A/N - This chapter. This chapter bugged me a bit last time, but I should be able to do it better this time. Key word being "should."

Alikaro - Aww, thank you! And gods, that paint typo had me giggling when I saw it. "After an era, the paint began to fade." At least it's long-lasting paint, I guess? I've fixed them up now, thanks for pointing them out. And don't feel sorry about the ask blog. A lot of it was OOC posts anyways, so there wasn't much to check out, and after a while I realized it just felt a bit off having an askblog for my fanfiction characters. So it's no big deal, I assure you.

The Detective - Thank you! :) I will admit that I rushing the ending of the last chapter a bit, mostly because I wanted to say "I posted my tenth chapter on the one-month anniversary," because it seemed awesome to my admittedly sleep addled brain. And "hypothetical arse of Sithis" is still one of my favorite things I have ever written in the history of ever. Ivar gets 80% of all the best lines.

I do not own Oblivion in any way.


Rosemonde sat in front of the fire, seething and clutching her wound. Damn clannfear.

When she, Ivar and Ilend had closed the gate and appeared in front of Kvatch, the captain had been both shocked and ecstatic. "You closed the gate?" he had said. "I can't believe it! Now's our chance to launch a counter-attack and save anyone still left in the city.

And so they had entered the city. The remaining daedra that stood between them and the chapel had been no trouble - or so she had assumed upon first seeing them. One of the clannfears had caught her off guard, dragging its claws across her arm, leaving her with a rather sizable gash. She had healed it to the best of her abilities, but restorative spells took a lot of energy, and she was low on magicka as it was. Indeed, she could feel the bitter taste of nausea at the back of her throat. She also felt the very strong desire to never move ever again.

She glared into the fire. She didn't care much for it. It looked too much like Oblivion. She knew it was different, of course. Oblivion was cold, while the fire in front of her was warm and inviting. She idly wondered how the camp managed to stay dry with the rain pouring down around it, before she remembered Sigrid. Oh, right. Highly skilled mage, alchemist, and merchant. Of course.

That didn't make her feel much better. She shuddered slightly and moved back a few inches, wincing as her stomach churned and a flash of pain traveled up her arm.

She hoped that Ivar and the guardsmen were doing better than she was.


"By Sithis, I hope Rosemonde is doing better than I am," Ivar muttered under her breath, dodging under the blade of the greatsword that was carving its way through the air. "Oi, horseface! You missed!"

The dremora screeched and readied its sword for another attack. Ivar took the precious few moments he had to ready his magicka. He didn't have a huge reserve of it like Rosemonde seemed to, and he had never been trained by the University, but M'raaj-Dar had taught him a few spells that would come in handy on the job, and there was always that lovely benefit to being born under the stars of the Shadow.

He cast the spell, let the power seep through his skin. He glanced down at his hand for a short moment. He couldn't see it. Good. He dove out of the way just as the dremora swung its sword at him again. The Daedra staggered, looking around in confusion. If it had been slightly more alert, it would have noticed the stranger flicker in the air as Ivar slipped around it. It didn't, of course, and Ivar had ample time to drive his blade into the creature's neck.

He let the spell dissipate, allowing himself to be seen again. "That's the last of them!" he called over to the captain. "Think we should get those sorry sods out of the chapel now?" He jerked his head towards the large building. He wasn't particularly keen about going in their and leading the refugees to safety, especially since he was technically supposed to be killing one of them. But he didn't want to risk Rosemonde's ire, and he certainly didn't want to risk the ire of an angry guard-captain. "I mean, it's probably barricaded from the inside, but maybe if we knock politely?"

Captain Matius ran a quick gaze around the area before sheathing his sword. "It's safe, for now. Come on." Without hesitation, the captain strode up to the chapel and pounded on the door. "Is anyone in there?" he said. "The daedra are gone. We're here to get you out of here."

A few moments passed. Then there was a response as a woman's voice sounded from the other side of the door. "Captain Matius, sir? Is that you?"

Matius breathed a clear sigh of relief. "Tierra, is that you? How many are with you?" His expression was hopeful, too hopeful. Ivar could only count the seconds until...

"Not many, sir. Just me, Berich Inian, and about half a dozen civilians."

Matius's face fell, and he leaned against the door. "Damn," he murmured. At least, that's what Ivar was sure he said. "That's it?" he asked. "There's no one else?"

"No, sir," the voice said. "There were others, but they refused to stay in the chapel. We tried to convince them it was too dangerous, but..."

"I see," Captain Matius said. "Listen, the area between the chapel and the city gate has been cleared. The Oblivion gate has been closed. I need you to lead to civilians back to the encampment, along the road just south of here."

"Yes, sir!" There was the sound of something heavy grinding against stone, and the door opened slightly. A Redguard woman in Kvatch guard armor stoof there, stepping aside and letting them in. "Sir," she said as they passed. "What about the castle? It's still overrun by Daedra, and the count is still in there!"

"I know, Tierra," the captain said. "After you get the civilians to the camp, come back here so we can plan a counterattack against the bastards. The rest of the guard and I will stay here until you return. We're going to need every sword we've got."

Tierra nodded sharply. "Sir, yes, sir!" She raised her voice, turning to the refugees huddled in the chapel. "Civilians! It's time to move out! Let's go!"

A haggard Breton man was the first to step forward. "The Daedra are gone?" he asked, his trembling voice full of hope. "That gate has been shut?"

Captain Matius nodded, and a whisper spread through the crowd. One by one the refugees followed Tierra out of the chapel and into the rain. One, two, three, four... Wait. Ivar's eyes narrowed. The guardswoman had said there had been half a dozen civilians. So where were numbers five and six?

A strangled sob answered his question, and he turned to see a tall woman with ratty hair of a familiar shade of light brown, sitting slumped on one of the pews, back turned to him and the door. A priest in grey robed with long, dark hair sat next to her, murmuring something Ivar couldn't quite hear.

Ivar resisted the urge to snap at them, preferring to slowly sneak up behind them to better catch their conversation.

"-I know you're worried about her, Joldi," the priest was murmuring. "I'm worried, too. But if she's anywhere, she'll be at the camp. You can't stay here."

"And what if she's not at the camp?" the woman sobbed. "What if she's still in a basement somewhere, or searching for me out there... there are still Daedra out there, Martin, I can't just go down to the camp if there's still a chance she's in the city somewhere."

Ivar cleared his throat. He took great amusement in seeing the two jump and whirl to face him almost in unison. "Excuse me," he said, "but I couldn't help but overhear, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do. If it'll get you two to come down to the camp, at least." He couldn't help his gaze from flicking to the priest momentarily. He knew that face well, having watching the man lead civilians into the chapel the night before. "After all, it's dangerous here, if you haven't noticed."

The woman... Joldi, was it?... blinked. "Who are you?" she said through tears.

I'm the man who risked my life to save your ass. Ivar bit the words back. He didn't want his name attached to this any more than it had to be. He didn't play the hero type. "I'm a someone who could be a friend, if you need my help," he said. "I've spent quite a while in the camp, so if you're wondering if someone's there, I could tell you."

Joldi hesitated. "My daughter," she said after a long pause. "She and I, we... we got separated during the original attack. She's so young, and I'm scared she might be hurt, o-or worse..."

That explained the hair, then. "Little Nord girl, about ten, same color hair as yours, wields around a wooden sword?" Bit of a brat?

"Y-yes!" Joldi's eyes widened. "She's... Hjette's alive?"

"Alive and kicking. Literally." Ivar took a couple steps back. "Your sister got her out safely."

"Sigrid...? Oh, praise the Divines!" The woman jumped to her feet. "I need to go. I've been so worried...!" And with that, the woman ran off after the other refugees.

Ivar watched her go with more than a touch of amusement, before turning to the priest. "Oh, by the way, Martin, was it? The woman who closed the Oblivion gate wants to talk to you. Something important. You should go see her down at camp..."


Rosemonde wasn't quite sure when she had dozed off. All she knew is that she awoke to the sound of unfamiliar voices and excited whispers. Blinking open her eyes, she sat up, running a hand through her dark hair. She only barely noticed that it had come free from its knot, her focus more on the people coming down the hill. She first felt confusion, her mind still clouded by exhaustion. Who were these people? What had happened up at the city? Where were the guards and Ivar? She could see one of them, a Redguard woman leading the people down, but...

Then a wave of realization her, and she couldn't help but smile.

Hjette's voice split the air. "Mother!"

"Hjette!" A light-haired woman exclaimed, moving forward. Hjette ran forward and all but leaped into the woman's arms. That must be Hjette's mother, Rosemonde thought. It was good to see that she had survived.

But then she paused to count how many refugees were coming down the hill, and her heart sank. Only about half a dozen. Damn it. She should have been there sooner, shouldn't have stopped to rest in the Imperial City, shouldn't have let herself get knocked out back at Hackdirt... she could have gotten here sooner, saved more people.

Rosemonde turned back to the campfire, clutching her wound tightly. Damn, did it ever hurt. She wondered if it was going to become infected. Growling under her breath, she tried casting a small healing spell to try closing it the rest of the way. Her palm flickered with energy, but the wound stayed as it was, partially open and scabbed over.

"You must be the one who closed the gate."

Rosemonde jumped, startled out of her wits, and whirled around, biting back a shriek of shock. An Imperial man in simple gray robes stood behind her, offering a an almost imperceptible smile. He couldn't have been older than mid-thirties, yet his weary eyes and slumped shoulders were that of a man who was far older. He had long dark hair that fell to his shoulders, framing his tan face. And his eyes... Damn, she thought appreciatively. They were beautiful. She had never seen eyes that shade of blue before. Or had she...? He looked somewhat familiar.

"Y-you scared me," she managed to stammer out, her heart still racing.

"I'm sorry," the man said, kneeling down next to her. "I merely wanted to thank you for what you did." His voice was quiet, soft, yet held an unmistakable richness in it. "After all, you saved Kvatch."

"Ah, well, I actually didn't do that much. I just sort of..." Let myself get ambushed and spent a minute or so on the floor in agony. "...helped." Rosemonde's uninjured hand flew to the gnarled staff that sat at her side. She despised the thing, but it was too useful. She couldn't just give it up.

"Really?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Your friend told me that you had all but closed the gate single-handed."

"Would this 'friend' happen to be a blond Bosmer in black leather armor?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, two points. One, he's not my friend. He's more of an amiable acquaintance. Two, I don't know what he told you, but I certainly was not the one who closed the gate in the end." She grabbed her wound again, wincing slightly.

The man noticed immediately. "You're hurt!" he exclaimed.

"It's not that bad, really. I'd have healed it by now, but my magicka..."

Before she could finish speaking, the man had taken her arm and run a gentle hand over it. His palm flickered with magicka, and Rosemonde gasped slightly as her wound began to close up, the gentle sensation of restorative magic running through her veins. "I..." She couldn't think of what to say.

"How did you get this?" the man asked, still focused on her arm.

"A clannfear," she said. "Really, I shouldn't have gotten this in the first place. I have a shield spell, I know how to use it, I just haven't been. I can't really understand why not, as this is the first time I've been caught off guard in two days and... I don't know. I've been under a lot of stress, I guess." Wait, now she was rambling aimlessly. That was not what she wanted to do. "Though I guess I should probably start, huh? When my magicka comes back, I mean."

She could have been imagining it, but she swore that small smile of his grew slightly wider. He pulled away slightly. "There. How does that feel?"

She stared at her arm. It was perfectly smooth, with not even the barest hint that there had been a wound in the first place. "Wow," she said. "That's... wow." She looked up at him. "Thank you. Wow, this is... there's not why I would have been able to do that, even at full magicka. Thanks!"

"You're welcome." He met her gaze, tilting his head slightly. "Your... acquaintance told me that you wished to speak to me about something important?"

"Wha..." It took a few moments before Rosemonde realized what the man was talking about. "You're Brother Martin? The priest?"

"Yes," he said, the bitterness in his voice obvious. "But if you need a priest, I'm afraid I'll be of little use to you. I'm having a little trouble understanding the gods right now. If this," he said, gesturing to the camp, "if... if what happened to Kvatch is some sort of divine plan, I'm not sure if I want anything to do with it."

Rosemonde stared at him for a few moments as she sorted out what to say. "Listen, Martin, I know this is going to sound odd, but you need to come with me to Weynon Priory and talk to Brother Jauffre."

Martin blinked. "...I'm sorry, what?"

Rosemonde bit her lip. Of course. "I need your help. Brother Jauffre needs your help." The empire needs your help. "You're... come on, I'd rather not tell you in the middle of camp. Someone could be listening." She got to her feet, wincing as her stomach turned. Damned magicka.

"I don't understand," Martin said as he followed her outside the camp. "Why do you need my help? What does this Brother Jauffre want to speak with me? Who are you?"

Rosemonde glanced back at the camp to make sure they were a safe distance away, and then whirled to face Martin. "You're the Emperor's son," she said. There. No bush-beating, no dancing around the subject. She just... up and said it.

...Why did I just up and say it like that?

Martin was shocked. "Wha... you think I'm the Emperor's so-"

"Shh!" Rosemonde hissed. "Not so loud, please. And I don't just think you're the Emperor's son. I know it."

Now Martin was shaking his head. "No," he said firmly. "You must have the wrong man. I... I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer, not..."

"The Emperor told me to find you," Rosemonde said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "He must have known you would be in danger. That's why the gate opened here. They're here for you Martin. You think they chose Kvatch because it looked pretty?" She took a deep breath. "A few moments ago you said that you couldn't understand the gods. That if this is all some sort of Divine plan, you want nothing to so with it. Well, I'm sorry, but gods or not, plan or not, we need your help. Just... just please, come to Weynon Priory with me. Listen to what Brother Jauffre has to say. Please..." she trailed off. She turned away, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She hadn't intended for half of that to come out. It just sort of... did.

Martin leaned against the nearest tree, running a hand down his face. "I prayed to Akatosh all of last night... that terrible night," he said quietly. "I prayed for answers. I prayed for help. But no help came. Only more Daedra. And now you're telling me that an entire city was destroyed to get at me. Why?" His voice trembled slightly. "Because I'm the Emperor's son?"

"I... I'm sorry, but... yes."

"I... why am I even listening to you? I don't even know your name."

"Martin, why would I lie to you?" Rosemodne asked.

There was a long silence between the two. "I don't know," Martin said. "It's strange, but I think you might be telling the truth. What does this mean? What do you want from me?"

"Come with me to Weynon Priory," Rosemonde repeated.

Martin hesitated. "There's talking about it, you know," he said. "How you went in. The guards told you not to, but you did it anyway. And you shut the gate. You gave them hope." To Rosemonde's suprise, he nodded. "Yes. I'll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what this Jauffre has to say."

"T-thank you," Rosemonde stammered. She hadn't expected him to say yes. Hoped, maybe, but not expected. "I... can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Where's Ivar?" she asked. "The Bosmer who told you to talk to me. He didn't come back from the city, at least not that I saw."

"He said he was staying behind to help Captain Matius take back the castle," Martin said.

"...Oh." Ivar Llandovery, working together with the Captain of the Kvatch guard.

There was no way this could end well.


A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.