Book One: Sleeping Dragon

Chapter One: Out of the Fire
Starving. He was starving. Disoriented, confused, scared, all those things, but starving was most prevalent. The only thing that bothered him more than his throbbing head and aching muscles were the pangs emanating from his stomach. Sure they'd beat him, stripped him of any dignity, took their whips and painfully adept magical hands to his back, but the meager amount of food they so graciously granted him was, by far, the worst part of his ordeal.
The damned fools. All he had to do was mumble in the dark about nonsense for a few days and they let him loose. He wished he could've kicked his own ass for not thinking of it two years prior. Well...they probably wouldn't have fallen for it after just a few days then. Perhaps freedom now is as good as freedom any time.

But gods damn them. And gods damn the elves that killed his mother, and presumably his siblings as well. Gods, what time was it? What day was it? What season was it? He'd been held in a cellar for who knows how long, only allowed outside to be bathed and gawked at by his captors. 'Where the hell am I?' he thought. He stopped, for the first time realizing the thinness of the air, and the chill that now overwhelmed him. He wasn't wearing much more than rags. Nothing separated his feet from the earth, and his toes were starting to go blue. High peaks surrounded his path on all sides, and the skies above were turning grey, clouds looming overhead plump with unloosed snow. He wouldn't last the night before exposure took him. Fortunately, even through the clouds he could see the sun was still high in the sky. But that wouldn't matter if he didn't find clothes or shelter soon.

He then turned to see where he'd come from; to see how far he'd gone. The only mountains in Cyrodiil were the Jerrals on the border with Skyrim. Where the hell had he come from? He must've been miles away from anywhere relevant. He considered going back home, just to see what was left of it. If there were any clues left behind as to the fates of his siblings. But he banished the idea from his mind. It all came back to him in a wave of despair and anger. The knock, the drawing of weapons, the clank of metal on metal; the squish of metal into flesh. The fire, the smoke, the blood. It was all just something he couldn't run away from, something he could not forget. Something he saw every time he closed his eyes, as if it were painted on his eyelids.

No, he knew: there was nothing to go back to but a ruin, perhaps a scorched framework of what was once a happy home. Full of life and young ideas that never got to be. He hoped those responsible would spend an eternity aflame in the wastes of oblivion for their offenses. But he wasn't the type for sulking. No...no he would not allow the foul actions of a few cretins to forge the course of his life thereon out. That's not what his mother would want. Unlike most Nords, his mother was open minded. Not that there were many Nords to spend time around in Cyrodiil, but he got the gist from the stories his mother told him. He gathered that they were a proud and stubborn people, at home on land or in the water, but especially on the battlefield. Nords were fighters, and he was proud to count himself among them. And in this cold, he was very thankful the blood of Atmora was flowing through him. Any other race might've frozen by now.

She taught him many things. Despite her best efforts, he grew up as much a Nord as anyone back home. Same temper, same stubborn pride, same fighting spirit. She tried to raise him better, but her pleading he denied. Oh well, at least she tried. But it was that fighting spirit that kept him going through his waking nightmare. He much preferred farming and heaving a sword in his hand to learning. But despite his best efforts to the contrary, he became educated. If it was raining or his mother had to tend to one of his siblings and couldn't train with him, he would read. It was this willingness to learn and become better that set him apart.

He grew up in the shadows of the mountains now surrounding him. His mother, a lady of many talents, built their home when he was young. Old enough to remember its construction, but too young to help. It was an unassuming little cottage, single floor of stone, a fireplace and chimney at one end, a dining table in the middle, and beds for himself and his siblings at the other end. They farmed for a living, and what the couldn't make for themselves, they purchased in Bruma, just up the road. By the age of 7, he was out plowing with his mother, who balanced guiding the ox in one hand and holding his little sister in the other. By age 12, he was out hunting while his mother looked after his siblings. By age 16, he'd been admitted into the Imperial legion as an Auxiliary after beating his recruiter in a duel. The older soldier scoffed at the idea that someone half his age could best him, but shut up after he was disarmed and pinned to the ground. By age 17, he was a Praefect well on his way to becoming Legate.

That's when his trouble started. The Legates around him started asking for favors; telling him to look the other way when they broke protocol. Their lackadaisical behavior became more and more apparent to him the more he was around them. They'd shove off duties to underlings or neglect entire days of work in favor of drinking or whoring. In fact, they were rarely where they were supposed to be. He came to find out they had been dealing with Thalmor Justiciars behind closed doors for profit.

In reality, he had uncovered a secret plot by the Thalmor to assassinate the Emperor. The Thalmor had been buying secrets from the corrupt Legates, who requested that their lives be spared when the Thalmor invade the city once again. Upon realizing his plan, he informed the Legate commanding him of what he had witnessed, completely unaware that he was involved in the scandal as well. The Legate used his ignorance against him. He thanked him for his insight, and declared him a hero, seeing as this information would save the Emperor's life. He gave him a two week furlough to return home and see his family, giving him time to formulate a plan to exterminate him. Seeing as it would be suspicious to have five Legates leave the Imperial City in the dead of night, he had only two options in dealing with the boy.

He could hire the Dark Brotherhood, which was out of the question. More plausible, when the Thalmor returned with another shipment of smuggled goods, he would inform them of this rat, and they would deal with him. When it was nearly time for him to return to the Imperial City, they struck. The boy happened to be away hunting in the hills surrounding his house, and wasn't there to be captured. He heard the commotion from far off, first the breaking of glass, then a wail of agony coming from a voice he did not know, yet emanated from a familiar direction. He came back over the hill, and saw his mother fearlessly defending heir home against five hooded elven soldiers. She'd already killed one of them.

He took aim and fired, hitting one of the fiends in his back, dropping him. His mother stopped briefly to pinpoint the direction from which the arrow came, and her eyes proudly rested upon her son. And in an instant, that pride was extinguished. It fell upon an elven blade, an axe brought down deeply into her back. Oh the scream that erupted from the boy then. Right then, his path changed forever. He ran to her defense, to no avail. Two lightning bolts and a flash of green later he was on the ground, seizing. The suddenly, unable to move, still aware of everything that was happening around him, but unable to do anything.

He watched from the ground as two of the elves entered his home, came out a few moments later inaudibly uttering something to his superior. After a moment the elf nodded, commanding the other elves to do this and that. One chained the doors, the others took positions around the house. He watched as they spewed arcane fire from their hands, burning all that was good in his young life to cinders. He shouted every imaginable offense he could think of at the elves. At last one came and kicked him in the head. That was his last taste of freedom before waking up in chains in what dank chasm they declared his cell.

And now here he was, free at last, with no where to go and no where to be. He could never return to the Imperial Legion: they'd just try to off him again. He figured he was presumed dead anyways. A return would provide a humorous shock, but it was too dangerous. No; there was nothing left for him in Cyrodiil. So he turned and trudged ever forward on the cold and snowy stone path, each footfall more painful than the last. He was growing weaker. He felt it. His vision was blurring, his feet were becoming heavy, and his breaths were sharp and stung like icicles in his lungs. But some force beyond his human will was compelling him ever onward, to a place unknown, and a fate even more uncertain.

Only he did know, at least, he had a plan. He has an idea of where this path took him, and hoped his guess would be true. It was getting later now: he'd been walking for hours now. His heart lifted when he saw what he had only heard of in stories: the great fortress of Pale Pass, now in ruins from centuries of weathering and neglect. It was in such a state of disrepair that it looked like it'd blow over with the next big gust of wind. He knew he had to be careful. On the Serpents Trail it was common to come across bears or other carnivorous creatures. It was no stretch to think that a bear could make these ruins its home. But after passing and finding none, he assumed an eager pace, unwilling to prowl about and be preyed upon by a beast may times his strength.

And then he saw it, like sun shinning off the rippling water, it caught his eye, beaming at him. The northernmost gates of Cyrodiil. Through those heavy wooden doors he crossed the border into a new life. All the pain was forgotten; all that was ahead was what he made it. The storm had broken over the mountains, revealing a beautiful sunset, Masser just nearly able to be glimpsed rising over the Throat of the World in he dying light. But he didn't know that. To him it was the moon rising over a big mountain.

He didn't enjoy the view long before his vision blackened and his knees gave out. High altitude, freezing air, and lack of nourishment had finally gotten the better of him. He tried to rouse himself, but his strength was barely enough to raise his head and look at the horizon. Most fortunate he did: out of the haze appeared a figure, obscured by the boy's own vision. Two hounds walked with him, and he walked with a long, thin stick. He looked at the boy in a heap, now cradling his own chest for warmth. The man looked at him with disgust, and blurted, "You will not die here, boy. Up the road a ways is a settlement. There you can take refuge." He prodded him with his stick a few times, before getting really irritated. He shouted this time, "Now get up, and WALK!" He threw his stick down on the boy, hard, finally waking him up. The boy saw no man however when he came to, just a long, thin stick on the ground before him, and a bird flying away towards the mountain.

Hello Readers: This is my very first attempt at fanfiction. I've been compiling my own personal lore to appear in later stories, for probably three years now. In that time, I've complied some 80,000+ words occupying almost a hundred pages on my computer, including dialogue, characters, weapons, story arcs, battles, events, even new shouts or other powers. I've invested a lot of my time in this series, which I love. I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.