[A/N: This crossover is a "What-if" story, answering the question I've asked myself more than once, "What if Sauron had been a Daedric Prince?". I mean, seriously, wouldn't he be an epic Daedra?

This story is set in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, and takes place 80+ years after the events of Oblivion. It also deviates from canon timelines/lore, making it something of an AU Verse. All of the main characters (with the exception of canon chara e.g. Sauron) are of my own creation, as are their quirks, backstories and personality traits. In addition, there are a few original locations as well.

Let me know your thoughts on the intro chapter, please?]

The Daedra's Wrath

(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)

Prologue

Mehrunes Dagon walked the Earth once more.

Despite the best efforts of so many, the Daedric Prince of Destruction had forced his way into Tamriel, bringing with him a colossal army, intent upon laying waste to all life. The towering demon stared down at the battle below, hundreds of Dremora storming the Temple District of the Imperial City, watching as his red-skinned servants clashed blades with the outnumbered Guards of the Legion. A fanged smile was etched into his grotesque features, as he swept a giant warhammer into a group of nearby soldiers, sending them flying across the battlefield.

Down below, the streets of the Imperial City were a bloodbath. With no clearly defined no-man's-land, bows became useless in the closed-quarters combat, the archers quickly sliding long and keen blades from scabbards at their sides and charging into the fray. The Mages had backed themselves into a corner, working their magic to both distract and fend off the brutish demonic warriors from Oblivion. Amidst the chaos, however, two men continued to fight towards the Temple.

Martin Septim, the Emperor of Tamriel, stood beside the renowned Hero of Kvatch, pushing through the sea of warriors and blades, desperate to reach the Temple. After rallying the troops from every County of Cyrodiil, the Hero of Kvatch had led an assault on the Great Oblivion Gate, causing Dagon's machines of war to come to a grinding halt. This act had prevented the Daedra from unleashing his most potent weapon, but had not thwarted the onslaught completely. The March of Oblivion continued, and now, the Daedra continued to pour into the city like ants towards a food source.

"To me! To me!" the Hero roared, brandishing his long sword, and the Imperial soldiers surrounding him gave a bloodthirsty cheer, fighting with renewed vigor, carving a path directly towards the Temple. From a short distance away, Mehrunes Dagon saw this with cunning eyes, and as the leaders of Cyrodiil's defence entered the Temple, a sudden realisation struck him with all the force of a bomb.

Inside, the Hero of Kvatch slammed the doors closed, throwing a nearby bookcase across the sealed entrance, then turned quickly, panting heavily, jogging across the room to where Martin stood.

Uriel Septim's son glanced down at the Amulet of Kings around his neck, his face pale and grim. When he turned his eyes on the Hero, there was a cold finality in his glance, and a steely resolve. "I do what I must do." He said hurriedly. "I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel... That task falls to others." A small smile touched the Emperor's lips as he placed a hand on the Hero's armored pauldron. "Farewell. You've been a good friend, in the short time that I've known you. But now I must go..." Releasing his grip, Martin turned and stepped away towards the centre of the Temple. The Hero watched on, at a loss for words. As Martin stepped into the circle, he glanced over his shoulder, nodding once. "The Dragon awaits."

A thundering roar boomed around them, and the Temple shattered, Mehrunes Dagon crashing through the wall in a rage, and the Hero was thrown across the room, crashing into the stone behind him. His eyes blurry and unfocussed, he saw Martin's figure levitate, thin beams of light radiating from the gleaming amulet on his chest, and then, a bright explosion of gold radiance engulfed his form.

Dagon staggered backwards, raising an arm to shield his eyes, and the swirling radiance twisted into the shape of a colossal Dragon; The Avatar of Akatosh. The Dragon swooped low, roaring violently, opening it's fearsome maw, and passed mere inches above Dagon as the Daedric Prince ducked for cover. It flipped over in mid-air, soaring back to the Temple, and landed heavily, the ground shaking under it's weight.

Such was the fury of Mehrunes Dagon, the darkened skies split open, bathing the black clouds in a blood-like red hue. The Prince stormed forwards, driving his heavy hammer into the Dragon's chest, following up by swinging a giant blade towards it's neck.

The Avatar beat it's immense wings, darting it's head forward and clamping it's fanged jaws into the neck of Dagon. Holding him in place with it's powerful maw, it lashed out with clawed feet, slashing and slicing at the Daedra. Dagon released a strangled howl, struggling against the vice-like grip of the Dragon's teeth, but his struggle was in vain.

The Dragon stepped back, releasing Dagon from his grasp, a mighty growl issuing from it's throat as it bathed the Daedra in piercingly bright flames. Smoke began to rise from Dagon's form, and slowly but surely, the Prince of Destruction began to burn up, exploding in a bright display of fire and ash. All across the Imperial City, the Daedra vanished, as if thrown through the very fabric of space and time by an unseen force, and the skies faded to grey. The Avatar of Akatosh panted heavily, it's giant form shaking with every breath. It turned it's ferocious head towards the slowly rising Hero of Kvatch, and acknowledged him with a slow, farewell nod.

The final member of the Septim bloodline was passing from the world, yet Martin went to the halls of his father, and his father's fathers gladly. The Amulet had shattered, and thus had closed Dagon's Gates to Oblivion forever more. A final, earth-shaking roar issued from the Avatar of Akatosh, and Martin Septim spread his vast wings, turning into stone.

The battle, was over.

…...

6 months later...

A hush fell over the Palace grounds as High Chancellor Ocato stepped up onto the podium. Gathered in front of him, on one of the sweeping lawns, the eight Counts of Cyrodiil stood by their subjects, alongside members of the Mages Guild, Fighters Guild, and several Imperial Diplomats. There were, however, a few less reputable members of society watching on; Sitting lazily on a nearby rooftop, sprawled out in the morning sun, a man in weather-stained leather armor and a gray cowl watched on with interest, whilst a dark robed and hooded figure stood hidden in the doorway of a mausoleum, surveying the scene with keen eyes. Lastly, a tall, slender, balding man in a ruffled black coat with red under shirt stood in the middle of the crowd, seemingly bored with the whole proceeding.

Since the fall of Dagon, the peoples of Cyrodiil had been rebuilding much that was lost, routing out the last remnants of the Mythic Dawn, and burying the honored dead. But, mostly, they rejoiced at the fall of the Daedra, and sung praises to the Heroes of Cyrodiil.

But, with no Emperor on the throne of Tamriel, there was no banner to unite under. Many men had come forward, claiming to also be the illegitimate sons of Uriel Septim, whilst others suggested that Ocato himself take on the role. There was, however, only one man fit to preside over all of Tamriel in such a time.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, rulers of Cyrodiil's Counties, Guild Leaders..." Ocato began, his voice carrying over the thronging crowd. "... You have been called here today to bear witness to the dawning of a new age." A brief smattering of obligatory applause rang out from the crowd. "The High Council has convened, and after several days of deliberations, we are proud to announce that we have finally selected a new Emperor... The perfect leader to guide us into this Fourth Age of the World." Behind Ocato, lined against the wall, were several white-armored Palace Guards, and standing at the end of the row, a figure in bright golden armor. Ocato turned his hand towards this figure, and on cue, he began moving towards the podium. "There can be no better man to lead Tamriel, than the man who carried it through the darkness. Without him, there would be no Tamriel today. So, it is with the greatest of pride that I present to you, The Hero of Kvatch!"

The crowd exploded into cheers and applause, and the speech that the Hero had prepared was discarded. The leaders of Cyrodiil and her provinces continued to cheer and applaud as Ocato placed the crown upon his head, as the Hero raised his arms to his new subjects, the Imperial Dragon Armor gleaming in the sun. On his rooftop, the Gray Fox smiled a small smile before slipping away back over the rooftop. Lucien Lachance simply slipped back into the shadows of the Mausoleum, and Haskill disappeared entirely, no doubt heading back to the Shivering Isles to inform the Madgod of proceedings today.

Celebrations continued long into the night, but the new Emperor took little part in them. He rose before dawn the very next day, took a horse to his liking from the Palace stables, and set off along the road, eager to begin the rebuilding of Cyrodiil.

And rebuild, he did.

Within 2 years, the County of Kvatch had been restored to it's former glory, and the damage to the walls of Bruma were repaired. The remnants of the Oblivion Gates were torn down, and a colossal memorial was built beside the stone Dragon now dominating the Temple District.

Over the next 80 years, Cyrodiil experienced a colossal population boom, and as a result, much of the empty wilderness of the realm was colonised and settled. Not only that, but the Hero of Kvatch renewed ties with Skyrim and its monarchy, and there was much trade between the Imperials and their Nordic brethren to the North. Such were the ties of kinship that the High King allowed the Imperials to build the township of Helgen on its Southern borders, and Imperial Troops were sent to strengthen the garrisons of Skyrim.

And, when trouble (in the form of the Alik'r looking to expand their realm beyond the fringes of Hammerfell) threatened Skyrim's borders, the Hero of Kvatch (although at the time nearing 60 years of age) fought on the front lines of the battle.

Now, in the year 85 of the Fourth Era, the Emperor has long entered his twilight years. For nearly a century, the Hero of Kvatch has lead Tamriel through the darkness and into a golden new age of prosperity. Even the greatest of stories, however, must always come to an end.

His trials over, and with Tamriel flourishing once more, the old Emperor passed away on the eve of his 105th Birthday. In recognition of the Hero's life work, a golden statue of the man was erected in the grounds of the Palace; An honour that even the legendary Tiber Septim wasn't granted.

With the Hero of Kvatch's story now complete, a new tale can begin.

But some stories are darker than others...

This story is of a forgotten Daedric Prince. Sauron, the Prince of Death. When the Dark Brotherhood emerged as the leading death dealers of Tamriel, their worship of Sithis conflicted with Sauron's followers, and in a short but bloody massacre, Sauron was forever wiped from the minds of the Tamriellians.

None who lived in the current age knew that Sauron, however, once threatened to seize Tamriel in the grip of his iron fist. Millenia ago, Sauron the Deceiver entered the realm, offering false counsel and aide to the peoples of the World.

In the Daedric Realm of Mordor, Sauron forged 19 rings of power, to be given as gifts to the leading races of Tamriel. Three rings he gave to the Ayleid Lords, which made them powerfully magical beyond the wildest dreams of the Mer. Seven were given to the Dwemer Kings, granting them prosperity in their mining and craftsmanship. And Nine rings he gifted to the Nords, making them the fiercest warrior race on Earth.

Of course, they had all of them been deceived, for Sauron, Prince of Death, wished no more than to enslave them. The Dwemer and the Ayleids were the first to fall, and were swept from their homes to serve in the realm of Mordor as Sauron's thralls for the rest of eternity. The Nords, a proud race of mighty combatants, rebelled against the orders of Barad-dur, and forced their treacherous leaders back with the aide of a younger and more primitive race of men; The Imperials. The High King, along with his eight Jarls (for Markarth was still a Dwarven centre of society at this age), were pushed deep into the Mountains, and sealed within the confines of Bleak Falls Barrow. All of Sauron's followers were routed out, and the Daedric Prince returned to his home in Mordor, bitter and defeated, and his time in Tamriel was torn from the history books.

Millenia on, Sauron received word of Dagon's defeat, and saw a golden opportunity lying therein. After defeating such a mighty foe, the people of Tamriel would become content and complacent, growing blasé and soft in times of peace. The last thing they would expect is another powerful conqueror just over the horizon.

But, with the shattering of the Amulet of Kings, the usual doorways would no longer be open to him. This, however, would simply make the inhabitants of Tamriel even more careless.

The key to unlocking the door to Tamriel was simple; Power. If the Dark Lord could summon enough strength, he could break through the protection offered by the Septim bloodline. And so, using his myriad of enslaved Dwemer and Ayleid servants, Sauron began forging a new Ring, a master Ring, greater than those he gifted to the races of Tamriel in the forgotten years.

And so, for nearly a century, Sauron planned his attack. Unlike Dagon, Sauron lacked a near immeasurable army of Daedric monsters, and the Dremora in his service weren't nearly numerous enough to launch an assault upon Tamriel. What Sauron possessed, however, was a silver tongue and a cunning mind. He could assume a form fairer than the ghastly visage of his true face, and he was a master of deceit and a spinner of lies. He had no doubt that he could sway many of the inhabitants of Tamriel, for as history has shown, the hearts of men are easily corrupted.

Now, the Daedra stood in the very heart of his realm, within a cavernous chamber built into the volcanic mountain Ordodruin. Down below, the fires of Amon Amarth raged, flame and molten rock spraying high into the air.

"My Lord..." a hooded and robed Dremora approached Sauron's turned back, a small wooden box in his hands. "It is complete."

Sauron turned, his black cape billowing out behind him. 85 years of waiting... And it was all finally coming to fruition. "Approach, Dremora." The red skinned demon did as he was bid, kneeling in front of the Daedric Lord, opening the box.

Laying on a black cushion within the box, was a single, unremarkable golden ring. Sauron removed it from the box and slipped it over his finger, red lines of script burning brightly around the band. He raised his hand, staring hungrily at the golden ring on his finger, and spoke. "Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"

One Ring, to rule them all.

[A/N: Thus concludes the introductory chapter! Thanks for reading! I'll begin work on the next Chapter tomorrow, but I'll hold off on posting just in case anyone spots a fatal flaw I've made and haven't spotted. Again, let me remind you that this is almost completely AU. All reviews are welcome and appreciated!]