(AN: I'm surprised so many people want Crixus to die. I mean, the fan-favorite Star Wars movie is Empire Strikes Back, where the good guys lose. The whole "misunderstood bad guy" trope is still going strong, even though it's been done so many times it's no longer "fresh" and "new", and horrible-ass movies and TV shows like Would You Rather or American Horror Story are still big: so why on Nirn would anyone want the bad guys to lose in this story? Isn't Eirik supposed to be the bad guy, since he's the "white" Nord and a former Stormcloak?)

(Anyhow, as you probably guessed from the last story, we're going to have some big flash-back in this chapter where we learn a bit about Crixus yet again.)


Children of the Dragon

"Well," Crixus sighed. "It's done. And may the Divines have mercy on his soul...and mine."

There was no blood on his hands as he gazed down at the Emperor's body, but he knew of a certainty that his blood was on his hands. The blood of one he considered family: it might as well be Gaius' blood, or Venerius' blood, or that of his dear father Valerius. For a moment he halted, torn between immobility and his filial devotion to the now deceased monarch of Tamriel. The Penitus Oculatus were but a cry away: one word and he could be taken captive by them. He would confess all, save that the Dark Brotherhood had been responsible, taking blame onto himself alone, make up some story to explain his disloyalty, then await the axe as surely as Roggvir had faced his own axe in Solitude but a few months prior. It was no more or less than he deserved.

But that was the easy way, the coward's way. There was yet within Crixus the desire to live, to defy everything, to carry on, even though he had gone places that would have horrified even the young bully from Anvil. He did not have to die here. His task was finished, and the truth would die with him, but he would not die here. Ships were going back and forth from Windhelm and Solitude to Raven Rock: though House Redoran loathed the Empire and its n'wah people, the settlement on Raven Rock was struggling so that they could not afford isolation. He was not far from the Solitude Harbor: he could get back in his boat, stow away onto a ship bound for Raven Rock and hide there until this whole sordid affair blew over.

At last he made his choice. He would live on for himself: not for a weak man who refused to fight against death as he did. Quietly he crept back to the window, clambered out, and got himself back into his boat. By now, however, the mists were fading and he feared that he would be discovered. Putting forth all of his strength, he rowed as hard and as fast as he could until the rocky beach of Solitude appeared on the other side. With no care for what had been stolen that was not his, Crixus let the boat to wander in the bay, unsecured to the shore, as he made his way to the Harbor.

On the very evening when Eirik stood before the Clan Volkihar in their castle, Crixus found a trade ship bound for Raven Rock and stowed away in the cargo hull. The voyage was long and slow, taking two days at sea to arrive at Raven Rock. When at last they made berth, Crixus went at once to the Retching Netch and drowned himself in all the shein, matze, flin and sujamma he could afford (on everyone else's coin, of course). More than once that day and the next, cultists from Miraak's Temple attacked him in his sleep. What sleep he did have was filled with dreams of a dark, eerie library lit with a green light. But he had no idea what this could mean and no one he spoke to answered him: not even Neloth.

"Unless you have more of those Black Books with you, serrah," he replied. "I'm not interested. Now go bother someone else for a change, filthy n'wah."

On the evening of the fourth day, after drinking himself into a slurred stupor, Crixus stumbled his way back to his room, wishing that he had a Dunmer woman to warm his bed. They were well-versed in many exotic sexual rituals that were taboo in the Empire, even in Cheydinhal, 'little Morrowind': rituals that would have made the Dibellans blush. Such thoughts preoccupied his mind until, overwhelmed with spirits, he passed out.

When he recovered, he found himself rocking to and fro on a ship. His first thought was that he had been captured and was now on his way to a slave colony. It was not foreign to him: once in his early days at Mournhold, he had been captured and taken to Black Marsh as a slave, and only barely managed to survive the wamma-su infested fens and forests of that place. He reached for his weapons and, to his surprise, found them still on his person: a slave ship doubtless would have confiscated all his weapons, but who would be stupid enough to kidnap him without taking his weapons? Looking around, he saw many figures in dark robes, with hoods pulled down to obscure their faces. One such hooded and robed one, kneeling next to him, removed the hood to reveal a woman with dull red hair, closer to brown. She seemed to be about Eirik's age, though wore it well and still seemed rather fair. Were this any other time, he would have longed to have her go down on his 'spear', as it had been called in the fourteenth of the 36 Lessons of St. Vivec.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," the woman said.

"Who are you?" Crixus demanded, drawing a knife from his belt. "Where the fuck am I?"

"I am Atia Glavius," she replied. "You are on a ship bound for Windhelm in Skyrim."

"Why am I here?" he asked.

"We've finally found you," Atia replied, a smile on her fair face. "After so many long years, here you are, at last."

"What the fuck?" Crixus gasped. "Look, if you want to fuck me, that's fine by me. I'd rather not be kidnapped, but..."

Atia covered her grin with her hand, then composed herself and continued. "We have been searching you for other reasons, Your Majesty."

"Your...your Majesty," Crixus muttered. "Why do you call me 'Your Majesty?'"

"Because that is what you are, old dragon," she replied.

"What?"

"I am part of the Cult of the Dragon," she began. "For over a century, we have kept a very important secret, one that could save the Empire...or plunge it into chaos and anarchy."

"What secret could possibly be that large and important?" asked Crixus with a chuckle.

"Do you know your ancestry?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," Crixus replied. "All the way back to Longinus Crixus. We were farmers living in the Colovian Highlands, until my great grand-sire met and married Alessia the Unlucky and moved to Anvil."

"Yes, exactly," Atia smiled, refusing to hide her pleasure.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Crixus asked. "Or why I'm here?"

"You are the Last Scion," she said. "The Dragon of the South, so to speak. You are the heir to the Ruby Throne."

Crixus scoffed. "Look, I'm flattered that you've recognized my skills, but I'm no Emperor."

"But you are the Last Scion," Atia replied.

"And exactly what is this Last Scion bull-shite?" Crixus asked.

"It's not bull-shite," she replied. "It's the truth. My order has been keeping secret watch over your family line. It has been hard to discern, but we have at last found the evidence, which all leads to you. Servius Crixus, you are the last living descendant of the Septim blood-line."

Crixus broke out into laughter. "Ah, that was a good one, really. I'm sure to have a good laugh over that later on today."

"It's no laughing matter," Atia said, becoming very grim. "Your family was weak during the Stormcrown Interregnum. They would have been slaughtered had they claimed the throne in such tumultuous times."

"I'm not a fucking Septim!" Crixus retorted. "My family's not related to the Septims. I mean, sure, I'm literate, well-learned, I have experience in combat and I'm Colovian, the same traits as Uriel Septim...and a thousand other men as well!" He shook his head. "This is all bull-shite! I want off, now!"

"Where will you go?" she asked. "Back to your Legions? Will you tell them that you killed Titus Mede?"

Crixus paused, a sudden shiver going through his body. "What the fuck did you say?"

"We know," she said, speaking the same two words that Astrid had spoken in her first note to him. "And we are not disappointed. Titus was weak, unfit to rule the Empire."

"Now that's where you're lying," Crixus retorted. "Titus was a great man! There hasn't been a greater Emperor to occupy the Ruby Throne, not since Uriel Sept..." He trailed off, the recent events still fresh in his mind.

"You know the truth," Atia noted. "I can see it in your eyes, hear the hesitation in your voice. You know that Titus was not what you proclaim him to be. But you can be: the Dragon of the South is yours, Servius Crixus. Take it and restore the Empire to its former glory."

"Just let me off, alright?" Crixus asked. "If you're so keen on calling me Emperor before I have an empire, then you'll obey my commands and let me off this boat bound for the fucking Shivering Isles! You're fucking mad, all of you! I'm no long-lost Septim, you're just seeing things that aren't there: just like the priests, monks and primates of the Eight Divines. Do you hear me?"

Atia nodded, rising to her feet. "We will let you off at Windhelm, as you request. But we will never forsake you. Even in your darkest hour, our order shall watch your path, keeping you from harm. The Dragon of the South is yours and we will not rest until you have returned to your rightful place on the Ruby Throne."

As soon as the ship arrived in Windhelm, they obeyed his request and he instantly disembarked. But, as fate would have it, he found none other than Shaddar al'Malik, his old Legion friend turned corsair, also docked. They were on their way to Riften to recruit and Crixus followed with them for a time...


Then night settled in and everything became dark once again. All he had known was darkness. Then the darkness broke and faint light began to peer into his cold, dark world. Then the cold faded and there was warmth, such warmth that he had not felt since the touch of his goddess. He wanted to lose himself in that warmth, to never let it be taken from him. Then, almost as soon as it had appeared, he faded back into the darkness and cold. He seemed to be floating in a sea of darkness, unable either to drown or to be rescued.

After a while, his eyes opened and he saw himself in a cold, stone cell, such as the monks, chantries and primates used in their monasteries high up in the mountains. There was a single, high window that let in pale light, but there was no hearth and all was cold. At his side he saw a familiar face, with hood removed and robes hanging loose upon the shoulders, exposing a soft, pale body just barely visible underneath.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Not where you should be, Your Majesty," Atia replied.

"You again," Crixus sighed, his head leaning back against a feather pillow. "Gods, what have I done that you keep popping up into my life?"

"We swore to protect and keep you, Servius," she answered. "And that is exactly what we have done."

"Is...is that so?" Crixus breathed. "The last thing I remember..."

"You had been poisoned by your subordinate," Atia replied. "Janus found you, but your subordinate had already left and you were on death's doorstep. He brought you back here, to our monastery, where we have nursed you back to health."

"Should I be grateful?" Crixus asked.

Atia brought her robes forward, covering herself up against the chill in the room. "You have not fully recovered. We only found the root of the poison last night and were able to draw it out. You are still very weak and cannot travel far. You should lie in bed for three days, then you will be able to be on your feet."

"Can you at least answer my questions?" Crixus asked. "What day is it? Where am I?"

"I already told you, you are in our monastery," she returned. "And it is the morning of the second day of Evening Star, in the two hundred and second year of the Fourth Era."

"But where is your monastery?"

"In the mountains of the east," she replied cryptically. "Now, then, take some rest. You need to recover your strength."

With that, Atia covered herself up and walked out of the cell, closing it behind her and locking it. Crixus called out for her to stay, but to no avail. Once the door was locked, his head fell back onto the pillow and a shiver passed over him. He realized that, twice now, he had come closer to death than ever before. Instead of feeling defiant, he now felt incredibly weak, like a newborn child that cannot fend for itself. Whatever poison Arcadia had put into him left him feeling very drained and weakened, to the point where even touching something felt as though he was touching sharp pins. His hands curled in on himself, shaking and shivering all that day until he fell into a cold, uneasy sleep.

But even that did not last long. Every time he shut his eyes, he could see their faces, looking up at him in horror or begging for mercy. He could hear their voices crying out, explaining how they had accepted the Count's rules and regulations with open arms: they had Imperial names, practiced the local Nibenese culture and neither called upon the name of Kyne or Talos. They had all died just the same, and now they would give him no rest. He saw little of Atia that day, with a mute man in the same black robes that she wore coming in to check on Crixus around noon, changing the chamber-pot and giving him a plate of food. Crixus called out weakly for beer, but there was no answer, neither was any beer, wine or mead given to him. As the evening drew on and the light of the sun vanished from the upper window, another figure appeared in the little cell. He also was hooded, and for a time he spoke not, waiting in the chamber, speaking not to Crixus though he spoke to him frequently. At last, there was a knock at the door and the hooded figure walked over to the side of the door and opened up a peep-hole and inclined their ear thither. They spoke in whispered voices, and the peep-hole was shut before Crixus could rightly discern what was being said. Afterwards, the figure turned to Crixus and removed his hood.

"You have much to answer for, Your Majesty," Janus Hassildor said.

"I'm answerable to no man," Crixus replied. "Or at least I shouldn't be, if I'm indeed to be Emperor."

"There were members of the Cult of the Dragon in Sancre Tor," Janus stated firmly. "Or have you forgotten so easily my invitation? They now lie dead among the ashes of the fire that was upon that hill, the fire that you started."

"Me?" Crixus asked. He was still weak and his head heavy from whatever drug Atia had given him to counteract the affects of the poison. He could remember very little of what happened, mostly in shapes and images: yet his memories were not wholly gone, only clouded by reason of the medicine under whose power he was.

"Fourteen days ago," Janus explained. "The Temple on the Golden Hill was burned with fire, and not everyone was slain in that fire."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crixus dismissed.

"Whether that is indeed true or not, I cannot say," Janus stated. "What I can say is this: about five days ago, a priest of Akatosh, a servant of the old Primate, arrived in Skingrad, coming to my keep by the secret paths. He told a story about the seventeenth of last month, when the Temple Complex was destroyed. He said that he was taking water from the well for a bath, when he saw a dark shadow passing into one of the monasteries, then came the sounds of doors being sealed shut, and a great clamor from the windows of the brothers and sisters struggling to get free. Then shortly the fire came, starting in one monastery, then quickly spreading to the next, devouring the temples, houses and board-houses. He managed to save one other, a priestess of Dibella, and escaped before the flames reached their fullest fury."

"What does this have to do with me?" Crixus asked.

"They were both of them members of the Cult of the Dragon," Janus replied. "The Dibellan went east, to this place, while the man came to me. He told me of the shadow and what he had seen, which gave me great concern. I left Skingrad and hastened to Bruma, coming at first to Sancre Tor and saw nothing but blackened ruins. During the night, I came to Cloud Ruler Temple and listened to what your servants said. They let slip that you had gone on eastward, towards Bruma. I followed you there and came upon your camp, but too late to stop what went on between your servant. I found you on the brink of death, and as this place was closer, I came hither."

"And what made you think that I was involved in this?" Crixus asked.

"The one who came to this place," Janus stated. "She told Atia that the place burned, but she did not tell of the dark shadow, for she had not seen it. But I have, and we recounted stories to each other. She seemed very distraught over the news I told her, so much that I was surprised. She told me of her first encounter with you, and then I understood her mind: you had burned the Temple of the Golden Hill to the ground."

Crixus rolled over on his side, not answering.

"Is it your purpose to destroy the Faith of the Eight, no matter the cost?" Janus asked.

"Why the fuck should you care?" Crixus asked. "You're a vampire, the Eight hate vampires."

"I understand that the people need their...traditions," he replied, correcting himself before speaking. "Therefore I have kept the Chapel of Julianos in my city. But I would not have any priest or prelate slain: my servants have hunted Benjin Surilie and his bandits for doing the same thing, to little avail."

Crixus said nothing. He was getting weak with all of these questions, and his weakness reminded him fiercely of every moment he had felt weak and impotent. Ever since coming close to death yet again, he felt like a fragile glass ornament, broken or chipped at the smallest exertion of force. One does not cheat death on a regular basis, and he had done so twice. But instead of invincible, he felt weaker than ever. Would he get another chance, the next time a knife was plunged into his body?

"What is it you want, Crixus?" asked Janus.

"In truth," Crixus sighed. "I only want to be left alone, to go back to Newland Hall and drink myself into an early grave, forgetting and being forgotten. But..." He sighed again. "...you all insist that I become Emperor, therefore I must do what I must."

"And you think destroying the Ecumenical Primature will bring you closer to the Ruby Throne?" asked Janus.

"Maybe?" Crixus groaned. "Look, I'm exhausted and I have no energy for your questions." He wanted someone to speak with, but he was still very weary.

There was a strange, angry light in Janus' red-yellow eyes. But he made no answer and did not push his point. He placed his hood back over his head, then opened the peep-hole and whispered out of it. The sound of a lock turning was heard, and Janus turned around to Crixus.

"We've kept watch on you and your family for a very long time, Crixus," he said. "Consider what might happen if we ceased." With that, Janus then made his way out of the cell, locking the door behind him.

Though Crixus was weary, the images that filled his eyes when they were closed kept sleep from him. And this little bit of talking had roused within him the desire to debate. Wherefore, in his head, he continued debating, doing the thinking which was less strenuous than talking. Titus Mede had brought the power of the Church of the Eight under his power with the White-Gold Concordant, therefore his burning of Sancre Tor was an act of similar fashion. He believed that he understood the minds of the people better than anyone else. In their hearts, he saw that they wanted only to be left alone to live as they had lived for centuries. Therefore, as the Empire, weakened as they were after the Great War, accepted every term laid down to them at the beginning by the Aldmeri Dominion, so the independent chapels, chantries and temples of the Church of the Eight and the people would grow weary of attacks from without and throw themselves at his mercy when he assumed the Ruby Throne and offered them peace and security.

But even thinking those thoughts, that the Empire had been weakened, worn out and broken by the Great War, seemed to him a betrayal of his most fundamental beliefs. A long-resisted admittance that there was something wrong with the central government, that something had to be done. In his mind, the Empire was strong, yet they submitted to the Dominion, giving them everything they had asked for at the onset of the Great War. Yet he refused to believe that the Empire was weak, though the circumstances of the above said just that. Now, however, he was admitting to himself that there was something wrong, that something had to be done. It hurt worse than the pain of a thousand knife wounds and, thus wearied, he leaned his head back against the pillow and tried to fall asleep. The horrifying images filled his head, driving sleep from his tired eyes, until at last, wearied beyond belief, he succumbed to weariness and let himself fall into the darkness, inhabited only by the faces of the dead.


He dreamed that he was once more on the ship, sailing towards a great wall of mist on the open sea. The ship passed into the mist, becoming completely engulfed therein. On either side of the ship, ghastly specters appeared, images from his own life and from lives not his own. He could hear their voices, faint and indiscernible, muttering their dark secrets. A desire came over him to know what they said and to see what they say: but, somehow, he was prevented from doing so. No matter how much he yearned for the sites off the sides of the ship, his view kept being turned towards the bow, as if there was something there more important to be seen. Yet when he did look thither, there was nothing but mist as far as the eye could see.

The next morning, he awoke refreshed, but still otherwise light-headed. He did not see Janus at all that day, but neither did Atia return either at first. In the solitude, he wondered if he would be missed if he tried to leave. After the monk came in with a tray of food, Crixus partook, then tried to get himself out of bed. This he succeeded in doing, but was still light-headed and could not walk without keeping at least one hand to the walls of his cell to support himself. Little did he know that his exercises were being watched. Therefore, in a matter of a few minutes, the door was unlocked yet again. This time Crixus was ready, turned towards the door, ready to make a mad, hobbling dash out as soon as he had the chance. He never had the chance: she who came into the cell was lithe of frame and entered in without pushing the door open very wide, and it was closed before he could move.

"I see that you're strong enough to walk," Atia's voice said from beneath the hood.

"That's right," Crixus returned.

"I presume you will want to be going, then?" she asked.

"If it's not too much trouble," Crixus said.

"Trouble enough," Atia replied. "Janus has said quite a bit about what you've done in Bruma. If you wish to leave, then we must go with you."

"We?" Crixus asked.

"Janus and I," Atia stated. "Janus has to return to his county, which is south and west. As for my part, though I am the heir of the head of my order, my place is with you for the time being."

"Why is that?"

"I..." she stammered for a moment, lowering her gaze. "I can say no more on this subject. I have been thus busy in my absence, else I would have been here to answer your questions, and ask a few of my own."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "I'm surprised you didn't know everything about my business."

"There will be plenty of time later," Atia replied. "For the present, if you wish to go, I will furnish you with clothes, supplies and a carriage for the journey. First let me speak to Janus and prepare my things for the journey."

Atia left the cell, locking it behind her. Less than two minutes later, a servant appeared with Crixus' Imperial Legion gear and cloak: all of these had been cleaned and polished. Crixus had just enough strength to dress himself and gird his loins in his armor. Moments later, there was a knock at the door and the lock was removed.

"I'm ready," Crixus said.

The door was opened and Crixus followed Atia and Janus. The old count was still clad in black, but Atia was draped in a thick fur cloak. Without a word, they led Crixus through a long, dark hall that terminated at a wooden door. That door they opened out into a cold courtyard, similar to the one in Sancre Tor, though less massive. There was snow on the ground as they walked and the air was crisp and clear with gently falling new snow. Crixus breathed in deeply and a shiver passed through him.

"How long was I interred?" asked Crixus. "It can't be the third of Evening Star."

"It is," Janus replied. "You were unconscious for five days."

"Then why all this snow?" Crixus asked. "I thought winter didn't come until the twenty-first of Evening Star."

"That is still eighteen days away," Atia stated. "But an early winter has blown out of the northeast, over two weeks early. There appears to be no abating."

"Will it endanger our journey?" Crixus asked.

"All things are endangered by such heavy snow in Cyrodiil this early," said Atia. "And what journey do we undertake? What path shall we take?"

"We're going to Cheydinhal," Crixus replied. "By the swiftest road."

"The road should take but two days," Atia stated. "But we should make it in three, since our pace must be slower due to your condition."

Crixus wanted to protest, to make some argument that he was stronger than she believed him to be. But he was too weary to make the argument and the cold made his head even heavier. So he climbed into the carriage with Janus and Atia and rested in the back of the cart as it left the monastery in the mountains. So he climbed into the carriage with Janus and Atia and rested in the back of the cart as it left the monastery in the mountains. Crixus noticed that they were up in the Jerall Mountains, possibly a few miles away from the very barricade he had passed during his time in Skyrim. He had hoped he had been able to spend time in Cheydinhal below in the valley, but Miraak's servants had driven him away. As it was, he looked down towards the south to see the purple spires of Cheydinhal, but there was a mist and smoke beyond. The sky was heavy with clouds from the early winter, but there seemed to be clouds as well rising from the valley.

"Such a great storm, and not yet winter," Crixus muttered, gesturing towards the south.

"It is a great storm," Atia replied. "The moth priests say that Skyrim is blanketed in snow, even into the verdant forests of Falkreath. But those smokes you see before you are not the clouds of the early winter. Ever and anon smoke rises from the lowlands of Cheydinhal."

"Strange," Crixus stated. "I've been there many times and have seen no such smoke. It's always fair when I come there."

"Things have changed recently," Janus replied. "Countess Dreyla Sarys, a retainer of House Sadras, has been acting independently of late, ever since the 13th of Sun's Dawn. Ever since then, the valleys and woods of Cheydinhal have been filled with smoke."

The going was slow and there was no clear path from the monastery of the Cult of the Dragon to any main roads on the eastern side of the Jerall Mountains, where they met the Velothi Mountains. Furthermore, Crixus was still very weary and, though he did not say it aloud, he was grateful for their slow pace. There also seemed to be something about Atia, a similar kind of weariness and lethargy that now possessed Crixus, which might also have weighed into their slow pace. But what it was, neither Atia nor Janus told Crixus during the first day of travel. When night finally arrived, Janus kept watch while Atia and Crixus slept. Crixus did not sleep, but did not protest when Atia rested her soft head on his chest to sleep. Eventually, as with the previous night, weariness drove him once again into the darkness of sleep and the images that followed. The dream, however, was still the same one. The boat was still in the fog, going forward into its depths, eager for what lay beyond. And, as with the night before, he did not see what lay beyond before he awoke or the dream ended.

The next day was very much of the same, slow going through trackless snowy drifts. At this point, Crixus feared that they might never reach Cheydinhal in a timely manner. But, despite his Colovian proclivity for warmer climes, the cold air was doing him good and he felt cramped more than weak now. Had he Shadowmere, he would have ridden on ahead of them. But then he recalled that he had lost everything when he had been captured by the Elder Council. Priceless artifacts of the Nightingales now languished in some vault in the Imperial Bastion. Once again he was reminded of how weak and powerless he was and he loathed it. By the time they halted, they could smell smoke upon the air. For certain there must be great fires going on in the valley below. Into Crixus' mind, he recalled rumors, whispers he had heard in the taverns of the west, of endless rioting and chaos in Cheydinhal. He did not believe these, for he thought they were merely rumors started by Nords, for surely he had never seen any looting and rioting in his many visits to Cheydinhal; and, after all, if he didn't see it, then it couldn't be true (though there were quite a few things which he had seen which he still refused to believe).

On the third day of their voyage, being the fifth of Evening Star, they saw themselves come down out of the snow-clad forests of the mountains and into a clearing on the northern edge of the valley. Here the snow was stained gray with ash and soot, and there were fewer trees than in the mountains. He now saw great plumes of smoke rising up from the valley, the products of great fires. Near at hand, he saw a manor house with a spired roof of violet tiles. This was very much in the style of Dunmer buildings near the border of Cyrodiil, made of stone, lime and wooden support beams. Around said manor house, there were many workers with shovels and hoes, upsetting the ground. Small wooden hand-carts were being loaded with weeds, grass and plants, which were taken to the fire-pits and burned. Several large black and gray piles remained, and from these, others were taking shovel-fulls of ash and sowing the fields with it.

To this strange sight the travelers came. Atia and Janus told Crixus that they should carry on, but he insisted that they stop. Dismounting, he walked over to one of the workers, a Khajiit with tabby fur and a downcast look, and addressed him.

"Good day, sir," he said. "What are you doing here?"

But the Khajiit did not answer him, keeping eyes to the ground.

"Did you hear me, sir?" asked Crixus. "I said, what are you doing here?"

"This one cannot answer," the Khajiit demurred, eyes kept to the ground he was up-turning. "Master will be angry, then the whips will come. This one does not like the whips."

Crixus scoffed. "What in Oblivion are you talking about? There are no masters here, there's no slavery in the Empire. You're free!"

"Ho, there, sir!" a fine Nibenese voice addressed Crixus. Had Crixus not turned around at the newcomer, he would have expected none other than an Imperial. To his surprise, he saw a Dunmer in outdated, Third Era plate armor. His speech was not the pedestrian drawl of those who grew up as free-loaders in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, unbound to any but themselves, nor was it the scratchy, rasping, deep-throated cough of those who had lived their entire lives breathing in ash: his accent was Nibenese and he spoke without any of the phrases common to his people.

"What are you doing on my land?" the Dunmer asked.

"This is your land?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, these lands belong to me," he returned. "The manor house has been in my family since the Third Era, after my grandfather, Farwil Indarys, slew the Orc that once lived there. I am a nobleman and lord of the Knights of the Thorn: Raynor Indarys is my name, and I am the last of that line. Who are you, who walks through my lands unannounced so brazenly?"

"I am a servant of the Emperor," Crixus replied. "And I am going to Cheydinhal in haste."

"To Cheydinhal?" Raynor asked. "If that is so, then I must ask you to stay in my house. I have plenty of food for you, and my...staff can serve you well."

"Your staff?" Crixus asked.

"Well, surely!" exclaimed Raynor. "Did you think I owned all of these people as slaves? Come now, don't be ridiculous!"

"This Khajiit said something about his master being upset if he spoke to me," Crixus said, gesturing to the Khajiit.

"No!" muttered the Khajiit under his breath. "This one said nothing! Do not regard this one! Master is here, he will beat this one hard!"

"Did he, now?" Raynor asked, turning his eyes to look at the Khajiit. The poor cat looked away dejected, at which Raynor laughed.

"Oh, my dear stranger," he said to Crixus. "Not everything is as they seem. You will know this if you come to Cheydinhal. But, please, enjoy my hospitality."

Crixus looked back at Atia and Janus, and the young priestess climbed down from the cart and walked over to Crixus, whispering in his ear. "We will be delayed if we stop here."

"We're delayed by moving so slowly," said Crixus. "Besides, if he offers us hospitality, then who are we to turn it down? Why spend our supplies when food is being offered freely?"

"But I thought only the...well, you know, wanted to reclaim Vvardenfell?" asked Crixus. "Why is the countess ordering every farmer in Cheydinhal to do this?"

"I don't know for certain," Raynor sighed. "I can only speculate, and what I think is that she is turning this county into little Morrowind in truth, more than simply name."

"I don't believe that," Crixus dismissed.

"Believe whatever you want," Raynor replied. "But my family have paid the price for nothing more than being in the way of House Sadras and their allies."

"Do you have proof?" Crixus asked.

"No," Raynor shook his head. "They have been very careful to keep their worst activities hidden from the eyes of those who might search for them. But now with the Elder Council's silent consent, they have been emboldened of late. You will see what I mean when we come to Cheydinhal."

"We?" Crixus asked. "You're coming with me?"

"I have business there as it turns out," Raynor stated. "I must meet with a client of mine, one of my order. Therefore I am obliged to pass through the dangerous eastern quarter of Cheydinhal. I can see that you are good, at least as far as talking goes..." He chuckled, gesturing to the plates he had brought out. "We've talked so much, this soup is bound to be cold by now!"

"I'm sorry," Crixus dismissed. "I...there's so much I want to know."

"In due time, good sir," Raynor replied. "Now, then, servant of the Emperor, do you have a name?"

"Proximo Crixus," he lied.

"Very well, then," Raynor grinned. "Let us eat."

"Well, you have a point, there," Atia remarked. "Very well, Your Majesty, lead on."

Crixus turned to Raynor and told him that they would accept his offer. The Dunmer then led Crixus and his companions to the manor-house. Crixus kept his eyes looking this way and that, at those whom Raynor had called "workers." They seemed very dejected and lowly, working with heads bowed and eyes averted and thin, iron collars about their necks. He had seen slaves in Mournhold, for the Argonians enslaved their former masters and many Dunmer still possessed slaves of their own. Dunmer enslaved whoever they wished, including people of their own race, but slaves of those outside of Morrowind were in greater number. As far as Crixus knew, the Armistice which had brought Morrowind into the Empire permitted the Great Houses to preserve their own laws and customs regarding slavery. House Hlaalu, the House that was most inclined towards the Empire, was strongly abolitionist, but the other houses, especially House Dres, supported and encouraged slavery. After Morrowind left the Empire and House Hlaalu was disgraced, the Armistice was considered binding only to those Dunmer still living in the Empire, and slavery was, as before, wholly legal by the Great Houses.

But as far as Crixus knew, no Dunmer in Cyrodiil or Skyrim kept slaves: that was, after all, against the law.

The three entered Raynor's manor-house, and were ushered to a seat at his table. He then ordered his servants to prepare for them food. Crixus noticed that many of these were also bent as those he saw in the fields. He also saw that there were no maidservants in the house, only men: and that while the servants in the fields were clothed, albeit poorly in the face of the early winter, the menservants in the house were completely naked.

"Serrah," Crixus said to Raynor. "I have to ask: who are all these people?"

"They are my servants," Raynor replied with a smile.

"Indeed?" asked Crixus. "They seem more like slaves than hired servants."

"It is at it must be, I'm afraid," Raynor sighed. "Countess Sarys is a retainer of House Sadras, and they have a great influence in this county. They, like the other Great Houses, supported the reemergence of the slave trade. As for myself, I am of that long lost, but never forgotten, Great House. Unfortunately, we are hunted and hated in lands owned by the other Great Houses of late, especially by House Sadras. Therefore it is expected of a Dunmer nobleman such as myself to own slaves: the lack of such raises too many questions."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "And if this is true, why are you telling us about this? We're complete strangers."

"But you're obviously not of House Sadras," Raynor replied. "They only let Dunmer into their ranks, and use outsiders only insomuch as they are useful to them, then they are killed."

"The Emperor should know about this," Crixus stated. "You were wise to tell me."

"Indeed," Raynor nodded. "If you are indeed a servant of the Emperor, perhaps then we shall see some change in Cheydinhal." His servants arrived with food for his guests, after which he dismissed them and turned to Crixus in particular. He looked at him for a good long time, then turned to the others.

"And who are these with you?" he asked. "Can they be trusted?"

"This man..." Crixus said, gesturing to Janus. "Is...a knight in the service of the Count of Skingrad, who has saved my life recently. This young woman is a priestess of the Divines. You can trust them as surely as you may trust me, as a servant of the Emperor."

"Very well," Raynor sighed. "I must be wary, for there are more than a few spies of House Sadras among my servants. I could not name the Great House to which I belonged, for we have been disgraced and cast down from the Council of the Great Houses. Yet still we remain, here a little and there a little, as a bulwark against the mischief of House Sadras."

"You're with the Shield of Hlaalu?" Crixus asked.

Raynor shushed him. "Please, keep your voice down! Those words could lead a mer to their deaths here in Cheydinhal."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "This is Cyrodiil! Where else can House Hlaalu be safe if not in Cyrodiil?"

"This may indeed be part of Cyrodiil here and now," Raynor sighed. "But Cheydinhal's future hangs in the balance. Countess Sarys has been making false claims of great atrocities done by the Imperials and Nords against the Dunmer living in Cheydinhal. Once every week, she makes public appearances in the eastern half of the city, where she proclaims that her people must rise up against their oppressors. I fear that she wishes for Cheydinhal to cede from the Empire and become part of Morrowind."

"I don't believe anyone would do that," Crixus dismissed, shaking his head.

"House Sadras is not to be trusted," Raynor insisted. "The recent overthrow of the marshlands of the east in the North have been done by the hand of Athal Sarys, the brother of Countess Sarys and a more radical mer than she! They are both of them in service of House Sadras and have sought to expand the power of Morrowind. They have been allowed to do so for many years, thanks to the complacency of the Elder Council."

"What?"

"Many in the Empire wish to see friendly relations restored with Morrowind," Raynor said. "I daresay, even those of my order yearn to see the Empire and Morrowind reconciled. The Elder Council believe that the Great Houses may be placated and appeased, in order to foster good humor between our two nations. Thus it was, I believe, that they, at last, relented and gave leave for reinforcements to go north and end the rebellion: the rumor of Nords mistreating the Dunmer of Skyrim may have moved the hearts of the Elder Council, for they have a strong inclination towards the Dunmer."

"Hmm," Crixus mused, stroking his chin. It seemed very improbable, that the Dunmer would be wanting to take control of an Imperial county. As far as he knew from his encounters with them in Mournhold, they only wanted to be left alone. Also, what Raynor Indarys said went against his own 'strong inclinations' towards the Dunmer, such as he claimed the Elder Council possessed.

While he was thus musing, Atia spoke up. "We've seen smoke in the mountains, rising up from this valley region. Do you happen to know the source of this?"

"Oh, yes, milady, of course!" Raynor replied. "It's because of the new mandates of the countess. She has ordered all landowners outside of the city limits to...alter their farming habits."

"What do you mean?" asked Atia.

"We cut down and uproot every green thing on our land," Raynor stated. "Burn them and sow our fields with the ash."

"But that's horrible!" Atia exclaimed.

"No, it isn't," Crixus replied. "They do these things in Mournhold as well."

"Indeed," Raynor nodded. "And, being what I am, we have profited from the newly barren land. The flora and fauna we have imported grow much better once the squatters have been removed and the land purified."

"Is that so?" asked Crixus. "I must ask you, though, one more thing, serrah."

"What is that?" Raynor replied.

"Well, doubtless, your hospitality and courtesy are not lost on me," Crixus replied. "Having spent some time in Mournhold, I know the courtesy of the Dunmer people. But I would ask you why you are sharing these things with me. I'm a complete stranger."

"Nay," said Raynor. "But, seeing that you are human, it is unlikely that you are with House Sadras. Only Dunmer are allowed among their midst, and they only use humans insomuch as they wish, then they are disposed of. You saw how I dismissed the servants just now. There have been quite a few among them who are spies for Countess Sarys."

"I cannot believe that," Crixus replied. "Dunmer are better than that."

"Well, most of us are," Raynor stated. "But then again, some of us are not. And we must be on guard against those who are not, as you may see when we come to Cheydinhal."

"We?" asked Crixus. "You're going with us?"

"I have business in Cheydinhal," Raynor said. "One of my...associates required my presence. I can follow you there and protect you from what you might find there. But..." He gazed down at the food presented. "I'm so sorry! We have talked on so, this soup must be getting cold."

"You're a good mer," Crixus stated. "And you certainly have much to say. I don't count that time wasted."

"You flatter me, Crixus," Raynor returned. "Come now. Let us eat."


(AN: I think that i might end up mashing together a few chapters, since that might make getting the story finished soon. Yes, the end of the story is in sight. I will definitely go on to do Children of the Dragon [which, unfortunately, won't be my story about the children of Dracula], but whether i will do so immediately after this, i don't know. i commit quite a good bit of time to this story, and it will mean another large contribution of time since it won't be a one-shot or a short story in the slightest. But i have other stories planned, one set in the Command and Conquer universe, maybe one in the Warcraft universe, and definitely one or two about the Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings, as well as some crazy ideas.)