A/N: Six reviews for my last chapter is the lowest for a while yet. I'm sure some of you have good excuses, but not all of you. I'm writing this, and you're reading, so it's up to you to make some form of input as well. I'm not about to review myself, am I? Review. It doesn't take long, but it makes the author of the fic you've just read very happy.
Underpaid Critic: Damn right I'm proud. I'll be prouder still when this is finished. And that is actually a good quote... also, you really are underpaid, given that you've gone off and reviewed that old oneshot of mine. Everything you say there is right, and bear in mind that it was written some time ago, when I was suffering a distinct lack in ability. Still, if I rewrite it again, your advice will be valued. As always. It's times like this I wish I could write you proper review replies...
Random Reader: It's good to hear that. Ironic that you've become attached to my characters, because this is a character development chapter... maybe you'll get even MORE attached? Also, it's funny that you should mention Callia... look out for her in this chapter.
Maverick77: I hate Sancre Tor as well. Fortunately, writing it wasn't as bad as playing it.
Before I end my spiel and let you get on with reading this chapter, I'd first like to attempt to convey my immense gratitude to Arty Thrip for lending her time to beta read this one chapter, as well as providing inspiration for some of it. Words are inadequate to show my gratitude, so I'll just say thanks for helping make this chapter the best it can be. Anyhow, on with said chapter...
Chapter Thirty-two: The Nature of Vengeance
It took three days for the group to return to Cloud Ruler Temple. On the way back they left a chain of streams and ponds with bloodied water after most of them made some effort to wash their crimson-stained clothing and armour as they made camp every night. It was midafternoon before they finally reached the foot of the Temple gates, the hooves of the horses crunching through snow that hadn't felt enough boots to become hard-packed. They started to dismount as the massive doors started to swing open, clanking and grinding as the machinery hauled back on the sheer weight of oak and steel. Gorgoth waited for the gap to become sizeable before leading Vorguz up the multitude of steps in the direction of the stables. Tiber Septim's cuirass was secure in one of his saddlebags.
"Where is Martin?" Gorgoth asked the nearest Blade, throwing Vorguz's reins over his shoulder. Ilend darted in to catch them.
"In his chambers," responded the Redguard warming his hands at a brazier. "The Grandmaster just left his quarters, I think, but the Emperor is still there." The warrior-shaman nodded and removed the saddlebag containing the breastplate before letting Ilend lead Vorguz away.
Returning the salutes and nods of the passing Blades with nods of his own, Gorgoth made his way over to the royal quarters. A Blade – this time it was Arcturus Gabinus – was standing guard outside Martin's quarters as usual. Gorgoth greeted him before sharply rapping on the door. Martin's voice bade him enter, and the Orc swung the door open, ducking under the frame and closing it behind him.
The heir to the throne of Tamriel was standing at the window with his arms folded, staring out over the rocky snow-laden foothills of the Jeralls. Martin had changed since Gorgoth had first met him. He was still wearing the simple, tattered dark blue robe that he'd worn in Kvatch, but everything about the Imperial was now... harder. Not just his body, but also his eyes. The old priest had gone, replaced with something stronger, because a priest could not have become the Emperor of Tamriel.
His general demeanour, however, had not changed much. "It is good to see you again, Gorgoth," he greeted. He was being genuine; the Orc could tell that Martin despised lying as much as he did. "Do you have the armour?" He'd clearly learnt to dispense with small-talk and quickly get to the heart of the important matters.
Gorgoth responded by putting his saddlebag down on the heavy oak table and pulling it open before taking out the bloodstained cuirass and placing it between two piles of heavy tomes. Martin eagerly moved over to the other side of the table, looking down at the cuirass with reverence in his eyes. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the armour, running his fingers over the hard steel, through the blood of a Divine. The former priest looked up at Gorgoth and smiled. "Jauffre will be beside himself when he sees this," he observed, relief and triumph both evident in his cultured voice.
"Probably even happier when you confirm that it won't have to be destroyed in the ritual," responded Gorgoth, casually tossing the saddlebag to the floor and folding his arms.
"No, definitely," agreed the Emperor-to-be, walking over to his chair and motioning for his Blade to do the same. "All we need is that divine blood. If I even thought about destroying it..." a smirk flickered over the heir's face. "Well, the Blades can be as touchy as priests when it comes to relics of Tiber Septim. Maybe even more so."
"It means a lot to them," concurred Gorgoth as he eased himself into an armchair. The padded wood gave only the slightest of protests; it was well-built. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Martin cocked an eyebrow. "How did you know that?" he asked curiously.
"You asked me to sit," explained the Orc, leaning back in the chair and resting his elbows on the arms. "If you were going to just congratulate me then dismiss me, we wouldn't have needed to."
The Imperial sitting across from him smirked slightly before nodding and adopting a neutral expression. "Do you realise that we know exactly who you are?" he asked. His leaning forward slightly betrayed his anticipation, making his otherwise calm demeanour useless.
Gorgoth nodded. "I have no doubts that Renault's network of spies in Orsinium have done their work admirably," he rumbled. "However, there are some things that they will never uncover." He leaned forward slightly. "What is your point?"
Martin sighed heavily and tapped his forehead with a finger. "You know that Jauffre doesn't trust you, of course," he said, his voice somewhat strained. Gorgoth nodded again. "I want to trust you. I need to, but... how can I be sure that you will not betray that trust?"
The warrior-shaman rose slowly and walked over to the window, leaning on the wall as he looked out. "You do not need to trust me," he replied slowly. "You can find another to be your champion. There are many in this fortress who would die many times over for you. There are others in this realm strong enough for the task. You can use them."
Martin was shaking his head. "I can't," he claimed as his shoulders sank slightly. "My father saw something in you. I get the feeling that no-one else would suffice. This is your destiny."
Falling silent, Gorgoth looked out over the Jeralls for a few minutes before responding. The ex-priest waited, his knuckles growing white as he clenched his fists around the end of the arms of his chair. "My word is iron," grunted the Orc. "I will never break it. I swore an oath; the Blades Oath. I would rather die than break my word." Gorgoth turned back to Martin and looked down at the seated Imperial. The heir returned his gaze levelly. "Of course, I could just be saying that," he continued. "You cannot know for sure that I am telling the truth. You cannot know for sure that you can trust me. But that is what trust is." He leaned in closer, meeting Martin's eyes. "And if you do not trust me, you might as well kill me now." A conjured shortsword appeared on Gorgoth's hand, and he held it our hilt-first to the heir.
Martin stood abruptly, looking down at the shortsword before slowly taking it. He gently hefted the weapon in his hand, sighing nervously before forcing himself to be still. "If I killed you, we would all be doomed," he observed. Standing this close to Gorgoth, who overtopped him by a foot, the Imperial had to look up to meet his cold eyes.
"We will be doomed anyway, if you do not trust your champion," replied the warrior-shaman. "At least this way, it would be over with quicker. We would not live a lie until our downfall." Meeting the heir's gaze, Gorgoth could see fear. Fear of losing his champion. Fear of utter defeat. If he lost Gorgoth, defeat would truly be inevitable.
Looking back down at the shortsword in his hand, Martin turned it over in his palm a few times before meeting those cold yellow eyes again. "I might not agree with what you've done in the past," he started, speaking slowly. "But the fact is, knowing you, I doubt we could find anyone better for Tamriel at the moment. You're on our side. We should value that." The Imperial sent dispelling magic through the sword in his hands, and it faded from existence. "Gorgoth, I do not trust you because I'm forced to. I trust you because I want to, no matter what Jauffre says." Conviction lent more strength to his voice than normal. Good for speeches.
"Good." Gorgoth turned and returned to his seat. "I do not trust easily, Martin, but in these times, it is a necessity to trust those at your back. Without that, victory might be impossible. So I have to know that I can trust those who I need to."
"Do you trust me?" asked Martin bluntly as he slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
"Yes." Gorgoth leaned back and studied the Imperial across from him intently. In front of him sat a man whom he might actually come to like. Relief and maybe a hint of satisfaction was evident on his face.
"Good." The future Emperor seemed to think for a few seconds. "Now we've cleared that up, there are quarters just down the hall ready for you. Jauffre protested, but he couldn't really do anything after Renault pointed out that you are, in fact, nobility." He chuckled.
Gorgoth resisted the temptation to smirk.
"So, how do you know Gorgoth?" asked Ilend as he flopped down in one of the chairs in a small communal area near the Great Hall and started removing his gauntlets. He was eager for a bit of downtime, and after stabling Javelin and Vorguz had made his way over to somewhere comfortable. He always had liked talking to soldiers from other cultures, and Lurog definitely fit the bill. The Orc had eased himself down in a chair next to him – the chairs in this smaller room seemed to be old and tattered but thick – and placed his helmet on a nearby table, shaking his war braids free. His gauntlets soon followed. Across the room, the only other inhabitants – Baurus and Caroline Genis – were having a muted conversation, ignoring the two newcomers.
"Where do I begin?" snorted Lurog in response to the Imperial's question, stretching his legs out in front of him and placing his hands behind his neck. "I've known Gorgoth for years, through thick and thin. There's not many he'd call a friend, so I'm honoured in that way." The Orc closed his eyes and sighed slightly as he rotated his neck, kneading the stiff muscles with his thick fingers. Fingers of sunlight streamed over the Orc's chainmail from the three windows on the far side of the room.
"Yeah, I can tell," smirked Ilend. He emulated the warrior, leaning his head back and pressing his fingers into the muscles. They were badly knotted. He'd have to ask Aerin for another massage at some point. His affliction had been considerably worse and more persistent since Kvatch; it wasn't hard to understand why. "So how'd you meet?"
"The army," said Lurog simply. "He was appointed commander of some heavy cavalry, and I was one of the officers under him." The corners of the Orc's mouth turned up in a small smile, something rarely seen on the face of his comrade. "That was nine years ago now. It's been a while."
"How much fighting have you seen?" inquired the swordsman, idly spinning his dagger around on the arm of his chair.
The veteran soldier chuckled mirthlessly. "More than most men see in a lifetime," he answered dryly. "I've hunted men through mountains, across frozen rivers, through barren wastelands. I've been in a five-thousand strong charge of heavy cavalry. I've fought on foot and left trails of dead behind me. I have raped and murdered my fair share. Yes, I think I've seen a lot of fighting."
"Glad you're on our side," sniggered Ilend. His hand slapped down on his dagger, stopping the motion, and he thrust it back through his sword belt.
"Just keep in mind that some of the Dremora on the other side have been fighting for millennia," replied Lurog. "I think they might just have experience on their side." He snorted. "More than you, for sure. You ever fought in a war before?"
"Not until this one," confirmed the Imperial. "For six years before that, it was just... guard duty. Biggest fight I ever had was with twenty other guardsmen clearing out a den of about thirty bandits." He leaned forward and sighed, a grim smile appearing on his face. "And now I've survived Oblivion twice and regularly find myself fighting for my life as the world falls to pieces." He groaned slightly. "Well, I don't care what Dagon throws at me, I'm getting my revenge."
"Revenge?" asked the Orc, looking sideways at his companion. "Is that what you're fighting for?"
"Damn right it is," growled Ilend. "Revenge for those we've lost. Every time I think of Kvatch, I..." The Imperial's fist clenched around the hilt of his dagger, and a snarl crept onto his face. "I think of the dead, the dying, the homeless. My friends in the Watch, piled up in heaps. Good men dying in agony as they tried to keep their guts in their body. The city I'd served for six years, burning." He grunted and pounded his fist on the wood of the chair arm. "They need someone to get vengeance for them. And I don't care what it takes, but Dagon is going to pay for what he did. Just like the Mythic Dawn paid."
"And how far will your vengeance take you?" queried Lurog. The Orc had leaned further back in his seat and was studying Ilend intently through half-closed eyes.
The swordsman sighed harshly, his breath escaping through his clenched teeth in a hiss. "To whatever end," he muttered. "I don't care how far I have to go, but I'll avenge my comrades no matter what."
"Vengeance is a powerful driving force," admitted the Orc, his meaty finger coming up to stroke his chin. "But let me tell you something." The warrior leaned forward, meeting Ilend's fierce blue-eyed stare. "I've known several good men, good Orcs, over the years. Some lost people close to them, or suffered some other loss. They became so focused on getting revenge that they became too narrow-minded, too focused on one single thing in their lives. They died, each and every single one of them. They failed."
"Well, I'm not going to fail!" barked Ilend, rising to his feet and glaring down at the Orc, ignoring the glance shot at him by Baurus, who was now alone. "I've failed enough already. It stops here." He stepped closer, leaning over Lurog. The Orc didn't blink. "I don't care if getting that retribution burns me up," growled the Imperial, thumping his chest. "I'll get it. If I fail, I don't have much else to live for, do I?"
As the Guildsman slowly stepped back and turned away, Lurog pursed his lips and nodded. "I see now that Gorgoth was right," he mused.
"About what?" demanded the Imperial, his hair swishing through the air as his head violently whipped around to face the Orc once more.
"He says you're a good soldier. Very good with a sword, and very proud. But he also says you've been on edge since Kvatch. Too highly sprung." Over on the other side of the room, Baurus was leaning against the wall with arms folded, attempting to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping, when he was in fact listening to every word. "You can't let it go, can you?" Lurog rose and stepped up to Ilend. Tall for an Imperial, the swordsman could look him directly in the eye.
"If you want me to forget about Kvatch..." started the ex-guardsman, his voice harsh.
"Do not forget," cut in the elf who was leaning closer to him. "But do not obsess over it. You are fixated with the battle, how it happened, what you could have done, your alleged failings." Ilend tried to interrupt, but Lurog rode right over him. "You thought you could have done more. You thought you could have saved more of your comrades, your neighbours. You thought you could have saved them when those gates trapped them on the bridge in Oblivion. You can't let go of those thoughts, those regrets."
"They should be alive right now!" shouted the Imperial, his face slowly turning red as his hand gripped his sword hilt so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn't even think to ask how the Orc standing in front of him knew all this. "I could have held that gate closed, I could have shouted for them to come back, I could..." he snarled and shook his head. The memories of Kvatch were pressing in on him. Dead eyes staring blankly at him, asking for help that had come too late. He should have been quicker. He should have saved more.
"Yes, you could probably have done better. But you most certainly could have done a lot worse." Lurog had received an extensive report from Gorgoth, and his old comrade agreed with him in that the actions of the entire Kvatch City Watch had been nothing less than heroic. "But that is no reason to burn up. You do not have to die to avenge them. Calm yourself."
"No, damn it, no!" yelled Ilend, grabbing Lurog's chainmail and pulling the Orc's face toward him. "I have to avenge them! Kvatch needs revenge! And who better to do it than me?"
"You can avenge them, but do not let it consume you!" snarled the veteran, shoving the Imperial away from him. "You're no good to them if you're dead!"
The swordsman's angry response was cut off by a strong hand on his shoulder. "I know exactly how you feel, Ilend," said Baurus gently. "You think other people haven't known failure and anger? The Emperor was murdered on my watch. How do you think I felt?"
Ilend's mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air. The Blade continued as Lurog looked on with arms folded. "I was angry, yes. I had failed, more than you ever had. I, too, was filled with a desire for revenge." The Redguard sighed and shook his head. "And if I had gone into that Oblivion Gate like that, my chances of getting out alive would have been far lower. Because if you let your desire for vengeance grow so great, it may fuel you, but it can also betray you. You will make rash decisions in anger. You might never give up, but sometimes you have to fall back and regroup to try again differently."
"I survived well enough," countered the Imperial, his anger diminishing somewhat in contrast to his growing desperation. "Through two Oblivion Gates, I survived, not to mention Sancre Tor!"
"In both Gates, you had help. In one, the casualty rate was unsustainable. And in Sancre Tor, you were not fighting minions of Dagon." Baurus sighed. "Ilend, you can't fight for revenge alone. There has to be something else."
"I can't forget Kvatch," snarled Ilend, adopting a hunted expression. "They need me to get payback, I need to atone-"
"You have to let go of the dead, Ilend," persisted Baurus gently. "Their revenge will come in time. But you have to focus on what's left. You can't help the dead, but people are still living that could need your help. What would they say if you threw away your life trying to avenge their dead comrades, who are now beyond help?" The Redguard hesitated, but he had to get this done. "What would Aerin say, I wonder, if you said you were happy to die just for vengeance? Your friends are dead, Ilend. Mourn for the dead, and move on. The living need to be fought for."
For the first time since Kvatch, Ilend allowed himself to think of his dead comrades as just that, instead of martyrs to be avenged. "Fuck!" he gasped, throwing himself forward and sobbing unrestrainedly into Baurus's shoulder. The Redguard exhaled slowly and rested his hands on the other man's shoulders. It had happened very similarly to when Captain Steffan had given him this same treatment soon after the Emperor's murder. Lurog exchanged a look with the Blade and nodded before walking over to the doorway and leaning on the doorframe.
After a few minutes, the Imperial shuddered and pulled back, stepping out of Baurus's reach and hastily rubbing at his face. Baurus merely folded his arms and waited patiently. "What... what do I fill that gap with?" asked Ilend uncertainly. "What do I fight for now?"
The Redguard's response was immediate. "The living," he replied. "Those left behind in Kvatch need security. They need to know this won't happen again. It's the same for many all over Tamriel. That's why you need to fight for them."
"But..." Ilend sighed shakily. "I could connect with my dead friends. I knew what they would have wanted. But the living... I know barely anyone. Who can I connect with?"
It was Lurog who spoke, his deep voice slowly rolling over from the doorway. "That Wood Elf friend of yours." He turned and looked over at them. "I'm pretty sure you don't want her to die. Keeping her alive is a good reason to fight." The Orc sighed. "Every soldier needs a cause," he muttered, almost too quietly for them to hear.
Ilend took a deep breath, then exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping. "I'll bet you're thinking the same thing I was thinking when I was in your position," remarked Baurus as a grin started spreading over his face. Ilend glanced at him. "Is this a dry fort?"
The corner of the Imperial's mouth turned upwards. "Well, is it?"
Shaking his head, the Blade started smiling. "Jauffre knows all too well that a dry fort is bad for morale, especially when we're stationed here for months on end," he said. "Come on, I know a place where we can forget all our worries. Steffan actually set it up himself for when it would be needed in times like these dark days." He set off in the direction of the door, motioning for Ilend to join him. Lurog stepped back to let them pass. The Orc had no desire to join them; he wanted to rise early tomorrow to travel to Leyawiin. He donned his own gauntlets and helmet before picking Ilend's up from the table and leaving the room.
Soon after arrival at Cloud Ruler Temple, Gnaeus had decided that his old bones deserved warming before the roaring fire, and had stolen the nearest armchair along with a recently-published book about military tactics. After a while, Saliith had joined him, the lizard requiring warmth in this cold environment more than most. Wisely, he'd kept his mouth shut, content to relax as his muscles slowly limbered in the heat. Surprisingly, they had the fire completely to themselves; the Blades all seemed to be otherwise occupied or sat far from the hearth. After closing his eyes and breathing slowly for a few minutes, the Argonian leaned forward and started sharpening his shortswords. The old hermit was used to the sound. He'd heard it often enough in the past; it was no distraction.
A larger distraction soon arrived in the shape of Selene, who flopped down into the chair next to him and dug at her forehead with her fingers. She'd predictably exchanged her armour for a more comfortable plain green dress that was starting to look a bit rumpled. The half-elf herself looked drained; the Mysterium Xarxes clearly wasn't easy to work with. "How's translation going?" asked Gnaeus, slightly curious.
"Slowly," sighed Selene, leaning back in her chair and staring blankly up at the high ceiling. "Martin knows more than me; all I had to go on was those books I'd read back on Whiterock. And that thing is..." she repressed a shudder. They both knew how dangerous the Mysterium Xarxes was.
The Imperial closed his book and fingered his goatee. "I don't envy you," he grunted. "It can't be easy." A hint of sympathy had crept into his gruff tone. The battlemage looked at him sideways, somewhat suspiciously. He noticed. "What?" he barked. "I'm allowed to feel a bit of sympathy sometimes; I'm not always a grouchy old hermit, damn it!"
"No, just most of the time," sniggered Saliith, holding his blade up to face-height to examine the edge. Gnaeus shot him a glare, while Selene nodded in agreement, her mouth twisting into a slight grin. There was a flurry of activity as the shifts rotated; Blades previously relaxing in the hall left to go on duty, while those on duty went off to stand down. The Great Hall grew even less populated, and was mostly empty when Captain Steffan wandered in, idly beating his hands together to ward off the chill of the fast-approaching winter.
"Looks like it's going to snow tonight," he announced cheerily to no-one in particular as he walked up to stand in front of the fire to warm himself. Saliith grunted in irritation; lizards and snow did not mix. "A bit of snow brightens up the old fort," continued Steffan, folding his arms and looking around. His eyes fell on the katanas resting on hooks just beside the fireplace, and his face grew more grim as he stepped over, looking at the names inscribed on plaques next to the weapons. He ran his eyes over the newest additions before sighing.
"There'll be more here before this war is over," he muttered, tracing the names of some of the dead Blades with his finger. "Achel... those dogs didn't even give him a proper, honourable death in battle. He didn't even have time to draw his katana." The Imperial pursed his lips to spit, then thought better of it. "Fortis, Achille, Haesmar... heroes, but will they be remembered?" He shook his head. "Probably not by anyone but us. The Blades don't ever get any recognition. It's our nature."
"But they will be remembered, if only by you," interjected Saliith. "That's what matters."
Steffan pursed his lips and nodded before running his finger over another name. "Merildan," he muttered, the sound of her father's name snapping Selene's head up. "I knew your father," continued the Knight Captain, turning his head slightly to observe the half-elf from the corner of his eye. "When I joined thirty-odd years ago, he was a Knight Captain, one of the few elves to reach that rank in this section of the Blades in recent years. Might have been Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard if Jauffre hadn't become Grandmaster." Steffan sighed. "He was a good man, as good as any who have walked Tamriel in this Era. He just saw too much. Uriel rewarded his loyal service and granted his wish when he asked to be released from his oath."
The half-elf shifted in her seat. "What... happened?" she asked hesitantly. "He never talked about it."
Steffan turned and eased himself down into a chair, removing his helmet and laying it on the arm as he brushed his other hand through his short grey hair. "The Imperial Simulacrum had only ended six years ago," he started. "There was still a lot of hardship going around. The Blades were overworked. Your father went all over the place: Iliac Bay, Morrowind, Black Marsh, Valenwood..." the Knight Captain shook his head. "He always was sensitive, and high casualties and the nature of the work took its toll on him. Even the best of us can only take so much." Their eyes were drawn across the Great Hall as Gorgoth stomped across the centre on his way to the canteen. "Well, most of us, anyway," muttered the Blade as his eyes returned to the fire.
"I know exactly what you mean," said Gnaeus, speaking slowly as he seemed to gaze off into the distance, through the flames of the crackling fire. "I had a reputation, I had lordlings begging for my services, but I left and spent thirty-five years on a windy rock with only recluses and a couple of zombies for company." The Imperial sighed. "Money wasn't enough. Fame wasn't enough. When you've seen enough of what I've seen, you know it's time to call it a day." He leaned back in his seat and broke out of his reverie, looking around him. "What?" he barked in response to their apparent interest.
Steffan smirked mirthlessly for a few seconds before his gaze returned to Merildan's katana. "If I can ask... how exactly did he die?" he asked.
Selene hadn't been present when her father had lost his life, so it was up to the only other survivor from Whiterock to answer. "He died well," he stated simply. "He died with blood on his katana, corpses at his feet, and only the enemy in front of him. You can't die much better than that." The old Imperial grunted. "His Breton wife had died a few minutes before. I didn't see her die, but I found her body afterwards. Or at least the parts of it that I could recognise." He shook his head. "Merildan's son died the best death, though."
Steffan quirked an eyebrow. The battlemage opened her mouth, but no words poured forth, so once again it was left to Gnaeus to elaborate. "He took on a Xivilai and two high-ranking Dremora alone to buy her time to grab the Sigil Stone," he explained.
"If I had just moved a bit quicker..." mumbled Selene, her fists tightening on the arms of her chair. Saliith snorted, drawing all eyes to him.
"Hard, isn't it, losing someone you love that much?" he asked, a bitter smile baring his teeth. "You're lucky, you know."
Selene's eyes flashed with anger. "How am I lucky?" she growled.
"You didn't kill him yourself," retorted the Grand Champion. "You didn't stick your swords into his stomach and look into his eyes as he died because of what you did." The Argonian sighed and looked away into the fire, his voice growing softer. "He died for you, not because of you."
"Of course," replied the half-elf, narrowing her eyes. "What kind of person would kill their own brother like that?"
Saliith folded his arms. "Me," he claimed. "I killed someone I loved like a sister. What does that make me?" Getting no response – her shocked, suspicious expression spoke volumes – he continued. "Her name was Branwen. I'd known her for years... but we were on opposite teams in the Arena. Out on the sands, your friends become enemies. Others made the decision-" his mouth twisted in distaste "- but it was my blades that did the killing. I killed her." The Argonian looked up, his dark green eyes meeting Selene's lighter green gaze."Your brother died well," he muttered. "Be thankful for that."
She seemed unable to respond, her gaze uncertainly settling on the fire, so the Green Tornado slowly rose. "I need some air," he claimed, making his way out of the Great Hall and heading towards the battlements. Steffan, too, got up and mentioned something about doing the rounds on the new shift before leaving the hall. The last two survivors of Whiterock were effectively left alone with their thoughts.
After a few minutes of silence, Gnaeus exhaled heavily and looked across at the half-elf sitting next to him. Selene was sitting with her chin firmly sitting in the palm of her hand. The flickering firelight was reflected in her shining eyes. He placed his hand over her free hand, his wrinkled, gnarled flesh contrasting with her soft gold-tinted skin. She had few callouses from her work with the glaive, whereas he seemed to have accumulated two lifetime's worth. "Selene..." he began, his voice unusually soft. "If you ever need anything, just remember that I'll be here. I can help you."
She turned to look him in the eyes, her brow furrowed in slight confusion. "Gnaeus, I've known you – or at least known of you – for my entire life, but you've never been..." she paused, searching for words.
"Understanding? Supportive?" The old Imperial smirked. "I wasn't always a grouchy old hermit, you know. And I've been through what you've been through, so... if you need to talk, I'll be around. There is a bit of a caring side left in this old carcass yet."
The half-elf attempted a watery smile. "Thank you," she said, her voice quavering slightly. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one left." She sighed and laid her head against his arm. For the first time since leaving Whiterock, she began to feel truly safe.
After attempting to seek out Ilend, only to find him downing strong spirits in a secluded part of the fortress in the company of Baurus and Glenroy, Aerin had instead found herself in conversation with three of the female Blades in Cloud Ruler Temple. The secluded communal room was a small one, but it did offer privacy and very comfortable chairs. Dull red sky visible through the windows had made the Wood Elf panic for a second, before realising it was merely dusk and not an Oblivion Gate. She had loosened a few straps on her armour and removed her boots as she sank further down into the pliable armchair, grunting as she put pressure on tired muscles. It would be good to relax on a bedroll tonight.
"So, is Oblivion really as harsh as Callia says it is?" asked Jena Carius as the Imperial lowered herself into a seat opposite Aerin, removing her gauntlets and helmet but leaving the rest of her plate armour untouched. Callia herself looked up from adjusting her sword belt and muttered something under her breath before dropping into another seat and easing the hilt of her katana out of her ribs. "I do believe you, Callia, but sometimes it's good to get a second perspective, you know?"
"Well, it's good to pool experience, given what we're facing," chipped in Caroline Genis, who had already put her booted feet up on a nearby small table and was idly twisting her sheathed dagger between her bare fingertips. A distinctly non-regulation flask appeared to be poking out of the Breton's boot, but none of the other two were paying any attention to it.
"It's not exactly a nice place ta spend a holiday," remarked Aerin, forcing her eyes away from the flask. She could probably have used a bit of a strong drink herself. "A lot of it all looks the same, ta be honest. Dry rock, ridges, bloody big towers, a load of fire... just hope you go through one with someone who knows the way is all I'm saying. And take water. A lot of water."
"I hear you, Aerin," replied Callia, loosening her gauntlets. "I ran out of water in that place. Afterwards, the snow actually looked attractive." The Knight Sister shuddered slightly. Her attention was drawn by a slight clanking; Caroline had removed her pauldrons and was loosening her breastplate. "You know that's against regulations, Lina," Callia told her fellow Blade, though with weary resignation instead of assertiveness in her voice.
"Well, Grandfather shouldn't stick me with a double shift, should he?" snorted Caroline, removing her cuirass entirely and dumping it on the floor before plucking at her sweat-stained vest to unstick it from her body. The Breton stood and started removing her greaves. "What kind of daedra did you meet?" she asked Aerin, distractedly brushing strands of her blonde hair out of her face.
The Bosmer started listing them off, adopting a distant gaze as she remembered. "Scamps, clannfear, daedroths, Atronachs of all varieties, spider daedra, seducers, even the odd hunger," she listed. "And, of course, shit-loads of Dremora. Where do they all come from?"
"From the pits of Oblivion," grunted Jena, running a hand through her dark brown hair. "Their numbers are endless; if they die, they just rise again in some deep, dark place. Can't be pleasant, but it means they have the numbers, and they'll never lose that advantage. Experience, as well."
"The Emperor will see us through," claimed Caroline confidently. "We've got him translating the Mysterium Xarxes, and we've got Gorgoth to deliver the assault where it's needed. We'll win."
Callia snorted. "With that greenskin bastard leading our assault, I wouldn't be so sure," she muttered darkly, examining the edge of her unsheathed dagger to see if the blade was sharp.
"Like him or not, Callia, he's effective," claimed Jena. "I can't think of many people better equipped to kick Dagon in the teeth, at least. You've got to admit we're lucky to have someone as powerful as him."
The short Breton sent her taller Imperial Knight Sister a scathing glare. "Then we should use him as just that," she retorted. "A blunt instrument, a battering ram. We shouldn't welcome him here as... as... one of us."
"Hey, you weren't there when Gorgoth effectively saved all of Tamriel, were ya?" asked Aerin angrily, instinctively leaping to the absent Orc's defence. "He saved Martin at Kvatch. He brought him here safely. He brought down the Mythic Dawn. He got the armour out of Sancre Tor. He's got a perfect right to be a Blade, and to be here." Sensing Callia's growing anger, the Wood Elf arched an eyebrow. "What do you have against him?" she asked.
The Breton opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly seemed to realise something and sank back in her chair, her unblinking gaze fixed on the Bosmer across from her. As Caroline was fiddling with a particularly stubborn strap, it was left to Jena to fill the ensuing silence. "All right, ignore Gorgoth for now," she sighed, rubbing at her hazel eyes. "What about you, Aerin? How'd you end up being a part of all this?"
Sighing, the archer wriggled around in her chair, resting her arms behind her head in a movement that would have made Ilend's eyes pop had he been present. "It was Gorgoth who roped me in, mainly," she started. "I was bored with life at the Arena, so when he showed up, I managed to hitch a ride along. Haven't looked back since."
Caroline had now completely shed her armour and was lounging around in her chair, her back resting on one arm and her legs dangling over the other. She shot Aerin a curious glance. "You're an Arena combatant?" she queried, looking the Wood Elf up and down with an analytical gaze.
"Sure am," responded Aerin, grinning slightly. "Warrior rank, ta be precise. I've been there for three and a half years, though I guess I've only ever really been a part timer. It paid the bills."
"Paid the bills?" Callia was getting over her earlier animosity. "Didn't you have parents for that?" She winced as the words left her mouth.
"Nah." Aerin shook her head. "Well, my father was - still is – a trader, but that wasn't for me. I got a job as a dancer in a tavern in the Waterfront while he was doing business. After five weeks, my father found out, demanded I come back with him..." The Wood Elf sighed and shook her head. "He effectively disowned me. I was on my own with barely any money, barely able to afford the rent on me filthy shack on the Waterfront. I got kicked out of the job a week after that. Went to join the Arena; I was desperate, and had a few tips in how ta defend myself. And I knew I was a good shot because I'd been practising for years." A small smile curled her lips. "It was a shock at first, but my father had long left, so I had ta stick with it or starve. Then I found out I was actually pretty good at fighting. I survived, at least." She looked around, abruptly realising that three older, more experienced women were playing close attention to her every word. Suddenly embarrassed, Aerin laughed nervously. "So that's it, basically," she concluded.
"Yeah, we all know how good you are with that bow of yours," remarked Caroline, nodding towards Trueshot, which was propped up against the back of Aerin's chair along with her sword belt. "I didn't think you were green. If you were, I doubt you'd have survived two Oblivion Gates."
"Well, it was still a bloody big shock, ya know?" grunted Aerin. "Besides, I had good leaders both times. Gorgoth just blitzed through and Ilend does have experience. Lots of it."
"Yeah, experience at herding concerned townspeople and fighting bandits," snorted Callia derisively. She held her hands up at the Wood Elf's glare. "Hey, of course he's more experienced now, but that's all he came to this war with. As they say in the Arena, the best techniques are passed down by the survivors. People like us are valuable."
"If you say so," muttered Aerin, rolling her eyes skywards briefly. "Either way, I know for a fact I'm seeing this thing through to the end. It started off as a cure for boredom, but now..." She shook her head.
"Now you're like a Blade," claimed Caroline. "Now you know our dedication. Now you know you'll follow Martin to the bitter end." She smirked. "Besides, that's what Ilend's going to be doing, and I doubt you'd leave him alone even if you wanted out."
Jena laughed. "So says Caroline; who in the fortress doesn't know about you wanting to trip Baurus into your bed, apart form the poor sod himself?" she asked, a delighted, triumphant grin splitting the Imperial's face. Caroline blushed and muttered something under her breath. Aerin laughed, and even Callia smirked. "Well, the entire fortress wishes you the best of luck, but good luck prising him away from fanatically protecting Martin," continued Jena, ruthlessly twisting the knife.
Caroline smiled sheepishly and waved a dismissive hand. "All right, Jena, you've got a lot of choice," she grinned. "Who would you pick in this fort?"
"Hey, I've only been here for a year. I'm still weighing up the options," responded Jena, laughing again. "Give me a chance."
Smirking, Caroline rose to her feet, emulated immediately by her Imperial comrade. The movement highlighted their respective heights; the Breton was taller than Jena, who was short for an Imperial. "I'm going to go get some sleep," announced Caroline. "Alone," she grated in response to Aerin's sniggering. "You've got to be well-rested if you're fighting Dagon every day. Or at least waiting to fight him." Shaking her head, she gave a half-salute to each of the three before putting her boots back on and leaving the room.
"Shouldn't she be taking her armour?" inquired Aerin, looking sideways at the plate armour strewn across the floor.
"There's only one person in this fortress who leaves her armour lying around like that," responded Callia, stretching out in her chair. "It'll get back to her soon enough. Probably along with a lecture from Steffan, maybe even Jauffre. I doubt she'll listen."
"And here I was thinking discipline here would be tighter than the outfit I used ta wear when dancing," muttered Aerin.
"It's not the Legion, Aerin," pointed out Jena, sinking back down into her seat. "We're more close-knit here. We know exactly what we have to do. Foibles can be overlooked more often as long as you perform when the time comes. And every single one of us knows that when that time comes, we'll rise to the task. We're Blades." Pride was prevalent in her voice. "If Dagon wants to take Martin, he'll have to kill every single one of us first."
Aerin smiled. "Good."
Gorgoth's new quarters – three doors down from Martin's – were fitting for his proper station: luxurious without being extravagant. Thick carpets adorned the floors of both the bedroom and the exterior chamber, and large windows gave him a good view of the sun setting to the west. The wood in the cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls was fine mahogany, and the chairs were firm but comfortable, easily capable of taking the weight of a heavily-armoured Orc. Gorgoth, however, had spared the chairs any torment by removing his armour, stripping down to his thick vest and trousers.
He was at that moment reclining in one of two armchairs nearest the windows and looking at the sun go down. The warrior-shaman was completely still, barely even blinking. His thought was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. "Come," he rumbled, not taking his eyes off the red-gold horizon.
Captain Renault entered, closing the door behind her. "You wanted to talk to me?" she asked, somewhat advancing to a point halfway between Gorgoth and the door. His back was mostly to her.
"Sit," he commanded, motioning for her to take the chair next to him. She did so, her blue eyes watching him suspiciously as she removed her helmet and swept her long brown hair back from her face. "I realise that it's not exactly common for a Knight Captain to come at a Knight Brother's command," he observed.
"I treat you as the Hero of Kvatch," responded Renault emotionlessly. "That might soon change if you poke fun at me."
"I do not know fun, Renault." Gorgoth slowly turned his head to meet her gaze. After several seconds, she blinked and dropped her gaze to his throat. That was longer than most people lasted, unless they froze in place. "I want to know two things. Firstly, it would be beneficial to me to learn your first name."
The Breton raised an eyebrow. "And how could that possibly help you?" she asked, leaning forwards.
"Knowledge is power," said Gorgoth simply. He said nothing more.
Renault sighed before removing her gauntlets and placing them on the nearby small table, beside her helmet. She leaned back in her chair. "Cassandra," she told him. "What else did you want to know?"
The Orc was silent for a few moments, looking out over the Jeralls as the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath them, ushering in the twilight. He glanced across at the Knight Captain. "You have a reliable network of informers in Orsinium, correct?" he asked. She nodded. "What is the situation there? How is the Oblivion Crisis affecting Orsinium?" In his voice there was a hint of something Renault had never thought she'd detect in Gorgoth gro-Kharz: worry.
"The war is going well," she reassured him. "The Orcs are displaying excellent organisation. Warbands are already scouring the area, closing any Gate they find. Casualties vary, but they are on top of the situation." The Breton closed her eyes and sighed. "Out on the plains near Sharoth, however... Several Great Gates opened. There was a climatic battle. An alliance of Breton states lost several thousand men and only closed some of the gates. Then..." She shook her head. "King Gortwog sent an army to close the remainder, claiming that all mortals were in this together. Ironic that it took something like this to improve relations between the Orcs and the Bretons."
Gorgoth's emotionless expression did not change. "Fighting in that region will continue after this Crisis," he predicted. "It is our nature, and theirs. There is far too much politics for there not be a war at some point." His eyes went back to looking out of the window. "It is good that Orsinium is safe. Good that they have the problem under control..." his voice trailed off, and he started to resemble a statue once again.
The Knight Captain shifted in her chair. "Is that all you wanted to know?" she inquired.
Gorgoth nodded. She rose and replaced her helmet and donned her gauntlets, turning to leave, but he raised a hand first. "You know of most of my past?" She turned to look at him, a curious blend of interest and apprehension playing over her features. The warrior-shaman's head swivelled to fix her with his amber gaze.
"Yes," confirmed Renault slowly.
"How many have you told?"
"Just Jauffre, Steffan and Martin." She folded her arms. "Where are you going with this?"
"It will go no further," rumbled Gorgoth, standing and towering over her. "There are too many people in the world already who know about my past. It is something I will only tell to those whom I trust. Do not spread it." His amber eyes, blazing with a cold light, bored into her skull. Renault found herself nodding, her mouth suddenly dry as she realised that the warrior-shaman might very well kill her if she refused. He nodded, satisfied, and returned to his seat. Renault remained planted to the spot for a few seconds before hurriedly leaving. Gorgoth remained still, looking out over the Jeralls, deep in thought.
Night fell over Cloud Ruler Temple. Many of the Blades made for the barracks, while those on night shift gathered their cloaks tighter around them and edged slightly closer to the braziers. In the Royal Wing, Martin watched the door close behind Selene as she left and started to prepare for rest after a hard day's translation. Further down the hall, Gorgoth removed all his clothing and eased himself down into his bed, listening for any creaking. There was none; it was a large double bed, made of sturdy wood that could take his weight easily. The Orc found a position in which he was comfortable and started breathing slowly, deeply. Sleep rose up to take him into its warm, dark depths.
As Gorgoth fell asleep, a certain Breton in the West Barracks was having trouble doing exactly the same thing. Callia simply couldn't rest; even while wearing nothing more than her underwear, she was still too hot, and no method of lying seemed comfortable enough on the simple bedroll. The Blade next to her – it might have been Roliand – was sleeping deeply, and she didn't want to wake him with excessive moment. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the small, curved dagger she always kept under her pillow. Sitting up, the Knight Sister slowly drew it out from under the pillow, testing her thumb against the naked blade. Still sharp.
Callia snarled quietly before standing, clumsily pulling on her trousers as she slowly made for the exit. Outside, she shivered as the cold night air impacted on her mostly bare torso, but ignored it; she wouldn't be outside long. Implying to a curious Glenroy that she was visiting the nearby outhouse, the Breton instead made straight for the Royal Wing, the dagger held low in her clenched fist. Fortunately for her, the door to Gorgoth's room was just before a turn in the corridor; the guard at Martin's door wouldn't see her.
Gorgoth heard the click of his door opening and was instantly awake. Careful not to move anything, he cast a Detect Life spell, followed by a Night Eye spell. He was lying on his back, so he could see the lone figure moving through his antechamber beneath his closed eyelids. The Orc opened one eye by a minuscule fraction; just enough for him to identify the half-naked, dagger-wielding form of Callia Petit as she entered his bedroom. He cast a Silence spell that meant no sound would travel in or out of his rooms, closed his eye again, cast one other spell and waited.
A cold steel edge was pressed against his throat. "Hello, Callia," greeted Gorgoth without opening his eyes. "Here to claim your revenge?"
She stiffened slightly, but the dagger never wavered. "You do not deserve life, you bastard, let alone the status of a hero," she whispered through clenched teeth.
The warrior-shaman opened his eyes. "You are right to seek vengeance," he told her, his yellow gaze meeting her grey eyes. Her gaze did not falter. She was committed. "It is a worthy cause, to avenge the death of your mother," he continued. "In normal circumstances, I would offer no reason for you not to cut my throat. But these are not normal times."
Callia snarled. "If you think you can wriggle out because you closed a few Gates-" The Orc cut her off.
"Listen to me, Callia," growled Gorgoth. "I raped your mother, yes. I did not mean to kill her, but that does not mean I am not directly responsible for her death. However, you should not kill me, no matter how justified your reason is."
The dagger was pressed more firmly against his throat. If Gorgoth breathed slightly heavier, he would be cut. "Don't feed me more lies," hissed the angered Breton. "You know that Tamriel doesn't need you. There are other heroes."
"Are there?" retorted Gorgoth. "Heroes are plentiful in times of war, but Jauffre has seen what you have not: I am needed. I am the Hero of Kvatch. That is not just a title, it is the needs of many. So many are relying on me to stop Dagon. I am powerful. I have experience. I can close Oblivion Gates alone. I can get what Martin needs. I am essential. I am what we need in times like this, Callia: a true Hero, one whose destiny is truly unbound." The warrior-shaman paused, staring stonily up at his fellow Blade. "Kill me if you will, Breton, but if you do, you have lost the war. You will have doomed Tamriel. The onus of that will be on your shoulders. That should hold higher value to you than your revenge." He closed his mouth and stared up at her, unblinking, his expression unchanging.
Callia's lips trembled, her eyes wide with hate. "I won't be around to see that," she muttered after a few seconds. Her grip tightened, and she forced the blade across Gorgoth's throat.
The blade was sharp. It would have easily torn through any normal neck and opened the throat. However, the Orc's powerful resistance spell meant that it merely slid across his green skin, leaving no mark. Callia didn't even have time to gape, let alone turn the weapon on herself, before Gorgoth leapt up, one of his hands grasping both of hers along with the dagger and wrenching them above her head. The other hand forced her onto her back on the bed beside him before clamping down over her mouth. A well-positioned knee immobilised both of her legs.
"You disappoint me, Callia," he growled, ignoring her frantic struggling and groaning. "You would kill me, then yourself, and leave this place, only to inflict death and despair on those whom you love?" The Orc shook his head. Callia grew still, her eyes wide with terror as she realised that Gorgoth was both naked and lying mostly on top of her. "Now, I could punish you by doing what I did to your mother. I do not need magicka to help me dispose of a body effectively." The Breton trapped under him was completely still apart from her heaving chest.
The warrior-shaman shook his head. "But I won't. I won't harm you in any way." Callia's eyes flooded with relief, and the Orc felt her breath tickle his hand from a long, slow sigh. "We need every soldier we have, and you are a Blade. You will uphold your oath to the Emperor," ordered Gorgoth. "As I said, your revenge is justified. And after Dagon is defeated, should you try and hunt me down, that is your right. But do not expect me to be easy prey." The Knight Sister frowned. Gorgoth grunted once and got up, releasing her.
The Breton immediately sprang up off the bed, crouching in a predatory position, glaring at Gorgoth. He'd kept the dagger and was idly spinning it on the palm of his hand. "Go back to your bedroll, Callia," he told her, holding out the dagger hilt-first. "You will need your sleep in the coming days. Keep your revenge in check, but do not let it die."
She snatched her dagger back from him and cautiously backed towards the door. "I will kill you one day, after this is over," she promised, giving him one last glare before turning and fleeing the room. The door banged shut behind her. Gorgoth stared at it for a few moments before returning to bed. He needed the rest; he was planning to rise early in the morning to head down to Bravil in pursuit of the fugitives that Burz had ordered him to deal with. By the time Callia had slipped back into her bedroll, shaking uncontrollably, he had gone back to a sound, deep sleep.
A/N: And so ends my first real character development chapter. Feedback is always valued, but even more valued now given that this was a VERY important chapter, to me at least. So tell me what you think. Review. If you don't, you can't complain later about how you wanted me to do something else... I always listen to reviews, but I can't if you don't leave one, can I?