Chapter 1:

New Orders

Working for the Emperor is tedious work. You would think that when I was first ordered to be His Majesty's right-hand, bodyguard, servant and pawn (damn Jauffre for that), I would have realized that. And a part of me did. I did acknowledge the fact that it was going to be a lackluster life of repetition; all duties in every one of those aforementioned titles reeked of it, like a year-old carcass left in the heat. Sure, maybe with different scenarios and expectations (and His Majesty's expectations were quite high, might I add) but it all played out the same. A right-hand remained an extension of his hand, a bodyguard guarded, a servant served, and a pawn...pawned.

It was all the same thing, when you look at it in retrospect. Which I did, and quite often, too.

Still, being the right-hand-bodyguard-servant-pawn to the Emperor has more perks than being any one of those things under anyone else. The tedious killing of assassins was certainly more interesting than the tedious cleaning of the stables, for one. For another, sometimes tasks - however rare - that weren't of the norm sprang up. Most came from the Blades, not from the esteemed Uriel Septim VII, but still.

However tedious, the work is, in retrospect, not bad.

A letter came to my door at dawn.

A letter. At dawn.

Sometimes, I wonder if the servants are mad to carry out such tasks so early in the morn. It's one thing to wake with the sun and prepare for tasks, a whole other thing to actually do those tasks, sometimes even before the sun had risen. They're dedicated, I'll give them that, if anything at all.

Naturally, I still haven't ruled out insanity.

In any case, it's a letter with His Majesty's seal, and per my duty as a Blade, I have to open it. What it says is vague and unhelpful; suspicious to an extent, but there was a certain intricity to be said of the Emperor's seal that proved legitimacy, a certain curve to each line of the complicated design. It wasn't easy to copy. I know, I've tried.

"Meet me in my bedchambers. - U"

Not questioning it further, I stuff the letter into my garments and begin pulling on the standard gold-lined steel armor every royal guard wore and obeyed the unspoken orders of the (annoyingly vague) letter.

I just hope it's not a trap. I honestly doubt it is, really, but I'm never fully functional when I wake, and a trap could prove to be disastrous for me. Probably for the trap-setter as well, but more so me.

The halls were quiet and empty, an unsettling thing when you're so used to servants running up and down the ornate building, doing one thing or another for either His Majesty or the Council. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped and appreciated the beautiful marble carvings on the walls and the murals some artist had miraculously painted onto the roof (it was all extravagant and breathtakingly beautiful, but to crane your neck upwards just to slather on a few pictures?), but I was in a rush. One: because I'm always in a rush, and two: the letter had stirred a sense of adrenalin within me, one I don't typically feel unless I have no explanation whatsoever on just what the hell is going on. And the letter most certainly did not have any explanation whatsoever.

One flaw in the architecture, I found, is that it's incredibly easy to know which room belongs to the Emperor. His bedchamber doors were impractically large and carved elegantly with murals of various legends, some of spiritual origins and others because of their moral teachings. The doorway is rimmed with a thin lining of gold - real gold - and there's always two guards stationed right in front. During an attack, two guards would hardly suffice. I have, at one time, brought it up with His Majesty about the obviousness of it all, of the risks that came with such a stand-off appearance, but he was quick to deny to the idea of changing rooms, perhaps because he felt wrong to leave the room his forefathers had been in, but mostly because His Majesty just loved that damned fancy door of his.

I nodded to the guards posted, who, like always, looked dreadfully bored at their silent vigil by the Emperor's door, before I knocked three times. I always used my hand rather than that lion-shaped doorknocker, if only because it made a different sound he always associated with me (that and it just felt more natural to do so). A few moments after, I was called into the room.

I was expecting to see him still in bed, perhaps with a book or journal in hand, or at his desk scribbling notes for the drawn out meetings he was to attend to during the day, or even in the washroom, cleaning up and putting on a fresh pair of royal clothes. He wasn't doing anything of the sort, though.

He was pacing.

A pacing Emperor is never a good sign.

He looks up at me briefly. "Cargas…" He says in some rather uninterested way of greeting, before his pacing continues once more.

I take a few brief moments to examine him. He's still in his robes from yesterday, his hair is a shaggy gray mop on his head, and his eyes were lidded. He didn't sleep at all during the night, possibly pacing that entire time, a likelihood not entirely in doubt if he was in one of his paranoid thinking moods.

The silence is terribly awkward for me.

"Your Majesty…"

Still no reply. If I'm honest, I'm worried about his well-being at this point.

Suddenly, he slumps down onto his bed, a heavy sigh leaving his chapped lips, hands running over his face. He's thinking again, perhaps a little too much. His gaze flickers towards me, and despite my formal training of "never move when a superior looks at you, especially when that superior is the Emperor" I find myself inclining my head ever so slightly to the left.

This, at last, triggers him to speak.

"Cargas…" he repeats my name again, this time in a softer tone just bordering a whisper, almost as if he were struggling to come to a conclusion about my fate. He pauses for a second more, then: "I have a rather...special request to ask of you. A favor."

And just like that, I'm wide awake, as alert as I can be, and intrigued. To have a favor so burdensome on his shoulders was interesting to say the least, especially if he's this rattled.

Uriel Septim stood slowly, as if he were pained, but manages a straight-backed and composed walk to his desk, one that resonated a sense of resolve. He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a parcel of sealed documents. He frowns at it momentarily, then hands it to me with a slight upturn of the lips that, to me, always said "fine, take it".

"Those are prisoner transfer-and-release forms."

I'm confused, but I take them anyways, logically believing he would elaborate. And he did. Somewhat.

"Are you aware of the things taking place in the Morrowind province?" He asks, stuffing his arms into his sleeves.

"Aware enough." Not quite a lie, but not the whole truth. I know about Blight, and I know leadership was questionable, but very little of either. I wasn't going to tell him that though, of course.

"Those things have started to trouble me. Deeply. I need you to escort this prisoner to Morrowind and follow him, but don't let him see you. Watch his progress and only ever get involved if you must, in order to protect him."

I mulled this over for a moment.

"Is this a Blades request?" It certainly seemed Blade-y enough, but he shakes his head.

"No, it's a favor you're doing for me personally. A few agents in the Vvardenfell district are aware of this, the ones under Caius Cosades's command, and naturally Jauffre would be informed, but it's not an order by him."

To be sent away from Cyrodiil without it being ordered by Jauffre was...uneasing. While my natural tendency is to disobey my leader (I don't, really, but I have been noted as stubborn and questionable), there was something about this whole "favor" that seemed to go farther than just keeping an eye on a prisoner.

Eyes twinkling in dawnlight, he reached out his hands and rested them on my shoulders.

I could feel the blessing he was giving me when his lips touched my head. Uriel looked down with a small, sad smile on his old face, much like a father might when saying goodbye to his daughter, who may well never return.

"May the Divines be with you, Cargas."

I could only nod in response as he motioned me towards the door.

With the forms were briefing papers (and by the Nine I was relieved). "Prisoner to give package (also came with the forms and briefing) to Caius Cosades. Make sure package is with prisoner at all times. Prisoner to be kept safe at all times. Track him. Remain inconspicuous. Do what must be done for mission to be complete."

I was certain this mission was only known to Uriel and possibly Jauffre. Caius later, perhaps. I knew nothing; the prisoner knew nothing. And we most likely won't ever know. Like I said, pawns.

To my dismay, on the package for Caius was a note which said: "DO NOT OPEN; CAIUS'S EYES ONLY."

There goes my snooping fun. And I know Jauffre put it there specifically for me.

The prisoner's name was Mastrius Tharyon, and he was...unimpressionable, to put it in nice terms. A scrawny, light-weight Dark Elf with crimson hair he seemed to find cutting unimportant as it quite literally near brushed his buttocks. He wasn't troublesome or obscenely loud or obnoxious in any way, just quiet, and obedient. When I came for him, he simply nodded and followed me without question. Perhaps I was just another guard to him.

Probably, seeing as he had no idea on just where his life was headed, and neither did I.

Even so, his quiet and (externally) calm temperament made me wonder. Why and how long was he arrested for? Nothing on the papers had stated much, just that he was to be released by order of the Emperor. You didn't need information when things were ordered that way, but it was most certainly helpful.

Might have been useful, too.

"You're accompanying him?"

"Yes."

"Through the entire trip to…" the guard to be driving the carriage frowned down at the papers. "Morrowind, Vvardenfell district?"

"Yes." I wouldn't be here otherwise, kind sir.

"Very well."

I went up front with the carriage driver, for assurance.

We made a stop in Chorrol to pick up another prisoner who was to be transferred to Morrowind, another Dark Elf named Jiub. He wasn't mentioned in my briefing, but I still took note of him, if only because he was far more memorable than the one I should be watching.

"What were you arrested for?"

"Accidental killing of a comrade in the Fighters Guild."

"Accidental?"

"He was too slow to block. I swung down too hard with the mace."

"Ah. And Modryn didn't kill you?"

"No. I turned myself in before he could."

"Really? Turned yourself in because you were afraid of Modryn?"

Jiub raised a ragged eyebrow at me, contorting the scar that marred his once-handsome face. He looked as if I had just asked the most unintelligent question in all of Nirn.

"You have met Modryn Oreyon, right?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then you'd have to understand why the guard is so much less threatening than the Champion of the guild."

I have to say, I can't argue against that.

Three hours until we arrive at the dock.

Three hours before dawn.

On schedule, thank the Nine.

But I can't sleep.

I can't claim I'm worried because we are, for once, on time. But I have a gut feeling about something, and it's not a nice something.

And whenever I close my eyes, I think that Masser and Secunda are calling to me. And I think Mastrius is hearing it, too.

He looks like a mer who can hear the moons.

AN: My first TES fanfic, so any helpful critique would help. Thought I'd put a spin to it by writing from the perspective of someone other than the Nerevarine. Do hope you enjoyed, and do review!