing to give the Imperial Dragonthrone to just any elf, but their minds changed after bribes, threats and even torture. Of course, there were some who followed Ocato almost blindly.

This Nord was not one of them. With his long, dark brown hair and same eyes he would be just a face in the crowd of his race, a Nord like any other, if not for his somewhat thin face and a name that did not fit his kind.

Anthir. He never really wondered why his mother named him that. Perhaps it had something to do with his father, whom he never knew, but it never really bothered him. He came to Cyrodiil from Vvardenfell, the huge island north in dark elven Morrowind. He rarely spoke of his past, and if he did, the story was incomplete, full of holes and hidden chapters. But he had reasons to hide them.

Anthir came to Cyrodiil to start anew, to try and forget about his past. He did what had to be done, and wanted to take his life in his own hands.

That was not exactly what he found. A new face, a different man - yet, by the same force that pushed him forth on Vvardenfeel, he got to know the great hero, Martin, when he was but a humble priest of Akatosh. Accompanied him throughout the entire Oblivion invasion, from the tragic siege of Kvatch to the victory in the capital.

And during that time, Anthir's greatest secret was born. It took a while, growing in him slowly, emerging like a river during heavy rains, higher and higher... But although it eventually grew intense, and unnervingly painful, he did not say a word about it to anyone. Not even to those few he trusted blindly with his life.

He loved Martin.

But Martin Septim was now dead. Sacrificed to call down Akatosh and banish Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction, back to his plane in Oblivion. Anthir's heart bled. The Emperor never knew, and would never know.

A desperate, seemingly foolish and definitely impossible plan was born. With a racing heart and a mind focused on but one thing, Anthir decided that there may yet be hope for Martin. If he was not simply dead, but ascended to live among the gods like Tiber Septim once was, it seemed possible to bring him back.

The Dwemer nearly succeeded in creating a god.

Anthir had no idea how to do what the Dwemer aimed to do. But he knew who would know. His next goal was to go to a place he wanted to leave behind, to a past he wished never to return to.

Funny what things love makes you do.

There was one thing he would need before leaving Cyrodiil. There was no telling if he would ever return, so best take care of it while he is still here. Back then, during the siege of the Imperial City, when Mehrunes Dagon himself walked the land, Anthir's mind would not notice a small yet amazingly important detail. Now, months after that day, his sub-consciousness reminded him that it has indeed been there.

A shard of the Amulet of Kings.

It seemed to be the key to Martin's resurrection. It seemed possible.

Anthir was now standing before the closed gate of Cloud Ruler Temple, an ancient, seemingly Akaviri by architecture, fortress of his brethren, the Blades. The ornate wooden gate has not been opened even once since the sacrifice of Martin Septim. It was silent, overwhelmingly empty, still bearing memories of what happened here during the crisis... memories of Martin.

The snow fell, carried on by icy winds, onto a simple, plain gravestone on which Anthir's eyes were focused. The carefully carved letters formed a name this Nord would never forget, name of a man he has known briefly but well and whom he came to respect and look up to.

Jauffre.

Anthir reached out with a gloved hand and wiped away some of the snow that covered the gravestone, ignoring the soft neighs of his horse. A shard of the Amulet awaited, taken by unworthy hands of Ocato who dared proclaim himself Emperor. Only Emperors of the dragon blood, blessed by Akatosh, were able to wear the Amulet of Kings.

Ocato was not a Dragonborn.

Stealing the Amulet would be high treason, Anthir told himself. But if he used it to bring back a real Emperor, one of the Septim blood? If he gave it back to its rightful owner?

He looked down at Jauffre's grave, and then up to the skies, thinking of the great Dragon God.

"I hope you can forgive me..." he said out loud.

He then swiftly mounted his horse and sped southward. There was much to be done, and he did not know if he was able to bring it to an end... but he will try.

There will be a Dragonborn.

The one he so longed to see.