"You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?"

There was chaos outside his chambers. He could hear it even through two thick locked doors.

He'd locked himself in. Of course, they'd be coming soon—probably in about five minutes, if not less—and demanding he come out and take the reins, as he was supposed to do. The day he had been prepared for all his life had finally arrived.

Why did it have to arrive like this? His father had been assassinated, in Skyrim. The letter had just got back today, penned in General Tullius' unusually shaky hand. He still clutched it in his own hands, and every time he looked at it, he wanted to scream.

He had locked himself in here because he had to. He had needed to get away from everyone and the chaos that had exploded at the news. His father would have said it was not a very princely thing to do, and indeed it wasn't; part of him felt slightly ashamed of himself for having done so. But in these first moments, he was no crown prince: he was just Attrebus, the son and indeed only child of Titus: a son grieving for his murdered father. He needed these moments before he donned the mask of the Emperor.

Emperor Attrebus Mede III, he thought to himself. That's what I am. But, Akatosh and Mara and Stendarr and ALL the Divines have mercy, let me be a man and grieve my father first! Please! His thoughts were disturbed and unsettled beyond telling; he could not quite put words to the emotions swirling around his head or to the degrees he was experiencing them. Suffice it to say, they were all intense, terribly intense, rather like an inferno, an inferno that threatened to consume everything.

But from the maelstrom, words did eventually emerge: grief. Anger. Terror. Above all, helplessness.

He tried to sort through them. Sorting through his emotions, explaining them to himself, it had always helped him calm down and think more rationally. It was a technique his father had taught him. So he took a deep breath, and he began to sort through them.

Grief and anger required no explanation. He had loved his father dearly. He had seen a side of him most people either could not see or refused to see: a warmer, more relaxed, more affable side, the one he could afford to show in those rare moments where he did not have to play the part of Emperor. He had spent a great deal of time with him, as his only child and his heir, and so he had seen him as a man and an Emperor both. They had spent many hours talking about his policies, his decisions, the things he had had to do, and everything that went into being an Emperor. He had shown regret for the White-Gold Concordat but had maintained it was necessary, and Attrebus saw his side of the argument. He had accompanied him in everything, been his closest confidant; his father had been almost obsessed with making sure he was fully prepared for ruling. He had loved him, then, as a man and a father, and he had respected and admired him as an Emperor.

A man who has troubles so few other Emperors have had, and all they will remember of him is his assassination and the White-Gold Concordat, he thought bitterly. He was a great man. One of the greatest I knew.

Terror and helplessness required little explanation, either. Even if his father had died of natural causes, he was still about to take the reins of the Empire—an Empire that was on the verge of completely falling apart, and would only crumble further with his father's death. With that, it now fell to him to restore everything: to defeat the Thalmor and shatter the White-Gold Concordat, to win back the old provinces by diplomacy or by force, to restore the Empire to its old glory, to repair the reputation of the Mede name. Those were gargantuan tasks indeed, and in the face of them, he felt terrified and powerless. How could he do all this when he had no experience with ruling, little military experience, and none of his father's talent?

Tell me, Father. What am I to do? There were tears running down his face, and he was shaking with fear, but he wiped the tears away and did his best to hold himself still. He cast about in his head for what his father might have said.

He found it eventually.

You must do your duty regardless of your fears. We all must do our duty. You may start inexperienced, but with time, you will learn, and you will grow. Listen to your advisors, but do not be afraid to act on your own initiative. Be cautious, but not overly so. Remember that you will make mistakes. Do not dwell on your mistakes, but act to correct them if you can, and learn from them. Study the old Emperors to see how they ruled, learn what to do and what not to do from them. Being honourable is well and good, but you must strike a balance between honour and pragmatism. Be firm, and tough, and act as though victory is guaranteed, without falling into arrogance, and people will have every confidence in you. When I am newly gone, do not let grief overwhelm you. Present a firm mask, right from the outset, and people will begin to trust you.

There were more words, but those he understood well. His father had repeated them to him often enough, from the time he had been a small boy until they were verily branded in his brain. He knew his father was right in that experience would come with time. What he could do now was put on a mask of firmness and confidence, and not take it off until he was in private.

The chaos was coming down the corridor. Attrebus Mede sighed, rolled his shoulders, and carefully forced all his grief and anger and terror and helplessness back inside him, schooling his face into a neutral expression. He looked at himself in the mirror—a fairly young man of 28, not yet married, black-haired and blue-eyed and fair-skinned, thin and of average height and not at all impressive, which might be to his disadvantage—and he watched himself for a time. The mask held.

He was not ready; he would never be ready. But he had to act as if he was.

He stood up from the bed. He glanced at the letter, and he felt no urge to scream. He headed to the door, movements fluid and confident. He unlocked it, moved outside, shut it behind him. He did the same for the door to his chambers.

The Emperor looked down the corridor. There were several Penitus Oculatus officers and some of the Elder Council just inside, gazing nervously at him. "Your Majesty?" one asked.

"Call the Council," he said firmly. His voice did not shake one bit. He made a sort of gesture as he spoke, a gesture as firm as his voice. "Summon the Grand General, the Penitus Oculatus Commandant, and the ambassadors from all the other provinces. Call anyone and everyone you think is necessary. We will meet in the Elder Council Chambers. Go, now!"

"Yes, Your Majesty!" He could sense—or maybe it was just him—that they all seemed pleased he was being so firm. They head back down the corridor, and he came striding after them, face settling into a rather grim expression. It would do for now.

Later, he would return to his chambers, and he would let the mask off, and he would pray to the Divines and he would grieve and let the terror consume him for a while. But for now, it was time to assume his father's role, and so he must be strong and confident and unshaken. There were terribly dark times ahead—he had never heard of a worse time in history to become Emperor—and they would all rely on him to see them through it.

And by all the Nine, by the Eight and One, he would do it. I'll do what you never got the chance to, Father, Attrebus Mede III thought to himself, stopping the quaver of fear and certainty before it had a chance to start. I'll make this Empire glorious again. Just you wait and see. I swear to you, I'll do it!

He owed it to him, but most of all, he owed it to the Empire. The Empire would not be broken if he had any say in it. The Empire would rise to its old glory, the glory it had had under Tiber Septim, and neither assassins nor the Thalmor could stop it.

It was time for the wheel to start turning back around.