(AN: The one thing my brother and i agree on is that the Thalmor are evil. The only difference is that i take the Stormcloak route of directly fighting them, whereas he agrees with the Imperial solution of being friendly with them and hope that they'll "let slip" enough information that the Empire can use against them [which is great folly]. But I just saw something that pissed me off, both as a Stormcloak supporter and as someone who is part-Jewish: someone on that "wretched hive of scum and villainy" [ie. tumblr] claimed that the Thalmor were not only needful to prevent an "elven genocide" by the Nords - which sounds like something my brother would say - but he/she also said that the Altmer were "Jewish-coded." HOW? Based on the lore, they're like Imperial Japan meets the SS meets the islamic state of Israel and Syria [Isis is an Egyptian goddess], with a dash of the Spanish Inquisition thrown in. [NONE of you expected that, i bet? Fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Dominion and c*mberbatch-like features!])

(On a less divisive subject, i had an epiphany that i'm still hitting myself over the head because i didn't use this in an author's note for The Dragonborn and the Lioness. One of my reviewers asked if Eirik was a drunk because he drank mead with no consideration to when it was "appropriate" to drink. But then just recently [years after that point was argued] i realized that ancient/medieval cultures would have drunk wine or mead, since there were no means of purifying water. It's true that there are wells, but those can be defiled [especially in Vvardenfell, where there is, prior to the Red Year, occasional ash-fall], and the only means that i can discern which could be used to purify water would be magic. But then again, most Tamrielic mages want to become gods or destroy things, so they're not using Restoration to unlock purifying spells.)

(Today another layer of Eirik's legend will be revealed.)


Consequences

The morning of the twenty-second day of Sun's Dusk, in the 202nd year of the Fourth Era dawned as cold as any other in late autumn. Here in Bruma, the snows had begun to fall, heralding the harsh winter yet to come. Though, for a time, the snows had subsided, the sun had not shone through the clouds long enough to melt the snow. So it was that Crixus had to borrow an extra set of clothes to go over his own as he left that morning, to keep out the cold. The highlands were not protected from the harsh winter chill, and he had a long road ahead of him. With the horse he had been given from the Count's stables, he mounted up and left the castle-yard.

But he did not go immediately eastward. Instead, he rode to the North Gate and looked upon the statue which he had ignored the day before when he first arrived. The statue appeared to be of some great knight, with sword lifted in a pose of triumph and shield at side. To his surprise, he noticed that it had been heavily modified over the many years. Around the shoulders, he could see locks of hair that had been part of the original statue, but had been chiseled off at the neck. The original head was missing, replaced with a large kettle-helm that obscured all the features, hiding the original identity. Of a time, the face of Valeria Vulcanis, the Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil, once rested upon this statue, gazing upward as she held her sword to the heavens, defying the hordes of Oblivion. But as the years passed and her memory faded, many in the Empire voiced their dissatisfaction of a purely Colovian heroine being publicly displayed. It was not enough that she was a woman, or that there were many heroes of the lays of Argonians, Khajiit and Dunmer: though they had left the Empire, those of their race that remained demanded that her statue be altered to represent their specific race. The Argonians wanted an Argonian, the Bosmer wanted a Bosmer, the Dunmer wanted a Dunmer, the High Elves wanted an Altmer, the Khajiiti wanted a Khajiit and the Orcs wanted one of their own to defy the 'beautiful' human folk. Therefore the Imperials erased their own history to satisfy what many in the Empire began to refer to as 'correct policy', or the practice of revising and erasing history to suit the fickle whims of the mob.

As Crixus sat there on his horse, gazing up at the statue, he remembered the face that Sheogorath assumed in his time in the Blacklight prison. For a moment, he wondered what she would think of him. She was the kind of hero that he looked up to: not merely because she had served the only human, in his estimation, worthy of being deified, but because she, like he, had arisen from nothing and become a hero without being divinely chosen by prophecy like Llevas Dorvayn or Eirik Bjornsson. But more than that, he was now being told that she was related to him: he never knew his mother, and now Selvia was taken from his life forever by Cassius Urtius. She was the only woman whom he had known for a while, but was not as wicked as Sedris Ulver. Would she have approved of what he was doing for the greater good of the Empire, for himself?

"I don't need the approval of a stone statue," Crixus arrogantly sneered, then turned his horse back southward, to leave the north gate and make his way towards the east gate, towards General Tullius and the culmination of his great plan.

Later that day, Count Edvald in his noble regalia appeared before the people of Bruma, flanked by a battalion of the city guards. He had an announcement to make before the whole city.

"People of Bruma," he began. "As your Count, ordained so by the grace of the Eight, it is in my interest to ensure the stability and enduring security of my county. I have received word that, in confirmation to the rumors we have all heard, there was indeed fire upon Sancre Tor. The Ecumenical Primature has been destroyed. We do not know who started the fire or what their intentions were, but we are convinced that they are still at large. Therefore, until such time as these vandals and brigands have been brought to justice, it is with great reluctance that I now declare this city and the county thereof to be under martial law until further notice." The people began to murmur and whisper their worries and concerns over this news. At this, the Count held up his right hand to silence them.

"There is no cause for alarm," he said. "The activities of the city are permitted to carry on as before. No businesses will be closed, no services will be denied. We are merely seeking to find the ones responsible for burning down the most sacred church complex on Sancre Tor. Once they have been found and served punishment befitting their grievous crime, the borders will be opened once again and free traffic to and from the city of Bruma will commence. Believe me when I say that no punitive measures will be taken against the people of Bruma in this time. The martial law is only to find and apprehend the outlaws who destroyed Sancre Tor."

Most of the people gathered mumbled in approval at what was said. But there was one person present who was not pleased with this. From the terrace before the castle yard, Lysa went at once back to Agnar's house in the south of town, among the ram-shackled, tumbled-down shacks in which the Nords were forced to live. The password had changed, but she knew what it had been changed to, and spoke the safe word and was allowed entrance. Down the stairs she went, where she found Hjoldir and Agnar waiting. She shared with them all that she had heard about the curfew.

"It's a trick," Hjoldir said. "They want to keep us under their power. Under their watch. I say what I said last night: have we not come to the point where arguing is of no further use? Words will not save us anymore, we must fight!"

Lysa sighed. "Yes, we must fight. But not here, not in Bruma. We are too few in number and the Legion will stand for the Count if we strike." She groaned, wiping the snow from off her feet on the bottom stair. "Gods, now do we miss the Sons of Skyrim more than ever."

"We cannot regret their choice to leave Bruma for Skyrim, girl," Agnar stated, shaking his head. "They have chosen their fate, and if it is true what they have said about the rebellion failing, then they have a better lot than all of us, drinking with the gods in Sovngarde."

"Would that we could have done the same," Hjoldir grumbled. He had been of age when war broke out in Skyrim, but remained behind with his father Agnar to support and care for him in his old age. But he was young and full of the vigor of youth, eager to write a name for himself, such as the great heroes of old.

Lysa also yearned to fight and make a name for herself. But there was yet another reason she yearned to go to Skyrim. Some years ago, a young man living in Bruma had caught her eye. This man had been part of the original Sons of Skyrim, the group in Bruma that had fought against Ansvild's enforcement of the White-Gold Concordant and the tyranny of Edvald. When Ulfric Stormcloak rebelled against the Empire, many of them fled back to Skyrim to fight in the war: this young man had been one of them. What happened to him, whether he had been caught at the border and killed, or whether he had crossed over and died on the road, or if he had joined the rebels and died fighting the Empire, or if he was still alive to this day, Lysa did not know.

"The Sons of Skyrim have gone," she spoke at last, a twinge of sadness in her voice. "We who remain must decide what to do in response to this martial law."

"And what do you propose we do?" Hjoldir asked.

"Get as many people out of Bruma as we can," she replied. "If the Count is the one declaring martial law, we all know that it is mischief against us that is his goal, not hunting down some brigands. The storm-clouds are gathering, we must not wait for the thunder to strike."

"Aye, girl," Agnar nodded. "Get them out of here, lead them to safety."

"Lead?" she asked. Though she was respected among the people of Bruma, those Nords who had not bowed the knee to Edvald's tyranny, she had been content with letting Agnar, the elder, lead. "You're our leader, you're the heart and soul of our people in Bruma. I could never be that."

"Now, you are," Agnar said, gesturing for Lysa to approach him. She did and he placed his old, gnarled hands on her head and right shoulder. Hjoldir bowed his head in respect.

"Blessed Kyne," he muttered in prayer. "Strengthen this thy daughter in our hour of need. Let her not falter on the path that lies ahead of her."

"Of me?" Lysa interjected. "But you're coming with us, aren't you?"

"I am an old man," groaned Agnar. "And my place is here in Bruma. I have not the strength to earn my way to Sovngarde. But you do."

"If you stay," Hjoldir said, a tear in his eye. "Then I stay with you."

"Don't talk nonsense, my boy," Agnar replied. "You must go with her."

"Don't worry about us, Lysa," Hjoldir said to the young woman. "I'll make sure we get out. You just make sure the others get to safety."

Lysa nodded, then turned away. She had much to do and had to do so immediately: who knew when the hammer of Edvald's tyranny was to come down upon the Nords of Bruma.


At evening of that day, Crixus came at last to Fort Horunn in the dead of night. He had ridden hard and fast over trackless paths in the mountains, coming at last to the edge of the brown lowlands where the snows failed and brown, late summer trees rose out of the land. There was a great host at the fort and camped in the lands around it, and the night watchmen saw Crixus' approach. He introduced himself as a legate of the Red Legions, and asked to be brought before General Tullius. As he was not in his uniform, and the guards had only his word to go on, they bound him with ropes and kept him a store-room in the fort until morning.

When morning came, the Legionnaires took Crixus from his cell and to the command tent in the courtyard of the fort. Here he saw General Tullius seated before a map with several other commanders in steel armor lined with fur. The guards presented Crixus to him, and he recognized him and told the soldiers to remove his binds.

"You certainly have a knack for showing up in odd places at odd times," General Tullius stated. "The last thing I remember, you were going to stay in Skyrim, to help Governor Rikke keep the peace. That was what we agreed upon before we left for Windhelm. Were we not in agreement that the Thalmor would capitalize on the chaos caused by the Nord rebellion?"

"Yes, that we were," Crixus replied. "Have you not heard of what happened in Solitude?"

"Yes, I heard about what happened," the General replied. "And I have my own reasons for being unable to send aid to Jarl Elisif. My job was to put down the rebellion, and that's what I did: the less time I have to spend in that savage, gods-forsaken country, the better. And I was not free altogether either."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"Count Edvald insisted that I remain here in Bruma," he explained. "Apparently there's been some unrest in this county, what with the rebellion and all. We were all in danger of another rebellion if the Nords try something again. The Legion is the only thing keeping the provinces from falling into barbarism and lawlessness, especially in Skyrim, as you well know. But me..." He groaned. "...I'm tired. I'm an old man, older than you are, though I don't have the good fortune of never aging." Crixus winced at this.

"So what happens now?" Crixus asked. "What do you intend to do?"

"As soon as we're done here in Bruma," he said. "I intend to return to the Imperial City. There is to be a triumph in my honor for putting down the rebellion: in the Weye Promenade, no less. It would be good to retire to the Cerunian District, or even a nice little villa in the Old City, with no more Nords to worry about."

"I'm afraid that won't happen for a long while, sir," Crixus replied. "I have bad news from the west. It appears that Count Edvald's fears are justified. The Nords of Bruma are planning something. They burned the Primature on Sancre Tor in defiance of the White-Gold Concordant, and now they're planning on usurping the Count's power."

"Ah, I see you've been fraternizing with the Count," Tullius stated. "Trust me, whatever he told you about them, it wasn't the first time. He regaled me over and over with plot after plot, conspiracy after conspiracy: from private cells of rebels under the streets of Bruma to wild Nord clansmen in the woods and hills of Bruma, plotting to slaughter the elves of Cheydinhal. I've heard it all. There's no evidence that any of these accusations are true."

"Sir," Crixus interjected, speaking very firmly. "Do you trust my word?"

"You're a soldier of the Red Legions, and a loyal one at that," Tullius replied. "I have no reason to doubt your word."

"Why would I lie to you in this matter?" Crixus asked. "You know that I am not one to exaggerate or hide the truth for any reason. Gods, didn't you get the letter I sent you?"

"Letter?" General Tullius asked. "You sent me a letter?"

"Yes!" Crixus replied nervously. "It told you everything that I've learned, what the Nords have been up to in Bruma lately. It was my introduction, you should have known that I was coming..." He ran his hand over his head, the short hairs bristling beneath his fingers. He was now truly concerned: why did General Tullius not receive the letter? Had the raven been intercepted? By whom? Animists did not live this far north, as far as he knew. His mind instantly leaped to the worst case scenario: the Nords found it and even now knew what he was about to do.

"Gods, they have it now," Crixus breathed.

"They?" Tullius asked. "The Nords?"

"Yes!" Crixus replied. "They know we're onto them, they'll strike first before we're ready."

"What?"

"General," Crixus spoke. "You know that I'm trust-worthy and loyal. I would never ask you to follow a lead which I didn't believe to be credible with my whole heart. Something's going to happen here in Bruma, something big. The Nords are planning a coup, they want to depose Count Edvald."

"Do you have any evidence?" the General asked.

"Yes!" Crixus replied. "I was at a meeting, where I overheard prominent members of the Nord community of Bruma plotting to overthrow the Count." It was all hearsay and circumstantial evidence, but in Crixus' mind, the truth of his evidence didn't matter as long as the outcome, the fulfilment of his plan, came to pass.

Tullius sighed, then rubbed his temples. "Very well. What is it you had in mind?"

"I need two companies," Crixus stated. "One company will guard all the roads south of Bruma from this fort to Sancre Tor. We can't let the rebels escape south into Cyrodiil, or we'll never find them."

"What about the other company?" Tullius asked.

"That I will need to come to Bruma," Crixus stated. "To handle the rebels. Can I count on your support in this matter?"

Tullius rose from his seat. "Because of your outstanding service to the Empire, I will not only follow through with your plan, I will give you command of the second company. I'll be content to guard your rear while you win glory and honor this time, since I won the honor and glory for defeating the rebels. First things first, though."

"Yes, sir?" Crixus asked.

"You'll need a uniform," General Tullius grumbled, crossing his arms.


The rest of that day was spent gathering up the Legions and moving out from Fort Horunn. They only made it half-way to Bruma, coming to an old shrine that had been abandoned with the coming of the Legion. Crixus was now asleep in his own tent, fully equipped in Legion armor, gear and armed with a gladius once again. He felt invincible again, such as he had not felt since he was captured by the Penitus Oculatus. He could not sleep for the sheer excitement. At last his plan was to be carried out, he would send his message and at last avenge himself upon the Nords that had ruined his life. In the morning, he would order his troops to march twice as fast, hoping that they would arrive on the outskirts of Bruma to begin setting up.

There was little wine or mead to drink, and he fell asleep in his military cot, feeling as though Bruma might as well be on Akavir. But this night he dreamed, and such a dream it was that he never forgot it, no matter how hard he tried. Ever after it remained in his mind and returned to memory every time he saw what lay between a woman's legs.

In his dream, he saw himself in a graveyard, with stone graves made in the Colovian style. There was a light frosting of snow upon everything, which gave the burial place and eerie beauty. Kneeling down at one of the graves, he wiped away the snow but saw no name engraved thereon. As he was thus pondering, the smell of a thousand rotting corpses wafted in the cold, night's air, as if the bone-lords of Morrowind and draugr of Skyrim were roused from their graves. He looked about and saw a dark shadow slowly approaching him from the trees on the edge of the graveyard.

At first he believed it to be Hermaeus Mora, for the dark, shapeless shadow reminded him of the daedric lord of knowledge. But from the shadow a shape took form and strode forward, turning the snow to writhing, oozing black pus with each step. The shape appeared as a woman, petite of form and pale-skinned with hair as white as the snow. From the hips down, though, the resemblance of a human form ended: her bottom half moved like legs within a dress, slowly and gracefully, but there was nothing graceful or even leg-like about the bottom half of this apparition. At the hips it appeared as if the lower half had died, rotted and was now a writhing, wriggling mass of maggots, roaches, spiders, fleas, rats, black pus and every manner of loathsome creeping thing imaginable and a few unimaginable as well. In her lap, where the sex usually lay, there instead lurked six large pincers like the limbs of an insect, huddled as if in preparation to strike.

Crixus could barely speak, his eyes fixed on the apparition's pincers though it was in the hideous, rotten half.

"Wh-What are you?" he breathed.

When the voice spoke, it seemed to speak both with the voice of a Colovian noblewoman and with another, deeper, darker voice, one that reminded him too much of the winged terror.

"I am the Great Darkness of the Scuttling Void," spake the daedric prince. "Ring-Giver and Lady of Decay. You have stolen from my many children, a thing which I cannot abide."

Gods, please, save me! Crixus whispered. They alone knew how many beggars and blind men he had robbed during his time in Skyrim. It had been nothing to mock those who showed him mercy, for he believed that their mercy outweighed their vengeance. But now he stood before a daedra, a lord of the ones that had sought to break him.

"I am the one that waits for you in the darkness," the daedra continued. "With open arms. You were ripped from my grasp before, but soon you will be brought into my arms, as befits all of mortal-kind." With that, she extended one of her bare, white arms before him.

"Have you ever seen what happens to those who enter my embrace?" it asked. "Many fools have sought to stave me off for as long as they could, but their efforts are in vain. Oh, but the many you have brought into my arms have been broken and bloodied in a manner most...beautiful." At this, the work of a year's worth of rot happened to that pale arm in the matter of a few moments.

"How will you come to my arms?" she asked. "Only time will tell. But, in time, all fair things enter my arms."

The hideous apparition began to approach him, its pale flesh turning black and hideous wings growing from its back, then its face transforming into the dried, dessicated corpse of the Night Mother. The empty eyes were filled with red light: then he watched with horror as a pale-gray Dunmer corpse rose up out of a grave somewhere in Anvil, hands reaching for his neck. He could hear words spoken as well.

"You've brought the lost lamb back into the fold," the familiar voice said. "Your Mother is truly pleased. Take comfort in the knowledge that, even upon the Ruby Throne, my voice will always remain in your ear."

With that, Crixus awoke in a cold sweat and could not go back to sleep for the rest of that night. Yea, he was the first one awake besides the night watchmen and ordered those under his command to rise up and leave ere the dawn. Once the Legions were up and had eaten, Crixus ordered them to march at double-pace to reach Bruma before nightfall. He was determined to see his plan carried out no later than the twenty-fifth of Sun's Dusk. For too long it had been postponed, living only as a dream, a wish in his heart with no chance of ever being realized.

Yet in all those long months in Skyrim, it had come into being in Crixus' mind and had been carried out at least once by his actions. The Nords deserved to pay for the actions of their ancestors, which he believed were still being carried out in the name of Talos, Ysgramor, Ysmir the Grey Spirit or whatever other thing they held sacred. Therefore, when he was still a subordinate, he dreamed of the improbable day when the daedra would cause an earthquake and send all of Skyrim, from the Jerall Mountains to the sea, tumbling into the Sea of Ghosts, taking all the troublesome, barbaric Nords with it.

But now he was the Emperor. His desires suddenly took on new light. He would have to set an example to the Nords that they could not rebel without retribution. He had to break the Nords, the way the Miracle of Peace broke the Orcs: prevent a genocide against the Dunmer, as Edvald believed, and kill off any who the Grey Spirit might use to destroy him. But, in lieu of a Dragon Break, he could only do so by the means which he enjoyed the most: war. Then he heard what Arcadia Valga had to say on the matter and it went to heart. Breaking the Nords was not enough, he had to erase their race from the face of Nirn, bring their dead ancestors to grief by watering down the white race of the North until it was no more.

That evening, exhausted and chilled, they made camp outside of the walls of Bruma. Crixus had his soldiers work all night, cutting down trees and building cages made out of wooden pickets. Many pits were dug, some of them only a foot or so deep, others more than ten feet down and requiring ladders to access. Crixus ordered the men to empty the supplies out of each cart and wagon and place them into the shallow pits, which were then packed with snow and dirt to keep during the night. As for Crixus himself, he could not sleep yet again. The dreams of the previous night and what was to happen this morning were too great for him to sleep. He sent a rider into the city and had Gorak and his Orsimer cohort brought out into the camp. With them was another Orc, clad in heavy furs and a cloak to keep out the cold.

"Who is this with you?" Crixus asked, for the other Orc approached Crixus at Gorak's side.

"This one said he knew you, sir," Gorak replied. In the light of the torch held by one of the soldiers attending him, Crixus saw the other Orc's face, a white death-mask painted upon it.

"Garnag," Crixus greeted. "What brings you here? I thought I left you back at Cloud Ruler Temple."

"That you did," Garnag replied. "But I was permitted to leave."

"You were permitted to leave?" Crixus asked, a little concerned at this revelation.

"I bring word from Tiraa Vilenis of the Order of the Lamp," Garnag stated. "She found me and told me to find you and implore you to go to Cheydinhal, to join the Shield of Hlaalu in their struggle against House Sadras."

"Well, you're an assassin, not a messenger boy," Crixus replied. "If Tiraa wanted to ask me something, she should have simply told me herself."

"I also have things to tell you," Garnag stated.

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Well, then, out with it."

"Secret words," Garnag said. "Words not fit for..." He eyed the soldier with the torch, then Gorak, then turned back to Crixus. "...present company."

Crixus sighed, then turned to Gorak. "Get your cohort ready. At midnight, we move into the city. I want you to take charge of the companies I send in, for I'll be going at once to the keep to tell the Count of my plan. We've come so far, we cannot afford to fail."

Gorak saluted. "Long live the Empire!" Then he bellowed out orders to his cohort and led them into the camp. Once they were moving in, Crixus and Garnag walked aside, leading a narrow trail in the snow away from the camp, and spoke when they were well without hearing range.

"If you are indeed the Listener," Garnag stated. "Then why haven't you been giving me any missions? Why have there been no kills?"

Crixus chuckled. "Stay here in the camp, and there will be enough to satisfy even a Dark Brotherhood assassin."

"Is this the request of lord Sithis and the Night Mother," asked Garnag. "Or of yourself?"

"I received her voice last night," Crixus stated. "Trust me, I speak for her. In time, there will be more messages, contracts made, the Black Sacrament received. I cannot be Listener for Skyrim and Cyrodiil! If anything, I suggest that, after we are done here, you go north to the Sanctuary in Dawnstar, and you will find the Dark Brotherhood flourishing. Perhaps, then, you will find the answers you seek. For my part, I have a life to live that is beyond Sithis and the Night Mother."

Garnag grumbled, but made no immediate response. Crixus' words made no sense to him: there was no life beyond the Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood.


About midnight, the doors of every house in Bruma belonging to Nords were knocked upon violently. Naturally the first response was to open the doors. What they found before their doors were soldiers in the garb of the Imperial Red Legions. They ordered all the Nords in each house they stopped at to leave as they were, taking no food, supplies or clothes. Those who tarried due to sickness or age were dragged out by the Legion. Those who were taken out of their homes were placed in carts and wagons, and told to keep quiet as the soldiers went into their houses, looking for any who might be in hiding. In time, the carts were filled and the soldiers ordered them to be taken out of the city. But this did not deter the Legion on their task: they began driving the Nord people out of the town in long lines, on foot and many with no shoes on their feet in the freezing snow.

In the house of Agnar, one had been kept busy since the twenty-second of that month. Over three days time, Lysa had been secreting people out of Bruma by way of the old sewers that ran underneath the city. From there, they gathered in a small cave, dressed as warmly as they could afford and with as much food as they could carry. About three hundred and eighteen she had managed to secret, slowly over a matter of three days. No more than two at a time with Lysa leading them through the tunnels to the caves. At night, larger groups could be afforded to pass through, but always with utmost secrecy so as to not be heard in passing. Many went bare-foot, or with their shoes bound in rags to muffle the noise of their footsteps.

During all of that time, Lysa had eaten only enough to keep up her strength. And in hurrying the people out, she had worn herself out almost to exhaustion. So it was that, as soon as she returned after delivering the last batch, she passed out and fell asleep in the entrance of the tunnel. Hjoldir, who was staying up late with the old man, went down into the basement to fetch him a drink of mead from a barrel they had stored there. The barrel, which was rather large, was used to cover the hole in the back of the basement which led to the cellar. As he knelt down to fill the cup, he saw her lying on the ground.

In that moment, the Legion came knocking at their door. Hjoldir, who feared the worst of the Count for his tyranny against the Nords, immediately and rightly suspected the worst. He had grown up with Lysa in Bruma and loved her as dearly as any other, and he feared what would happen once the Imperials got into their house. He descended the ladder going down into the sewer tunnel as swiftly as he could and roused her awake.

"Lysa, wake up!" he whispered. She groaned, rolling over in her sleep. With trepidation building up inside of him, Hjoldir shoved her forcefully. At last her eyes blinked open.

"Oh, Hjoldir," she said. "I'm glad you're here. What time is it?"

"A little after midnight," Hjoldir said. "But there's no time. The Count has sent his men to punish us, as I always knew he would. You have to get out of here!"

"What?" she asked, leaning up from where she lay. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain of it!" he returned. "You have to go, now!"

"What about Agnar?" Lysa asked. "You have to get him out of here!"

Hjoldir heard the knock resound faintly from the top of the stairs, his hands shaking. "Don't worry about him," he said. "I'll get him out of here, just go!"

Lysa scrambled to her feet, then went back down the tunnel she had been traveling for the past three days. Meanwhile, as the pounding on the door grew more fierce and determined, Hjoldir clambered out of the sewer tunnel and dragged the heavy barrel over the hole. Once it was secured, he ran back up the stairs, only to find Agnar hobbling to the door, key in the lock, and opening it before he could cry out.

Day finally dawned as the Legion concluded the process of dragging out of Bruma every Nord they could find. They were then brought out into the Imperial camps and placed into the makeshift prisons the Legion had constructed. All through the night, the soldiers of the Red Legions watched with fear and worry as Nords and only Nords were being dragged from their homes, carted out or forced to walk through the cold of the morning into the camps. Though there were some among Tullius' men who were from Cyrodiil or High Rock, the Elder Council finally relenting on their ban of sending reinforcements to Skyrim to aid in the rebellion - motivated doubtless by Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador - the majority of those present here were Nords who had grown up in Skyrim, tended their farms in Whiterun, hunted game in the forests of Falkreath, trapped animals in Hjaalmarch, fished off the coast of Haafingar or had family who were killed by the Forsworn when they took the Reach. In their eyes was worry and concern over what was transpiring before them, and many were clutching beneath their Legion armor amulets of Talos, whispering silent prayers.

At last Servius Crixus appeared, standing before Gorak gro-Shagk and his Orc cohort, with Garnag at his side. He stood before the wooden prisons where all the Nords were kept. A smile was on his face, such that would have made even Idolaf Battle-Born shiver with disgust. At his right hand was Count Edvald, who was also beaming widely, and Ondolemar with a group of Thalmor justicars: at Edvald's feet was Idolaf, dressed in rags with an iron collar about his neck, to which was tied a chain held by the Count's guards.

"People of Bruma," Crixus spoke. "As you all may have known, your city was placed under martial law as we sought out the perpetrators of the destruction of Sancre Tor. I, Servius Crixus, Commander of the 9th Legion, am sad to say that the culprits have evaded Imperial justice. But no matter, we will give them a perfect and fearful example, one that will tell them that the Empire of Cyrodiil will not be fucked with. As such, you will all pay for their crimes."

At once, those in the cages cried out with many voices: "No! Please!", "Have mercy!", "This is a mistake!", "We're not rebels!", "We don't even worship Talos! Why are the Thalmor here?"

"Silence!" Crixus shouted, holding up his hand. He then gazed at each and every one of the people before him. A chuckle escaped his lips. "You think I care about whether you worship a false Breton god? No, you will all pay for the crimes of your race. Throughout our history, the white Nord have stolen land that belonged to others, just as you have stolen Bruma from the Nibenese." More protests rose up, with many claiming that their families had lived in Bruma since before the Oblivion Crisis.

"Therefore," Crixus continued. "Just as you have taken land that was not yours, all your lands and properties are now forfeit to the Count, their rightful owner." He gestured to Edvald, who nodded, a smug smile on his face. Crixus, however, kept his eyes on those before him. "The white Nord have slaughtered men, women and children of all races, defiling the flower of Colovian and Nibenese beauty with their foul seed. Therefore, every man, whether newborn or elder, shall be put to death in full view of their families..." More cries and pleas for mercy came from the people in the cages, and many Nords in the Legion began looking this way and that.

"Sir!" Gorak spoke. "Permission to speak freely."

Crixus chuckled, then turned to Gorak, a furtive look in his eyes. "What is it now?"

"Who are these people that they must die?" Gorak asked. "They're beautiful, yes, but what have they done that warrants death?"

"Besides being Nords?" Crixus asked in reply. "Nothing, really. It's necessary."

"Sir!" Gorak continued.

"If a man is sick," Crixus retorted. "Sometimes a cleansing purge is needed. It tastes like shite and goes against his stomach, but it will do him good."

"But these are not a mere case of Ataxia or Rockjoint," Gorak interjected. "These are people! Men, women, children!"

"Just where do your loyalties lie, Orc?" Crixus demanded.

"I am a loyal servant of the Empire, sir!" Gorak retorted. "A soldier in the Red Legions."

"And what is your duty as a soldier of the Red Legions?" Crixus demanded. Gorak did not immediately answer. Then Crixus, who had faced Nords and was, in his own words, death incarnate, got into Gorak's face and shouted at the top of his lungs: "What is your oath, soldier?!"

"'Upon my honor,'" Gorak recited, looking straight on and not at Crixus. "'I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire. May those...'" He paused.

"Finish it," Crixus whispered.

"'May those above judge me,'" Gorak slowly replied, his lower jaw quivering. "'And those below take me, if I fail my duty.'"

"And are you prepared to disobey a direct order from your Emperor and your superior officer?" Crixus asked. "I thought you were a man of loyalty."

"I am no man," Gorak grumbled. "And my loyalty is without question!"

"Then shut the fuck up," Crixus replied. "And do your duty." Crixus turned about and watched as two soldiers brought a middle-aged Nord man from the prison bars before him. He stood tall, taller than Crixus, and kept his lower jaw clenched and his head held high.

"Very good," Crixus said to the soldiers. "I do appreciate promptness." He then turned to the Nord man. "Kneel." The man refused. "I said kneel." Crixus clarified, but still the large man refused to obey.

"Kneel!" Crixus shouted, placing his hand upon the man's shoulder and trying to force him down onto his knees. But he was the size of Torgrim Stone-crusher and could not be forced, not even by Crixus' strength. He then gestured to a torturer with a whip of many iron tongues, who lashed the Nord man until he collapsed to his knees. Once more Crixus was smiling as he turned to those looking on in horror.

"I want you all to know," he said. "That there will be no sovereign-guard for any of you. Well, aside from the fact that your gods don't exist, I won't let you put up a fight. You will face your death on your knees, or we will break you until you kneel, then we'll kill you." At this, he drew out his gladius and put it to the man's throat, then paused, looking down at him.

"Something doesn't feel right," Crixus muttered. Then he looked into the cage where the Nord man came from and smiled yet again. "Thank you, Arcadia," he whispered beneath his breath.

"But of course!" he exclaimed loudly. "We forgot about the women! Certainly can't do that, can we? They make up half of your population, don't they?" He gestured to two of Gorak's Orcs to come forward and bring the man's wife and teenaged daughter out of their cages to stand before him in his sight.

"The life of any race," he said. "Lies in the bowels of their women, is that not right? Oh, but your white race is an evil one, guilty of many crimes, taking women against their will, raping captives of any race. Therefore, it is only fitting that we should punish your women in kind." He then gestured to the Orcs. "Do you see these proud specimens before you? Fierce, brutish, mighty, loyal: a true warrior race. Every woman of your race, who has at least reached the age of thirteen, shall be coupled with an Orc, and be kept alive to carry their child to term. In this way your many generations of pure, white Nord heritage, passed down to you all from your fathers, grandfathers and sires all the way back to Ysgramor, shall be destroyed. We will breed you out of existence and into Oblivion!" He then turned to the Orcs. "Fuck these women."

"No!" Gorak shouted in countermand. "You're not obligated to obey this order!"

"The fuck they aren't!" Crixus retorted. "They are under my command and they will do as I say!"

"They're my Legions, Crixus," Gorak retorted. "And I won't have this happen. This is madness! You remember the many brave Nords who fought with us in the 9th Legion!"

"If you disobey my orders," Crixus stated. "I will have you executed for treason!"

"You're welcome to try," Gorak returned with a growl. "I don't think Eld would find my death to her liking."

Crixus grimaced. Gorak had just threatened him with being killed by his giant wife, but Crixus had no desire to kill Gorak. He was a good Orc, and loyal to a fault. In every matter he had performed admirably, always obeying orders without question. Now, it seemed, that he took umbrage at punishing the Nords for their crimes. But Crixus was not about to be denied: it angered him that his Legion friend refused to help him, but even though he wouldn't raise his hand against him, he was not about to go back on his threat. Crixus turned to Garnag.

"You have no choice, do you?" Crixus asked. "I could tell them you're with the Dark Brotherhood. I can say that you killed the Emperor."

"What are you saying?" Garnag grumbled.

"Fuck them," Crixus said. "Starting with the youngest one."

Garnag made no response as he removed his fur cloak and approached the young Nord girl, pawing at her hair as he took position behind her. Before he began, Crixus spoke to him.

"In the cunt, if you don't mind," he clarified. He then turned to those around him. "And make sure her father, mother and children are watching this. If they close their eyes, you force them open, do you hear?"

With one hand on her neck, Garnag tore open the young girl's dress and forced himself inside. Crixus' eyes were wide open, feasting on the father's aghast eyes, filled with tears, and hearing the mother try to talk her daughter through, if only to be there for her in such a horrible time. It felt good to Crixus to see their shocked look on their faces, to know that they felt as he felt when he saw his goddess being raped by one of these white Nord apes. Edvald licked his lips as he watched the teenaged girl being forced and cried out to Garnag: "Do rip off her clothes, why don't you? Yes, let her whole family see the shame of her nakedness!"

At his feet, Idolaf Battle-Born, usually mocking of the cries of his people who refused to accept the Imperial way, was gazing on with horror. He had been ashamed of his ancestry and had only joined the Empire because father said it was the right thing to do, and because he wanted to kill those savages who dared defy the Empire. Now he saw with his own eyes the Empire which he respected and worshiped reduced to the savagery which he believed his people to have possessed. Then he remembered grinning and laughing as Clan Grey-Mane, who he once knew and loved like family, butchered before his eyes. He remembered being as this Orc had been, riding Jordis like a whore and laughing at her cries.

"What have I done?" he gasped.

As if in answer, he saw before him the ghost of Eorlund Grey-Mane, a grim scowl upon his face.

"Blood-traitor," the ghost said. "Kinslayer, oathbreaker and murderer: it has only just begun."


Imperial scholars never spoke of this horrible affair. Gorak gro-Shagk was sworn to silence and Edvald swore before any who asked that nothing happened between the twenty-fifth and the twenty-eighth of Sun's Dusk in the 202nd year of the Fourth Era. Even if they were not, the lives of four thousand Nords were not considered worthy of note, especially since officially Nords were the cause of the Stormcloak rebellion. But there were some who deserted General Tullius' Red Legions to return home, shocked and aghast at what they saw. These brought tidings back to Skyrim that the Empire had slaughtered almost all of the Nords of Bruma.

Worst yet, Lysa, who had managed to flee to safety, waited for many hours in the tunnels beneath Bruma, searching for some sign of Hjoldir and Agnar. When they appeared not, she tried to go back into the house through the tunnel, but found the trap-door was blocked. She then doubled back and went up through the caves, wrapping herself in a heavy fur cloak and covering herself with her hood to hide her sight. Perhaps Kyne was with her, for she passed through the forests undetected and came at last within sight of the Imperial Legion's camps and saw with her own eyes the horrors going before them. She saw Servius Crixus standing before the Count and heard the Count congratulate him by his right name. She saw men, old and young, forced to watch as their women were violently raped by large Orcs. Many of the younger ones did not survive, but those who did were ushered into the wooden holding cages and their hands bound away from their bodies. Then, once these atrocities had been committed, she saw the men put to death. Hjoldir had stood defiant until the end, when his knees were broken and the one named Servius Crixus drove a dagger through his throat. Agnar was flayed alive with iron-toothed whips and fell into a quivering, bloody mess, shaking and shivering until at last, bowed, bent and broken, he died.

So it was that she ran back into the caves and, wiping her red, burning eyes of the tears, led the three hundred and eighteen survivors out of the caves and into the west. She had hoped to hide them in the hills and valleys thither, then slowly make their way across the border to Skyrim. Instead of going directly north, which she feared would be watched, she decided to lead them away from the city, so that any who might follow them would be thrown off the trail.

That evening, after a long day of travel, she made her way into the hills and saw, with her own eyes, Cloud Ruler Temple upon a hill. Ever since the Great War with the Dominion, at whose beginning she had been born, that place had lain empty: now she saw smoke rising from it. People were there, people who feared not the Legions who might see them. Though, of a certain, such could also be bandits, she was growing desperate. The supplies, such as they had, would not last them very long in the wilderness, especially with the onset of the harsh winter now on the way. Once more, as if guided by the will of the Divines, she made her way to that place. It was dark and the sentries did not notice her approach until she had come up even with the gate.

As the Divines had willed it, this very day Eirik, the leader of the second Sons of Skyrim, that group which he had formed after Ulfric was killed by Athal Sarys, a retainer of House Sadras, was at the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple, arguing with Delphine. He and the Sons of Skyrim had been kept secluded in this place while the others were free to come and go as they pleased. That evening, Arcadia Valga had departed and Eirik, angry at being kept in what was, by any other word, a prison, dared to speak out against this.

"You can't leave this place," Delphine explained. "The Emperor demands it."

"Which Emperor?" Eirik asked. "Crixus? Do you really think he is a good Emperor?"

"He knows what has to be done," Delphine stated. "And, unlike you, he doesn't help the Thalmor by causing chaos in Skyrim."

"A fine piece of work you are, Delphine," Eirik said. "You and your Blades forsook me as soon as another, more suitable, Dragonborn came your way."

"How dare you!" she retorted. "Where would you be without us? You would never have learned the ability to defeat Alduin and save Skyrim, if not all the world, were it not us, for me! And you have the gall to be ungrateful?"

"Dammit, Delphine!" Eirik shouted. "My men are fighters! We belong out there, fighting, not trapped in here like beasts in a cage!"

"Eirik?" a voice out of long time past spoke. Eirik looked and saw a pale, red-haired woman in snow-drenched fur cloak and traveling clothes standing before the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. When he lived in Bruma, before coming to Skyrim, he had fancied this young woman and had hoped to make her his bride. In another life, he would have remained in Skyrim, not go to fight in the rebellion, and might have married her: but in that world, the World-Eater might now have already eaten his own heart and therefore brought the world to an end.

"Lysa?" Eirik exclaimed. "Shor's balls! I never thought I'd see you again!"

"I thought you'd died in the fighting," Lysa said, approaching the guarded gate. The Blades turned towards her, hands gripping the hilts of their katannas.

"Hold your swords!" Eirik said. "She's of no harm to us." The Blades did not move.

"Gods above, let her in!" Eirik stated.

Delphine acquiesced, mouthing to Eirik "She's your charge", then the two met in a strong, long embrace.

"Eirik, I wish you hadn't gone to Skyrim," Lysa said. "We needed you here in Bruma, now especially more than ever."

"Why now?" Eirik asked.

"There's some terrible thing going on outside of the city," she gasped, still weary from the long, solitary trek through the snow. "The Legions are butchering my people, killing men and children and having Orcs rape the women."

"What?" Petruvius asked. Awakened by the tumultuous exchange between Eirik and Delphine, he and Viator left their rooms and came out to the courtyard. Lysa explained everything she had just now told Eirik.

"No," Petruvius denied, shaking his head. "No, the Red Legions would never do this."

"I saw it with my own eyes, boy!" she retorted. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, no, no one is, Lysa," Eirik interjected. After she had calmed down somewhat, Eirik swallowed hard, then asked the question which he hoped had not the answer he feared that it did. "Who is leading them, Lysa? Tell me, who is ordering this...massacre?"

"Some general, I didn't see his face," Lysa replied. "I did get his name, though. The Count called him Servius Crixus."

Eirik took a step back, anger building up inside him as he slowly, menacingly panted. Them, with a loud oath, he kicked at the snow as his rage finally boiled over beyond the measure of restraint.

"Fuck!" he cried. "Th-That son of a b*tch! Why did I ever think he had changed? He-He's been planning this all along, ever since Skyrim! I just thought they were words, but now..."

"I'm going to have to ask you," Delphine said. "To calm down and return to your quarters."

"I hold you responsible for this, Delphine," Eirik said. "You confirmed him, you made him think he had the right to be the Emperor. Now look what he's done!"

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all of this," Delphine replied.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Lysa retorted. As she approached Delphine, the two Blades rose to stop her. But Delphine made no response, her eyes trained on Eirik.

"Oh, wait 'till I get my hands on you, Crixus!" Eirik seethed.

"I can't let you do that," Delphine interjected.

"Are you going to stop us, like you did in Riften?" Eirik retorted.

"Crixus is the only one," Delphine stated. "Of the line of the Septims, and the only one who could save the Empire. If you were the Dragonborn Emperor, you'd start a war with everyone and doom us all!"

"And look what he's done!" Eirik retorted. "He's killing the Nords of Bruma to satisfy his own base love for killing Nords, which will only further sunder the Nords from the Empire. How is this not detrimental to the safety of the Empire?"

"He's still the best choice we have," Delphine defiantly retorted.

"Well, then, fuck the Empire," Eirik replied. "I can't believe how blind I was to actually think justice could be found in the Empire." He then stomped off back to his quarters.

"Where are you going?" Lysa and Delphine asked as one.

"To kill your new Emperor," Eirik returned. "He must pay for what he's done."

"I'm afraid it may be too late for that," Viator added.


Blood, tears and ashes darkened the snows outside of Bruma. Even as the gentle first-snows of the oncoming winter began to fall, they turned black as they settled upon the ground. Nord men, elders, and children both boys and girls, were being butchered wholesale, their blood staining the snow upon the ground as it poured out from where they fell. Some of the parents were forced to see their little ones tossed into large bonfires built by the Thalmor, who laughed as the parents wept and their babies screamed in agony. The great volume of black smoke filled the camp with a foul stench, befouling the faces of those poor women in their cages, forced to stay alive to raise these half-Orcs. Every year that streamed down their soot-covered faces was now black, and the old blood turned black, so that the ground about them was black.

Servius Crixus had personally supervised most of the killing. If this did not break the Nord race, nothing short of complete annihilation would suffice. Though he did secretly wish that it would come to that, his desire to kill was, for a time, sated. Even when the Thalmor burned the Nord babies on their fires and Crixus was reminded of the piles of ashes and skulls in the Imperial City, he did not disuade them from their task. Those skulls had belonged to Imperial children, children who deserved to live: though it went against his own past, he hardened his heart against the Nord children who burned and deafened his ears to their cries.

"Even a beast would cry," he told himself. "If it was being killed to save a tribe of Ashlanders. Those children would have grown up to become monsters, just like their parents. The Empire is safer because of it."

All went according to Crixus' plan on the first day. Then on the second, he heard that several men had deserted. He spoke before the Red Legions, telling them that no one was permitted to leave until their task was done. As Gorak was doubtful about what he was being ordered to do, and Garnag had no authority to command the Red Legions, Crixus often delegated the Count or Ondolemar to personally supervise the slaughter while he remained in his tent, sipping Black-Briar mead and relishing the cries of Nords going to their agonizing, ignominous deaths.

Throughout the second day, Crixus began to feel an itching in his feet to be on his way. He went back out into the killing fields, black with soot and dried blood, and sought out Garnag, who was enjoying himself among the Nord women. Once he had finished his woeful task, Crixus told him to dress himself, then come before him.

"What is it now?" Garnag asked.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Crixus asked.

"I'd much rather kill them," Garnag replied. "I take no pleasure in what I do."

"Well, then, I have another task for you," said Crixus. "We're going to Cheydinhal soon. I need you to deliver a message to my squire, Petruvius, back in Cloud Ruler Temple. Tell him and Delphine that I have ordered them all to come to the western berth before Cheydinhal. The last leg of our great task lies before us."

Garnag did not nod, but rather lifted his eyes towards the east. Thither lay the old Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, which he had abandoned in the twilight of that order. Now they were to be going back: inside, he believed that there Crixus would receive some kind of message from the Night Mother about what he must do to bring back the Dark Brotherhood.

"I will do it," he finally said.

The slaughter continued all that day, with the dead bodies being thrown into the deep pits that had been dug in a great mass grave. Several of the women had managed to get a hand free and, by one way or another, had attempted to kill the child within them. Few actually succeeded and many died in the attempt. Those who were found out were brought back before the Orc soldiers and subjected to their lusts yet again: quite a few died after this as well.

It did not abate even with the coming of night, though Crixus remained in his tent as the sun went down. Garnag had left before noon and was now on his way westward, back to the old Akaviri fort. For now, however, Crixus relaxed in his tent with a bottle of Black-Briar mead. While thus enjoying himself, he heard footsteps outside of his tent.

"Somebody there?" he asked. There was no answer.

Then the sound of footsteps was heard again. Crixus drew his gladius and readied to defend himself. The tent flap was pushed open and, to his surprise and relief, there stood Arcadia Valga, dressed in a heavy cloak, with her armor and battle-dress. Crixus sighed in relief and put his gladius down.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "I didn't send for you."

"I'm here of my own accord," she replied.

"How did you get past the sentries?" Crixus asked. "I have plenty of men guarding the perimeter of my camp. How did they let you in unannounced?"

"I've learned many things in my time at court in Chorrol," Arcadia replied. "The Count was a fair man, but he knew that I had a claim to the throne, and so kept me on a short leash. I've learned how to sneak my way out of the castle if need be."

"Very well, then," Crixus spoke. "Why are you here?"

"I've come...to apologize," she said slowly. "For my behavior. It is not respectful of one who would be our future Emperor."

"Very well, Crixus nodded. "I forgive you."

"Please," Arcadia said, dropping to her knees. "Accept me as your personal bodyguard. Take me into your service. I see no other way of making up for my crass behavior than by submitting myself to you in all things."

Crixus raised his eyes in surprise. It was a pleasant surprise, to be sure: he had always hoped that his followers were of such filial devotion to him that he had to do little for them to throw themselves at his feet, offering their service to him. But, as it was, none had yet done as she was doing. It pleased him, to see her thus submissive and agreeable to him. Therefore, taking up his gladius, he walked over to the kneeling Arcadia and placed the sword upon her shoulder.

"By my right as Emperor of Tamriel," Crixus said. "I name you first of the King's Men. Long may you defend the new line of Emperors that shall come forth through me." He tapped each of her shoulders once with the sword, then placed it back on the table. "Arise, Arcadia Valga, First of the King's Men, and serve me."

What happened next was so swift that Crixus had no time to recover himself, to prepare, or to reach for his sword. As Arcadia was rising, a knife, hidden within her battle-dress, was drawn and thrust into the side of Crixus' armor, where the steel breast-plate did not protect him. Crixus gasped as he felt cold steel tearing through him once again, looking down and noticing that she had stabbed him. He looked up into her eyes, which were welling up with tears.

"B*tch!" he shouted. "How dare you do this to me, after all I've done for you!"

"All you've done?" she breathed. "You brought those savages out of their caves and mud-huts in the North, to poison our beloved Cyrodiil, you wanted to ally with the very people who butchered my family, and you have the balls to say 'How dare I'? How dare you!"

"B-But all those people out there," Crixus said, gesturing towards the door flap as Arcadia turned the knife in his chest. "I've killed all those Nords, just like you said. They'll never trouble Cyrodiil again!"

"One good deed, no matter how large," she replied. "Does not forgive you of suffering me to stand in the same presence as those dogs you've kept locked up in Cloud Ruler Temple! You dared to make a pact with them, therefore I had no choice but to kill you...for my family."

"Gua..." Crixus tried to shout, but found that his voice was failing him. "G..."

Arcadia drew out another knife and stabbed it into Crixus' other side. Then she took both knives and, careful not to prick herself on them, stowed them back in their sheaths in her battle-dress.

"The first knife," she said. "Was coated with a special paralyzing agent. You won't be able to call for help. The second knife causes blood to flow more...freely. You'll bleed to death in a matter of minutes, with no way of saving yourself or calling anyone to save you. A fitting end for a traitor like you."

"But..." Crixus struggled as he felt his body growing numb. "I...can't di..."

"Wrong," Arcadia replied arrogantly, staring down at him as he collapsed to his knees before her. "Only women can never die."

With that, she turned around and left the tent. Crixus, meanwhile, was trapped within himself, feeling the cold hands of death reaching out to him. There would be no pain this time; he wanted to thank Arcadia for that if he could, if he didn't kill her first. But now all things seemed futile as he fell to the ground in his tent, unable to move. His vision grew blurry and he despaired at the last: he would never see Elisif, uncle Surius, Severus, the rest of the Maro family, or even Aelina ever again. Even now he wished that he could see her, though her face reminded him of that horrible incident. Anyone to be with him here in his darkest hour, to hold his hand as he passed on...

Terror took hold of him. He would pass on, but would he go into Aetherius? He, who had mocked the gods all the days of his life, now truly expected the Divines to welcome him in with open arms. But the rarely-used voice of reason spoke to him that it would not be so. Then, as his mind started to grow hazy, he wondered what would happen to him: would he become a slave of the lords of Oblivion, eternally suffering their punishment in one of their realms, or would he walk under the shadow of Sithis as Lucien Lachance had done; or would he serve as a ghost in the Twilight Sepulchre? Or would his soul be so torn that he would no longer truly exist at all, but only as a faint, tormented whisper, scattered in fragments across the sphere of Aurbis, impotent and helpless?

He saw a dark shape pass before his eyes, but at that time, all was darkness and he had no second glance. His eyesight faded and he knew no more.


(AN:)