Morndas, 6:18 PM, 18th of Second Seed, 4E 202
Solitude
It'd been twelve days since the Black Machine had taken Markarth. Twelve days since Aicantar had been freed from the grip of the Thalmor. It was amazing how much could happen in that span of time.
After all, here he was, walking through the gates of Solitude. His first time in Skyrim's capital. Or in any hold capital, besides Markarth. He'd made a vow to himself to give his inner scholar a break and just enjoy the sights, because otherwise, he'd spend all evening staring and drooling at all the Nordic architecture. It was really that magnificent. Even just walking in the gates, he knew he'd done the right thing by coming here.
That chat he'd had with those armored fellows, in Understone Keep, had changed everything. He'd left Markarth the very morning after the Black Machine's big attack. For some reason, he'd always expected that when he left Markarth for good—because he inevitably would have—he would've made a whole big deal out of it. But in the end, it wasn't much different than any other trip out of the city. Aicantar just gathered everything that he could fit into a single backpack, and set out with the carts heading to Solitude.
As an aside, saying goodbye to his uncle had been way easier than he would've liked. He wasn't sure the old mer would even notice he was gone. It was really for the best that his future was taking him someplace else.
Anyway, the carts actually weren't for riding in. A few infirm folk were, but mostly everybody was walking. The carts were piled high with supplies, mainly food—which turned out to be extremely necessary, because after the first day of walking through farms and fields, the Reach turned into a barren, gray wasteland. At first, Aicantar had thought he was dreaming or something. But no, this was just how the land looked now. The Thalmor had burned everything to ash.
Everyone seemed to be having the same sort of numb, vaguely horrified reaction to the landscape around them. Aicantar was getting that too. He was also feeling, as strange as this was, a bit of annoyance at the Thalmor for even deciding to do this. They'd razed an entire hold of Skyrim. Not just the towns and villages, but every last inch of the countryside, all the grass and dirt and everything, all of it just completely burnt up. It was almost kind of comical. Did the Thalmor want everyone to hate them?
Anyway, the annoyance didn't do much to dull the impact of seeing so much death and ruin. Especially not when they were passing by places Aicantar had seen before. It was just all kinds of disturbing. Usually on a trip like this, people might've been chatting a lot, but everyone was just quiet. Aicantar couldn't even bring himself to feel much about the fact that he was going so far from home. The Reach was gone, none of that mattered. On the other hand, they had a pretty good distraction, because the stars were going crazy.
Besides all the legionnaires and such, there were about two hundred people following these wagons. But none of them, Aicantar included, could give a decent answer for what was happening. It started on the evening of the 9th. Some of the stars in the sky were just insanely bright, shining even as the sun was still setting on the horizon. And then the next evening, some different stars were insanely bright, and so on and so forth. It had been happening every night for the whole trip. The best anyone could guess was that someone was messing with magic again.
On the tenth day of travel, the burnt land finally stopped—they'd reached the northern border of the Reach, and entered the hold of Haafingar. That was an astonishing relief. Aicantar had cried actual tears when he first started seeing green grass again. It was a big moment for all of them, coming out of the Reach. It felt like finally escaping from under the last of the Thalmor's life-ruining shadow.
Later the same day, though, they crossed the Karth River over the Dragon Bridge, and passed through the eponymous town, which had given them a few things. Supplies, partly, and an awe-striking view of Solitude's river-spanning arch in the eastern distance, which was nice. And something that Aicantar hadn't gotten any of in months—news from the outside world. There was so much to catch up on.
But the newest of the lot was that the court wizards of Skyrim had been all monitoring the situation with the sky, and the matter of the stars was the least of their concerns. The sun wasn't moving through its yearly path anymore. Until it started moving again, they were stuck in the month of Second Seed, under the sign of the Shadow. And that was just strange. Aicantar didn't understand how they were going to start measuring dates now. It didn't seem like anyone else did either.
When he heard that, he wondered if his uncle had been watching the skies too. He was one of Skyrim's court wizards, after all. And even though Aicantar had never been to any non-Markarth hold capital to see for himself, he sort of suspected that all of the other eight court wizards were as useless to their courts' day-to-day functions as Calcelmo was. They just did research. That was what they did.
Kind of like Aicantar himself, except no one had ever needed him to keep up appearances of productivity. He just did his work anyway.
It had occurred to him, more than once on this journey through the ash, that if it weren't for his chance encounter in Understone Keep, he might've been much less sure about his own future. Spellcasters usually didn't have trouble finding work, but he wouldn't have known where an Altmer like himself could even hope to live in peace. Except he'd had that chance encounter, and now he had a secret weapon hidden in his robes. It was going to change his whole world soon enough.
They arrived at Solitude on Morndas, around mid-evening, which meant the stars were starting to come out. There was a sizable camp on the hillside outside the city gates, with tents and food and all kinds of accommodations for the refugees from Markarth. Only when he saw it all laid out and waiting for him, only then, did Aicantar finally realize that he was a refugee too. He was going to have to fix that quickly.
It was very lucky that they'd arrived when they had. Morndas evening. Aicantar couldn't have planned that part of it better himself. He wouldn't have to wait very long at all. And he appreciated that all the more right now because it really, really did not feel good to be stuck on the move. Right now, strictly speaking, he didn't have a home, and that was a disturbing thought.
In any case, he skipped right past the camp and went for the city gates. Yes, he was tired, yes, he was hungry, but those things could wait. First, there was an errand to deal with.
Solitude seemed to be a sort of L shape, all in all. The front gates were at the end of the short arm, and then there were a bunch of streets full of shops. Then the big stone hulk of Castle Dour was on the corner, and to its right was the long arm of the L, which was mostly just all the houses—this part was Solitude's arch, the vast rocky plateau stretching across the river below, visible all the way from over in Dragon Bridge. And then finally, at the very end, was the Blue Palace, plain as could be, right out in the open. Not tucked away in some craggy mountainside. This whole city seemed a lot less confusing than Markarth, with all its tangled ramps and staircases. Aicantar could see how someone could get used to this place very quickly.
The streets were decently busy. There was a lot of clamoring city-noise, with people walking this way and that, moving carts around, going into shops, spending their evenings on whatever they chose. It reminded Aicantar of how Markarth had been before the Thalmor had taken over.
And it was nice, too. No one bothered him. He just walked down the street, backpack on his shoulders, past one shop after another, probably missing countless opportunities on the way to sell his skills as a mage. Because that was just where his priorities were right then, obviously.
But honestly, it didn't matter what was here in Solitude. His skills had already been reserved. And he'd told his inner scholar to be quiet for a reason—he wanted to enjoy his evening. Besides being hungry and tired and all, this was going fine. Just… just fine.
Admittedly, it'd probably help if he got something to eat at some point. Aicantar stopped in the middle of the street, passersby parting around him, and frowned in thought.
Three minutes later, he was walking down the street again, munching on a slice of bread topped with melted goat cheese. This was the best food he'd had in forever. He was still polishing the crumbs off his fingertips when he got to the base of Castle Dour.
There was a right turn in the road here, to get to the rest of the city. There was also a brief switchback of ramps to get up to Castle Dour. Aicantar took the ramps.
Up above, he could hear the sound of people training. Blades hitting wood, bows twanging away, commands being shouted. Military business. Someone was hammering out some steel on an anvil out here, up beside the gates. In a way, it was really reassuring, seeing this all at work. These people, this building, this was the Imperial Legion's home base in Skyrim. The ones whose job it was to oppose the Aldmeri Dominion.
Then again, it hadn't been the Legion to get the Aldmeri Dominion out of Markarth, it'd been the Black Machine. And Aicantar couldn't wait until he got to see their home base. Still, though, Castle Dour. Here it was.
This was actually his first time entering a proper Imperial fortress. The stonework was all really huge and towering dark and foreboding. Fitting, for a place that was basically named Castle Unhappy. But for the Altmer's part, as he walked in through the gates, he couldn't help but smile. He even gave a little wave to the guards on duty. He belonged here.
That secret weapon in his robes was going to be really handy in a minute. All he had to do was find the right place to use it. A quick question to one of the soldiers nearby, and he was heading through the courtyard to the castle's inner doors, with two other soldiers escorting him along. He wasn't sure what the point of that was supposed to be. Surely, if he planned to do anything violent, he wouldn't let two rank-and-file legionnaires stop him.
As they brought him inside, it occurred to him that that was a terrible way to think of Skyrim's protectors. Like they were just some kind of minor inconvenience. It must've been because that was how the Dominion had treated them. And the Legion had never proven them otherwise. Maybe they were doing a better job down in Cyrodiil.
All the surfaces in here were the same dark stone, besides the hanging banners he'd been seeing for the Empire and Haafingar. They were in a spacious sort of antechamber area, with exits off to the front and right. From the right, Aicantar could hear a bunch of noise—more specifically, the sound of lots of men dining and drinking. The barracks, he guessed. Where all the regular soldiers were. That meant he'd be heading forwards.
And head forwards he did. There was another room here, with more exits, but also an area by the back wall with one of those big map-bearing tables. Light was shining on it from windows above, just a bit, but at this time of evening, the castle was mainly lit by candles.
There was one person standing over the map. An Imperial man, dressed in tastefully gilded plate armor from the neck down. He was an older fellow, with stern, rugged features, and short gray hair like Legion officers often had. His armor was glimmering menacingly in the candlelight.
Aicantar swallowed. He knew who he was looking at. For all his thoughts of the Legion's failings, this man was a giant. His name had been known in Markarth long before the war with the Dominion had broken out.
"General Tullius," one of his escorts said. "The first convoy from Markarth has returned. This elf was one of the civilians. He requested your personal audience."
"And now he has it," the general spoke. His tone was calm and even, but there was a gruff edge to it that spoke of years of experience. What a presence this man had. And the two of them were looking right at each other. "What's your name?"
The Altmer fumbled for words. "Uh—I'm… My name is Aicantar, sir. I have a message for you, from Legate Rikke. Or—well, I think, uh…"
Tullius turned away from the map and took a couple of steps towards him, looking him over appraisingly. "Well, let's not waste time, then. What's the message?"
This was the moment he'd been waiting for. In response to the question, he reached into his robes, and pulled out the sealed letter he'd been carrying on him. Thankfully, the robes were loose enough that the paper hadn't gotten really wrinkled. That would've been embarrassing.
Tullius wordlessly accepted and opened the letter, then brought it over to some of the candles to read it over. A minute passed in tense silence. He looked up at Aicantar at one point, his eyebrows raised curiously. Then he finished the letter, folded it up, and set it down on the table.
"I'm pleased to read that the liberation of Markarth went so smoothly," he said. Then, to Aicantar's escorts: "Thank you. Return to your posts."
The two legionnaires gave a quick yes-sir and headed off on their way. There were still guards in here, but it was now official: Aicantar now had General Tullius' undivided attention. A lot could change in twelve days.
He asked, "It is lucky that I arrived on this day of the week, isn't it?"
Tullius nodded. "We'll provide you with overnight lodging."
"Really? Isn't there an… an inn that I should be staying at, or something?" He'd gotten that bread thing at one, after all. It'd been a few buildings down on the left as he'd come through the gates.
But the Imperial general just shook his head. "There's only one privately owned inn in Solitude, and you'd be well-advised not to spend your time there. We offer the hospitality of Castle Dour whenever we can."
Odd of him to say. The inn hadn't looked that bad when Aicantar had stopped in it. Still, he just said the first thing that came to mind. "That sounds like an easy invitation for any curious Thalmor informants."
Tullius exhaled sharply. That might've been a sound of amusement. Kind of hard to tell. This man obviously wasn't the smiling type. "If the most we had to worry about on that front were a few nosy guests, I wouldn't have much of a job to do." Then he looked around the room, and nodded to one of the guards. "See that this elf is accommodated."
"By your orders, General," said the guard in question, before coming up to Aicantar's side and looking him over. "Follow me, please."
General Tullius was already returning his attention to the map. Or, no—he was returning his attention to the map table, which he'd set the letter down on. He was actually rereading it. For some reason, Aicantar had expected him to do something much more dramatic, like burn it up with one of the candles. But no, he was just standing there and reading it over again. That was nice. And a little odd.
The guest accommodations were surprisingly numerous. There was a whole corridor full of them. Doors on the left, doors on the right. Lots of rooms. Aicantar guessed that they were usually meant for people visiting on Legion business, maybe to see family or colleagues. Something like that. But he got shown to his own room quickly enough, with his own guest key and everything. And then he just as quickly got left there by himself.
Aicantar closed and locked the door behind himself. Great. Now what?
The room wasn't very big. Bed, desk, trunk, basin, tiny window. Nice view of the city. Much nicer than the actual room. It was nice and warm in here, but it felt more gloomy than cozy. Now that he wasn't busy talking to the General Tullius, Aicantar was getting to really take in the interior of this place. He had grown up around Dwemer buildings, and being inside those had always felt like he was in part of a giant machine. Being inside Castle Dour felt more like he was in part of a giant crypt.
Maybe he actually was. Either way, he wasn't complaining. He might've sated his hunger, but he was dead tired, and there was a bed right here. Joining the ranks of the eternally-supine draugr or whatever would be just fine. He stripped down to his smalls and pretty much crashed onto the mattress. This was the first time sleeping in a bed besides his own in years. It felt different here, it sounded different here. Smelled different, even. Smelled like old wood and stone, pretty much. Aicantar tried to ignore that all as best he could, and just focus on getting some rest in.
After a minute, the Altmer sat up in bed, spat a curse, put his clothes back on, went back out into the hallway and spent five minutes looking for the privy. Then he went back to bed.
When he woke up again, the sun was shining in through the window and putting a mottled square of light on the door. He could still hear people going about their business outside. Quite a different noise to the hum of Dwemer machinery, that was for sure.
He went about his morning routine in a bleary silence. Washed up in the basin, got into his change of smallclothes, put his outfit and backpack on again. He was really hungry. But when he opened up the door and stepped out all into the hallway, all he had to do was follow the breakfast smell. Clearly, the Legion had the same idea that he did.
Ultimately, he ended up bumping into some legionnaire on the way downstairs, and receiving some extra instructions. There was a common dining hall for most of the soldiers, but the officers had their own, separate space, which was also used for guests like himself. Aicantar felt extremely special.
A few more hallways and staircases later, Aicantar was in a spacious room overlooking the castle courtyard, with a few not-quite-long tables and even more of those banners everywhere. The tables were plain wood, but Aicantar bet that if they'd had tablecloths, they'd have the Imperial dragon icon on them.
Only a few people were actually in the room. Officers, presumably, mostly just sitting around and eating. The breakfast smell was very deliciously strong in here. The officers barely acknowledged him. One of them was standing by the back window, looking down into the courtyard, not eating anything. Tullius, of course. He didn't acknowledge Aicantar either.
It felt like he was barging in on some sort of insular cabal of Imperialness. He cleared his throat and walked inside a few paces. "Excuse me, uh… I've been told I can have breakfast here?"
Everyone stopped and looked at him. Even Tullius turned around. Aicantar promptly felt the need to shrink into a tiny ball and die.
After a beat, one of the officers—a Redguard woman, it looked like—said, "Sit down, elf," then called in a raised voice, "Food and drink for this one!"
A servant poked his head in through an unobtrusive side door just long enough to answer, "Yes, Tribune!"
Aicantar stood there for a moment, just sort of gawking, before realizing that he was supported to sit down now. For lack of any better ideas, he sat down opposite the officer who'd spoken.
Everyone slowly resumed doing what they'd been doing. Aicantar asked the officer. "How did you know my name?"
"We all know it," the officer said. She sort of reminded Aicantar of Legate Rikke. All cool and collected and matter-of-fact. "There are many need-to-know secrets around here, but the identity of the mysterious elven mage in our castle isn't one of them. Much better that we recognize you than that we don't."
"But I'm only planning on being here just this once," Aicantar mumbled, kind of sheepishly. That felt rude even as he was saying it.
"Yes, well, you haven't seen what we do to elven mages we don't recognize inside our castle." The officer smirked and took a swig of whatever was in her mug. She'd mostly finished her breakfast, but whatever it was, it looked like it'd been good.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name…?"
"Tribune Sennea." She gave the Altmer a respectful nod. "You're one of the Dragonborn's."
"Well—no. Sort of. Maybe? Not yet. The Black Machine got me out of Markarth. They did that for a lot of people."
Sennea smiled a little bit. "They did more than that, you realize. Skyrim is no longer the battleground of the Dominion. This is a much-needed respite for us all."
"But they haven't sent anyone else from Markarth to their stronghold," Tullius said, turning around once more. He walked slowly towards the edge of the table as he talked. "Only you. You're one of his now, whether you like it or not."
"Well, I… think I like it," Aicantar managed to get out. He was right around the middle of the table's length. Tullius was coming pretty close to him. It was more than a little intimidating. He looked between Tullius and Sennea, unsure what to say.
Tullius said, "I'm certainly not one to pry into the Dragonborn's affairs. I trust that he's acting in the Empire's best interests. First Windhelm, then Labyrinthian, then here in Solitude, now in Markarth. If I didn't know better, I'd say he must have been planning to seize the throne. But I've never seen a downside about the man's actions."
Windhelm must have been when the Dragonborn ended the Stormcloak Rebellion. And of course Aicantar knew about Markarth. He dismissed those and focused on the obvious one: "What happened here?"
"Sheogorath happened," said Sennea. "He used his artifact, the Wabbajack, to spawn a ghostly army of Dremora within the city walls. It was like the Oblivion Crisis all over again, but the Black Machine had twenty of its Gears here."
Tullius cut in. "One hundred and twenty-two people died that day. Thirty-one of them legionnaires. But there are more than thirty thousand citizens of Solitude, and we could have lost them all. The Dragonborn gave us a tiny handful of men, and they saved this city from annihilation. Jarl Elisif has made a point of thanking them."
The servant came back in with a nice big tray full of food and drink, and laid it down at Aicantar's place. This looked like excellent food. Two fried eggs, laid on toasted bread halves, an assortment of fresh fruit, some golden-looking beverage in a silver goblet—he felt like he was eating like royalty. They hadn't had food like this in Markarth in months. He murmured a word of thanks to the servant, then took a sip of the beverage.
It had a bit of a kick to it. The Nords sure knew how to start off their mornings. He tried not to let his reaction show as he looked between the two officers. "That's… Wait a minute. Elisif the Fair is still just a jarl? I thought you would've made her High Queen by now."
Tullius and Sennea glanced at one another. Aicantar wasn't sure what that was about. All the same, Tullius was the one to reply. "In order to choose the new ruler of Skyrim, the jarls need to convene in a Moot. Until recently, this was impossible, because Markarth was in enemy hands. Eight out of nine jarls present isn't good enough. Once Markarth has had its new leader appointed, then we can proceed. I'm sure Jarl Elisif will be thanking the Black Machine for that too."
Aicantar nodded thoughtfully. He didn't know much about politics, or even about Skyrim's traditions, but it made sense that they wouldn't want to make such a big decision without Markarth's say. Of course the Dragonborn's influence would be in it somehow, though. It was getting a little odd, just how pervasive that was. "I hope this hasn't made you feel too upstaged."
Sennea took over again. "Less than you'd think. The Black Machine is the new spearhead of the Empire, whether it's official or not. In some ways, they're what the Blades once were. But in both cases, they're of little use on their own. A spearhead's not much use without the rest of the spear backing it up."
"The Black Machine specializes in fast, hard strikes," Tullius said. "They're not built to hold the line. No matter how skilled, a hundred and fifty men can't maintain order and security in an entire hold, let alone an entire province. We'll let the Dragonborn's pet project take credit for the grand victories, and in the meantime, we'll keep doing our duty to the Emperor."
Aicantar gave Tullius a close look. The man was watching him attentively, waiting for his reaction. And as they observed each other, Aicantar was hit with a sudden realization. He was extremely, impossibly lucky. Tens of thousands of people lived in Markarth, and he was the only single one to be sitting here. He was getting a level of attention reserved for actual professional associates of the Legion. And he'd done it all by happening to be Calcelmo's nephew, and happening to be rescued by a Black Gear during the retaking of Markarth.
He had some big shoes to fill. This was going to take a lot of thinking to get through. On some level, he wanted to be grateful for all his good luck, but he didn't even know whom to thank. Obviously not Tullius. The Legion was not interested in his sentimental moment.
In the end, all he said was, "Why are you bothering to tell all of this to me? I'm just a civilian passing through. You don't need to spend your time on me."
Tullius didn't miss a beat. "In essence, I want to give you a sense of perspective. You're the first person who's come through Castle Dour on their way to Alftand in months. Call it an exercise in diplomatic relations." He said those last couple of words with a bit of a mocking tone. Then he added, "Besides, we have to wait for Odahviing to arrive."
"True," Aicantar nodded. "I'll just, uh… finish this, real quick." He gave his breakfast tray an indeterminate wave.
The general nodded silently and went on back to his window. Sennea went back to sipping her drink.
The breakfast was really tasty. Aicantar could get spoiled on this kind of food. Or at least just put on a lot of weight. Presumably all of these Legion types just went through such rigorous training that they actually needed the energy.
Halfway through, he asked, "You fellows ever try having milk with your breakfast? It's quite filling."
Sennea said, "You know, when the Nords go on about the milk-drinking Imperials, that's not what they mean."
Someone behind the Altmer chuckled under their breath. He didn't look, he just kept eating. It was probably better if he didn't try to keep talking.
He was still working through the fruit when it happened. A shadow passed silently over the window, bringing the room into darkness for a split second. He looked on out of it just in time to see a flash of something huge and red. Then, a quarter second later, there was a tremendous, booming impact through the ground, so huge that Aicantar felt it in his seat.
Tullius peered out the window, then nodded and started across the room, towards the doors. "That's him."
"Well, all right, then," Aicantar said, trying to keep his voice steady. He stood up. He had to keep the rest of himself steady too. Sure, he'd seen Markarth occupied for a few months, and then seen some of it explode in a big fireball, but this was different. It seemed like dragons were their own sort of spectacle.
Tullius turned and followed him out. "I'll need to explain this to him," he said, pulling a piece of paper—not the letter from Markarth, a different one—from a belt pouch. "I have a briefing to give him every week. You're the last item on it."
Aicantar gave the piece of paper a brief look as they walked. "Is that a list of things to tell him?"
"Well, yes," the general said, blankly.
The Altmer smiled and shook his head. Imperials and their lists. It just never stopped.
Soon enough, they'd reached the exit to the courtyard. Tullius pulled the doors open and strode out into the sunlight, leaving Aicantar to follow him. And outside, sitting there on the stone courtyard surface, there was a dragon. An entire dragon. Right there, in front of him.
The thing that really got him was the size. He'd seen a lot of strange-looking things before, and compared to some of them, this wasn't bad. Red scales on top, gray scales below, big rough scales, winged forelimbs. But the biggest thing he'd ever seen to count as its own 'creature' was a Dwemer centurion, and this dragon could've bitten one of those in half. He was taking up an actual majority of the courtyard he was in. Landing within the walls of Castle Dour must've felt to this dragon like landing within the walls of a broom closet.
This was Odahviing. The dragon who visited Castle Dour every Tirdas morning. It was part of the Empire's strategic arrangement with the Dragonborn. They traded intelligence this way, and, when needed, they traded objects too. Or passengers, at the moment. Aicantar just tried not to make himself obvious.
The dragon turned his massive, horned, spiked head towards the two of them. "General Tullius," he said. Yes, he just spoke. The dragon currently in Castle Dour was now speaking. His voice was inhumanly great and deep, no surprise there, but he was pronouncing the words perfectly. "Ill news from the realm of Aetherius."
So this was how the children of Akatosh, the aspects of Time itself, were doing these days. Having serious strategic talks with the Imperial Legion. It stood to reason, Aicantar supposed. The Dragonborn was a loyal supporter of the Empire, according to pretty much everyone who'd talked about him so far. And the dragons served the Dragonborn.
"Odahviing," Tullius nodded respectfully, as he closed to what amounted to conversation distance. "I presume you're talking about the business with the stars?"
Aicantar realized that the legionnaires had a scribe sitting nearby, writing on a piece of paper. They were actually taking notes on this conversation.
The dragon replied, "My fellow dovah have witnessed two more falling from the sky. But it has finally come to my attention how this all came to be. The Dovahkiin has achieved the state of CHIM. Most of the planes of Oblivion have been erased from existence by his will."
Well. That was the biggest news anyone would ever give to anyone. Aicantar didn't even feel that affected by it. It was just too big. He found himself rather wondering which planes had been spared. Hopefully not Coldharbour.
It was nice to hear that the Dragonborn had reached CHIM, though. That basically meant he was as powerful as a mortal could ever be. And obviously he'd been putting his power to use. Good for him, pretty much.
Tullius looked down at his list, then sighed and put it away. That seemed like a fair reaction to this. "So how does this mean anything for Aetherius? I thought that plane was… separate, from Oblivion."
"It is." Odahviing dipped his head in a sort of nod. "Yet without the veil of Oblivion to separate it from Mundus, the presence of magic is unfolding in unpredictable ways. Without a doubt, it was wise of the Dovahkiin to make his move as he did. The Daedra have caused far too much suffering for your kind over the eras. We must be prepared for unexpected consequences."
Tullius asked, "What else do you know?"
"This occurred roughly one month past. The changes in the connections to Aetherius took time to progress, and with time, they will surely change further in the future. Yet the change in the stars does not seem to be such a gradual progression. It took place between one night and the next. Knowing the cause of these anomalies, we suspect that a presence is actively influencing the path of Aetherius above us."
"A new enemy, then. Why hasn't the Dragonborn destroyed it, like he did with Oblivion?"
"I do not know. Possibly, his power has diminished in the wake of his actions. Or perhaps it is being truly tested to its limit even now, by a new ongoing trial. I will bring you more knowledge as we learn of it ourselves. But until then, you and your army must remain vigilant. The mortals of Mundus may not be in imminent danger, but dark tidings approach us." Odahviing paused. "And so ends my news. What have you for me?"
Tullius took a visible breath in. "Odahviing, the Dragonborn's associates have a request for you. They want you to take this elven mage to Alftand." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Aicantar. "He was found in Markarth. He may be of value of them."
"Very well." Odahviing shifted his attention to the Altmer. His head looked a little strange from directly in front. There was a great view of his nose, that was for sure. "What is your name, mortal?"
"Aicantar," he said. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to add more than that. A dragon was talking to him. He'd expected this, just like he'd expected to talk to Tullius, but it still felt insane. Especially after the news he'd just heard. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and tried to make some words happen. Nothing really happened.
The dragon turned his head, almost inquisitively. "I am Odahviing. Do not be afraid, Aicantar. I have no desire to do you harm."
Were dragons normally this gentle? Aicantar understood them to have once ruled Skyrim with a grip of ruthless tyranny. Kind of like what he'd seen in Markarth, maybe. They'd demanded complete submission and sacrifice from the mortals beneath them. They obeyed the Dragonborn now, but only because power was everything to them. That was what he knew. So this was feeling… a little strange.
But he didn't want to voice all his thoughts quite like they were. He settled for a much more diplomatic, "You seem very concerned with the well-being of us mortals."
"The Dovahkiin taught us much," Odahviing said. "Above all else has been the mortal concept of empathy. It has proven itself to give purpose to a precarious existence."
Empathy. That was what the Dragonborn had been doing? First he'd saved Skyrim from the dragons, then he'd taught them to be nice? Apparently, it'd actually worked. Aicantar wished that it could work as easily with mortals.
On the other hand, that last sentence… "What's precarious now? I thought you were immortal."
But Odahviing actually shook his head. He just wagged it left and right, like a person, except bigger. Seemed like he'd learned a bit about how mortals did their gestures. "Our bodies can still be destroyed. The Dovahkiin now has the power to raise us, but we remain of an uncertain future. And given a long enough test of Time, uncertainty always yields its worst outcome. I cannot speak for all other dovah, but I no longer care to cause any suffering. Life is fleeting and precious, Aicantar. Let all of us remember that."
Aicantar's mouth hung open. He had no words for this. He just… He had no words.
"I will bring you to Alftand," the dragon continued. "When you are ready, climb upon my back. It is safe to ride."
The Altmer took a slow, silent look around the courtyard. Solitude. He'd only known it for half a day, and it'd been a completely new experience. Now he was about to embark on another still. His life was changing more and more quickly all the time. He wondered if it was like this for everyone, at the center of the big things in Mundus.
Because yes, by all appearances, he was getting near the center of the big things in Mundus now. That thought was up there with the Dragonborn wiping out most of Oblivion. It was just too big for him to feel anything about.
Of course, in the meantime, he was supposed to ride a dragon across practically the whole province of Skyrim. This was probably going to be an amazing view.
General Tullius was looking at him expectantly. Aicantar walked up to the Imperial slowly.
"It's been an honor meeting you, General," he said. He was very aware of the fact that there was a dragon waiting for him about fifteen feet away. But he had to do this. "I don't know why you've considered me so worthy of your attention. I really appreciate it."
Tullius gave him a long, thoughtful look. A few seconds went by like that. Then he said, "This isn't the first time I've sent someone to join the Dragonborn's cause in Alftand. The last time I did, the person ended up becoming one of the most crucial heroes of our time. You have some peerless opportunities ahead of you, Aicantar. Use them wisely."
And then he nodded once, and backed off. Aicantar's mouth was hanging open again. Partly because he'd gotten the exact same advice from that Black Gear, the Orc named Blaz, back in Markarth. And partly because he knew he'd just witnessed General Tullius showing a kind of personal compassion that he had absolutely no reputation for.
Odahviing was waiting. Seemed like it was time to go. Aicantar walked around him slowly. This really was a huge creature. He wasn't sure how to get on, so he just reached up and grabbed onto the dragon's spinal ridges—he was touching a dragon with his bare hands now, this was incredible—and tried to pull himself up. Odahviing rolled towards him a little bit to make it easier. After a moment of clambering, both of the Altmer's feet were off the ground, and he was on a mythical being's back.
Entering the city of Solitude, he'd gotten the distinct feeling that leaving behind his home in Markarth had been the right choice. But now, leaving the city of Solitude the very next day, he was realizing that he had no idea how wondrous his life was going to become. And he couldn't wait to explore it.
"Hold on," Odahviing said, and then with a great sweep of his wings, they were in the air. Aicantar's stomach lurched, but he didn't feel sick in the slightest. In fact, he'd never felt better.
The view was incredible from up here.