Author's Note: This story takes place in an alternate universe where the events of Skyrim are not canon, but the off-screen events leading up to it are. (So in other words, everything from 4E 1-200, including the Great War.) I did borrow some story elements from the real Skyrim- such as Ulfric murdering Torygg- but unless you see it specifically mentioned here you can assume it does not exist.

I have always been extremely frustrated with the weak writing and retconning of older lore in Skyrim. (Dragons being evil slave masters, Alduin being Akatosh's son, etc.) It's pretty narcissistic, but I thought I could do better. However, it would be boring if I simply rewrote the story of Skyrim with a few minor changes, so instead I went with a totally different plot for this story. Lore-wise, I do add a few things and fill in some gaps. The difference is that nothing I add changes the player's previous understanding of the world, which I think is the critical difference between retconning and continued world building.

So, there's my reason for writing this fic. Constructive criticism, no matter how harsh, is truly welcomed.

Prologue

4E 187

Jasbir Travere settled into the thickly cushioned chair at his desk, an Elder Scroll laying open before him. These were his private quarters in a wing of the Imperial Library. His aide, a novitiate named Donovan, sat quietly across from him with a large diary across his lap and a quill in hand. His features were dark and blurry to Jasbir, naught but a vague impression of blotches on a pale oval. Jasbir would never know the color of his aide's eyes or the particular shape of his features. Yet he could tell any of the novices and the other Moth Priests apart from their general size and shape, the timbre of their voices, or even their gait. He got along without good vision better than his younger self would ever have expected, and a good thing, too- It would not be long before the scrolls would leave Jasbir completely and permanently blind.

Jasbir's brown hair had already begun to recede from his forehead and was now streaked with the occasional white strands. His gray robe was simple, without ornamentation or flourish. He was of average build, perhaps a little thin. Most priests were. They led very austere lives, with no time for drink or merrymaking. Oftentimes Donovan would practically have to force Jasbir away from his studies to see to it that the Breton ate. The ability to read was something precious and Jasbir intended to cram an entire lifetime's worth of books into the little time he had left.

He gently smoothed down the edges of the scroll. To Jasbir's fingers it was parchment, deceptively soft and thin. But he knew that no mortal instruments would cut it, no fire or magicka could destroy it. Faintly glowing glyphs shifted and warped into new shapes before his very eyes. Jasbir could see them clearly when everything else was an indistinct blur. Donovan had closed his eyes now, so that he could not interfere with the reading or be blinded himself.

Jasbir's eyes traced the glyphs as quickly as they could change, following the symbols he knew by heart and avoiding the others that blinked in his peripheral vision. That was the key to reading an Elder Scroll, to guide the Scroll as it guided the reader through an endless sea of knowledge. A man could spend a hundred lifetimes learning from the Scroll, but Jasbir had less than one. He, and every Moth Priest, most focus on a few particular areas to make the most of their time.

The glyphs grew brighter, pulsing with golden light. Jasbir felt the heat on his face a moment before it engulfed him and he was no longer blind. He could see with a clarity stronger than he had ever known, even as a boy. He was flying over Nirn, the wind bitingly cold against his skin. The ground below was a patchwork of color- lakes and streams shimmered in the sunlight and little brown and gray clusters that might have been towns dotted the landscape miles below.

The scene tilted and the blue expanse of water was now the endless blue of the sky, the sudden appearance of the sun causing no pain on his retinas although he could feel its warmth on his skin. A dark shadow eclipsed the burning orb, leathery, claw-tipped wings spread wide. Dragon! The creature bellowed, a deafening roar as real as the creaking chair when Donovan adjusted his position just moments before.

Another shift. A human woman laying on a stone floor, her short brown hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo. Weak amber light bathed her tanned skin, her hazel eyes vacant and unseeing. Blood trickled from her parted lips and a giant spike of ice protruded from her breast. Jasbir felt a sharp pain, a deep grief. He had seen this woman many times in past visions, but always the details had been obscured. Now he saw every drop of blood, every link in her chainmail cuirass with perfect clarity. Magickal vapor rose from the shard of ice, condensation forming on her face.

Another bloody scene: A brown-haired, bearded man in steel plate armor thrown against the wall of an arena, blood spraying from a fresh gash along his neck. His helmet had been knocked aside and lay several feet away. His cuirass was heavily dented as if crushed beneath the fist of a giant. People were screaming and crying all around him, leaping from the grandstand, their hands aglow with healing magickas, but it was too late. The soul had fled. A woman in full court regalia, including a golden circlet bearing three ruby gems, shrieked from the grandstand box and fell down weeping. Red banners bearing a wolf's head over a shield fluttered from the stone pylons that ringed the arena.

The scene changed again. Jasbir stood before a two-story wooden house, old and unpainted, crawling with green moss and ivy. He felt his body twitch as he shivered in the cold outside. The embers of the dying sun burned low on the horizon to his left, a band of stars already sparkling brilliantly in the darkening sky above. Crickets chirped loudly and small yellow lights near the ground blinked as if to mirror the stars. Jasbir could hear water and knew there must be a river behind him, on the other side of the dirt road on which he stood. The building's windows glowed with a warm orange light from within. The front door suddenly banged open to reveal the silhouette of a fat drunk, laughter and flute music and the delicious scent of fried fish spilling past him into the street. The light from the open door fell upon a hanging sign over the front steps: No name, merely a picture of a boot overflowing with beer foam. The boot had a handle as if it were a mug.

The colors of the scene twisted and turned and Jasbir was looking at a sword embedded vertically in a smooth stone wall, as if the space had been carved out especially to accommodate it. The blade was unprotected and thickly mottled with rust. The gilded hilt was highly stylized, the pommel ending in a dragon's head. The quillons were the dragon's wings unfurled, as if to protect the tear-cut ruby gripped by a claw-like setting in the center of the crossguard. What was once a stunning piece of workmanship had faded from glory long ago and now lay coated by a thin veneer of dust.

Every image had lasted no longer than a few seconds. Some he had seen before, but only as quick flashes here and there, too jumbled and confused to make much sense of. Sometimes the images melded into each other, and other times he saw shapes and colors that defied reality. But this time everything was clear, distinct, comprehensible. The red of the gem drained away like blood from a corpse. All color faded. The blackness engulfed him and Jasbir found himself in his chair, his fingers digging into the armrest.

"Sir? Are you alright? How bad is your sight? How many fingers am I holding up?" He heard Donovan shift, heard his pen hit the table. Jasbir blinked, just to be sure his eyes were open.

He was blind.

"Pick up your pen," he said firmly, impatiently. There was no time to waste. "Record everything I say. Red banner, a wolf and a shield. A boot mug overflowing with beer..."

Chapter One

4E 200

Gort gro-Urgak knelt before the cairn of stones, staring blankly at the landscape beyond. Colorful lengths of fabric trapped between the stones fluttered as the wind picked them up then fell limp against the mound when it had passed, and at the same time the leaves of the nearby trees flashed in the sunlight like gems. Not long ago Gort found the lush green valleys and deciduous forests of Southeast Skyrim a tranquil haven, but now the scenery may as well have been an endless field of ash for all the comfort it provided. Birds continued to sing and flit from tree to tree, but he did not hear them.

A misty film clouded the scene and Gort closed his eyes. Orcs did not cry.

"Mother, the yurt is so empty without you," the young man whispered. "I hear creaks in the night and think it is you stirring in bed, but then I remember..." He knew that his words were wasted, yet speaking to her was a physical need he could not deny. Whether she had joined their ancestors in the Ashpits or was simply gone forever, she could not hear him. Her body was not even beneath the cairn. Her empty husk, along with the others, lay several miles below his feet in a mine shaft that would never be excavated out of respect for the dead. This cairn belonged to all those who lost their lives in the cave-in. Even in death, Morzola gra-Kahz would not be granted something uniquely hers.

He could hear his mother's voice in his mind, soothing yet firm: "I gave you a strong name for a reason, Gortwog. I knew you would be a strong man, just like your namesake. You will weather this."

She spoke similar words many times. He was always the loser in games of sport. He had failed the trial of adulthood three years in a row. Everything he tried to do ended in failure and humiliation, but Morzola always reassured him that someday he would prevail.

This time, he knew in his heart that it wasn't true. He had always hated his name, hated the fact that his mother had set him against impossible standards from the start. He would never be the man his mother hoped he would be, and Gort felt sorrier now than he ever had before. His eyes still wet, Gort picked himself off the ground and turned back toward the stronghold. As Morzola's only child, her responsibilities now fell to him.

Approaching the palisade wall, he saw a flash of color moving between the tiny gaps in the log spikes. He stopped abruptly, every muscle of his body tightening and his stomach clenching in dread. Then they appeared at the main gate, left open and unguarded- two of his half-brothers, Mog and Torgoth gro-Urgak.

Apparently the grace period allowed for grieving only lasted a month. Gort could tell from the arrogant smirks what they wanted from him.

"Little stubby-tusk had better hurry, he must help the women with their clothes washing," Mog said mockingly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall by the entrance. Torgoth took his place on the opposite side, so that Gort could not enter the village without passing between them. At 17, Mog was one year younger than Gort, and Torgoth three years younger, yet both were taller and more heavily built.

Gort had the misfortune to be born lorduk- a runt. Gort had stopped growing at a measly 5'6", and had always been scrawny compared to the other males of the village who seemed to build muscle with ease. In Gort's own opinion he was uncannily ugly, even for an Orc. Flat nose, a weak chin, large gaps between his teeth. His fat lower lip bulged out around his tusks, although they were uncommonly short and did not protrude past his lip. Even his skin tone was weak- a pale emerald, compared to the dark olive-green complexion most of his brothers had inherited from their shared father.

Mog and Torgoth were both the sons of Chief Durog gro-Urgak's first wife. The families of his first and second wives lived in the giant crescent-shaped longhouse, while the third wife- Morzola- had been relegated to a small yurt nearby. Those families got first pick from any kill made by any hunter in the village and the first pick of ores brought up from the mines. Durog's children thought they were better than everyone else and lorded their status over the other village youths, but Gort, unable to defend himself well due to his size and lack of strength, had always bore the brunt of their malice.

Gort glared silently at the boys, his hands clenched at his sides. They always infuriated him, but now, picking on someone who had come from visiting a grave? They were scum. But there was nothing he could do about it. An Orc had to defend his own honor- if he could not, he was not a man.

"Got nothing to say, tuskless?" Torgoth asked with a grin. He was a bit thinner and smaller than his elder brother, but having a strong friend made him cocky. Gort would have a hard enough time facing him alone, but as long as Mog or Kurza or Lum were by his side, he was utterly safe.

"May I pass?" Gort asked stiffly through clenched teeth, his eyes dropping to the ground.

"Well go on then," Mog said, jerking his chin toward the village. "You look about to cry, and none of us want to witness that!" The implication was a serious insult to an Orc, one that Gort should have answered with violence. Instead he timidly bowed his head and plodded past the sentries. He could feel their gaze burning on his skin and he tensed for the strike he knew would come. The taller boys turned and silently watched him go as he passed, smirking to each other. To Gort's confusion, nothing happened. It wasn't until Gort was a few feet into the village that the first stone struck the back of his head.

So that was the reason for their crossed arms- they were concealing rocks in their palms.

Gort broke into a run as rocks pelted him from behind. Mog and Torgoth ran out of stones in just a few seconds and then broke into peals of laughter. They'd had their fun, they would not pursue him.

Gort ran up the weedy dirt path that led to his small yurt behind the massive longhouse at the center of the village and didn't stop until the door banged shut behind him. He paused then, waiting for his racing heart to calm and his shuddering breaths to slow, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The only light came from the smoke hole in the center of the little room. Dust motes swam in the circle of light upon the floor, divided into fourths by the beams across the roof. Gort watched them until they blurred, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. How ashamed his mother would be, if she were alive. Perhaps it was better this way.

No sooner had Gort regained his composure and moved to begin his chores for the day when there was a knock at the door. There had been a stream of visitors in the week following Morzola's death as villagers left their condolences, but that had tapered off and he had no idea who it could be.

"Come in," Gort said, sitting down on a cushion by the pit in the center of the room and picking up his firesteel and flint to get the fire going for his guest. He froze when the door opened and he saw the familiar silhouette that blocked the daylight.

"Father?"

"Good day, Gortwog," Durog gro-Urgak said curtly, maneuvering his wide frame into the room and closing the door behind himself. He was dressed in an assortment of animal furs, including a great bearskin cape, its long claws clutching his shoulders. Durog was an imposing beast of a man with old scars crisscrossing his broad face. His golden eyes were barely visible, tucked deep in his skull and hidden beneath a heavy, protruding brow. His long tusks curled back so that they nearly touched his own flaring nostrils. Like Gort and most of his brothers, he wore his black hair in a high topknot.

Gort scrambled up, the fire forgotten. "Let me fetch you a drink!"

"Not necessary," Durog grunted, holding up a hand scored with countless nicks from old battles. "I need to speak with you. Sit." He gestured towards the cushion as if he were offering Gort a seat in his own house- although technically he was, as the yurt belonged to him. Gort nodded and sat obediently, his wide eyes trained expectantly on his father's face. Durog still stood mostly in the shadows, only part of his face and chest entering the circle of light.

"You are a man now, Gort, and as your father and Chief I believe it is time for you to forge your own destiny," Durog began, crossing his arms behind his back and holding his chin high as he spoke. Gort's brow crinkled in confusion, but he did not interrupt. "No son can achieve greatness in the shadow of his own father. For that reason, it is time for you to leave."

Gort's face collapsed into utter shock, his jaw gaping uselessly for a moment before he found his voice. When he finally spoke, it sounded pathetically weak, not calm and collected as he'd intended.

"What- what do you mean, Father? What destiny do you speak of?" He leaned forward, fingers clenching on his knees.

"I don't know," Durog said. He was so cold, so detached, Gort thought. "To found your own stronghold or to take a wife at another- only time will tell."

"And what of Mog? Or Lum? Is it their destiny to seek their fortune outside these walls as well?"

"I don't know that either. Perhaps someday."

Gort exhaled sharply at the sudden pain in his chest. Durog knew very well that a runt like Gort would never have his own stronghold or take a wife. To say it was utterly ridiculous, but Gort could not refute it without dishonoring himself. He understood now perfectly what Durog was saying: you are not wanted. It cut so much deeper than he could have imagined.

It was clear now that the only reason he hadn't been sent away earlier was because of Morzola. She would never have allowed it. Gort had never been close to his father, had even resented him at times for the preferential treatment he gave his other wives and sons, but never did he believe his father was capable of this sort of cruelty.

"But Father, I don't understand," Gort said desperately, searching Durog's eyes for any trace of empathy. He felt so small, so unequal sitting there on the floor, gazing up at the man that towered over him in stature and status alike. Shame and grief welled up inside him. Don't make me beg, Father, please... "I don't know where I'll go.. my home is here..."

"You worry too much, Gortwog. I will give you a week to prepare. You will leave with the best steel and plenty of food for your journey. But I have no doubt you'll do just fine. You understand that this is for your own good, don't you? Your mother coddled you far too much. Say that you understand, boy."

Gort held his father's gaze. A mask had come up, one which he often used in dealing with his father. Inside he felt the deepest grief, but his face showed only cold acceptance.

"I understand, Chief," Gort answered mechanically. His father grunted in acknowledgment and turned to go, leaving Gort alone in the the small room that suddenly seemed infinitely dark and empty. It could almost swallow him up.

He sat there for a length of time that could have been minutes or hours. Time had no meaning to Gort. In the span of a month he had lost his mother, his home, his entire world. There was no place for him here, that was true. Gort had always known it. But there was no place for him outside the walls either. Durog knew that, but now Gort would no longer be his problem. It was only natural to want to wipe away a blemish.

He moved in a daze over to the bed draped with animal furs at the perimeter of the room, untouched since Morzola's death. Her smell still lingered there. It comforted him and drove the knives deeper all at once. Gort stooped to pull out the pack bag stored beneath the bed.

Durog said he would give Gort a week to prepare, and send him off with "the best steel". Perhaps it was foolish for him to turn down those provisions, but Gort wanted nothing to do with his father's false generosity. Spurning these gifts would be his first act of independence. With his hunting bow and his mother's axe, Gort would be able to hunt and provide for himself just fine.

Protecting himself against other people was another matter entirely, but Gort had no choice. The finest sword ever forged was useless in the hands of a weakling.

He spent the rest of the day sorting through his belongings, deliberating on what was essential to have and what was unnecessary weight. He did not leave the yurt or attend to any of his duties. It seemed as though everything he touched brought forth some memory of his mother and Gort felt that he could not possibly part with the item for sentimental reasons. In the end, common sense won out. He did not need the painted dishes she so loved. He did not need the crude redware vase he had made for her as a child. He did not need the first misshapen knife he had forged with her aide. With tears in his eyes, he burned, broke, and destroyed all of their things so that those vultures from the village could not take them when he was gone. When he was done, red and black shards of porcelain littered the fire pit, the vibrant color dulled by the ashes of Morzola's clothes.

When the sun had set and the night breeze whispered through the trees, Gort quietly made his way through the sleeping village. The ribbons trapped in the cairn flapped as he passed, the cloth muted shades of gray in the moonlight.

He did not look back.