Chapter 1

Shattered Pieces

XxXxXx

4E 201, Sun's Dawn, Skyrim

Nevano watched the human he had accompanied through the fiasco of Helgen trot off down the road towards Whiterun. It never ceased to amaze him how many people were chosen for heroic deeds from prison, or in this case a beheading. It also never ceased to amaze him how cheerfully the former prisoners took their new assignment and hopped to it like they had been chosen from a crowd of eager schoolboys with their hands waving in the air to be chosen. He could understand it…he too went through the exact same thing. The relief of being free, the eagerness for a second chance to prove yourself, all contributed to the willingness to do the bidding of another. Only later, when they were in too deep to get away, did the realization set it; you were the world's tool. A pawn, cloaked in the pretty title of "champion" to soften the blow that you were cleaning the shit of the country off of men who either screwed it up too bad to know how to deal with it or simply didn't want to.

The Dunmer pulled his hood down low over his face. He was done being the "champion". He was done fighting and fighting and fighting only to have his personal life utterly torn apart and left to rot. He wished that young man the best of luck. Hopefully he wouldn't be destroyed husk in the end, or worse, dead.

He turned the opposite direction, back up the mountain. He had been caught crossing the border several days ago and subsequently arrested by over zealous Imperial soldiers. For years he had crossed borders without incident and he had no reason to believe that that time would cause anyone to take objection. By Azura how wrong he was. But that pretty much summed up his entire life; wrong place at the wrong time. It reminded him of what Modryn Oreyn always told him, "You attract more trouble than a cave full of trolls."

Immediately Nevano shoved that thought away. That brought up too many emotions he still wasn't ready to deal with yet. Instead he put all his concentration into trudging up the mountain, dropping his cloak open to allow the cold air wash over him and send a chill down his back. He was super itchy in the beaten up leather cuirass. It wasn't his. It was just something he had grabbed in the mad dash through the underbelly of the fort in Helgen. The iron sword awkwardly strapped to his slim waist with rope also wasn't his but yet another "borrowed" piece of equipment. The damn Imperials had totally stripped him of his armor and weapons when they arrested him at the border. While losing items to guards and jailors was nothing new to Nevano, his armor and weapons and pack were particularly near and dear to him, not to mention extremely valuable. He wanted them back. If that meant trudging up a damn mountain into a still smoking ruin to loot his own belongings back, then so be it.

XxXxXx

Helgen stank. There was no way around that. The city just stank. Though to be fair it had just been completely razed to the ground by a rather infuriated dragon. Ash, smoke, burned flesh, the tingly scent of magic and…a musky scent that he could feel as well as smell. It was a heavy almost repelling the other clearer smells…or everything else was running from it. Dragon…it had to be the scent of dragon. Nevano committed it to memory. His nose wasn't near as keen as a Khajiit, but years trekking through the wilderness had honed his senses to an almost animalistic sharpness.

He stood there for a moment taking it all in. It was really hard to believe that just a…what twenty four hours ago? That this was a city with innocent people just trying to go about their life. The beheading was, in fact, a diversion from the daily grind of survival, a brief respite from onerous life. Then they died. They didn't really stand a chance against that storm of fury. He had seen it before and it never got easier. People dying was one thing, people died every day, but slaughter like this was hard to see. Solemn moment at the gate over, Nevano began to pick his way through the ruins, avoiding stepping on anything as much as possible out of respect and to avoid alerting any possible looters to his presence. He didn't much feel like spilling fresh blood over the ashes. Helgen had suffered enough.

As he tried to retrace his footsteps, in as much as he could remember, he could feel his chest tightening painfully with anxiety. Heaviness hung over the ruined town, an energy so oppressive he wanted to curl up on the ground. He found himself rooted to the spot, a wave of sadness and anxiety blooming in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his limbs and rooting him to the spot. Helgen melted away. Snowy ashes faded to be replaced by burning oak trees. The ruined stone and timber buildings morphed into Chorrol's plaster, brick and wood beams. He saw the bodies of innocent civilians, burned by dragon fire and hacked by Aldmer weapons. A choked sob forced its way through his throat. He couldn't save them. Once again, he had been too helpless, too late, too weak to save them.

Nevano dropped to his knees as his legs gave out. Shaking hands ran over his head and grabbed at his messy dark red Mohawk. He rocked back and forth, trying as hard as he could to hold in the hysterical sobs that threatened to rip out of his throat load enough to attract the dragon back. No…no no NO! Nevano shoved himself back onto his feet, swallowing hard. He couldn't allow this anxiety to take over him. Chorrol had happened twenty-six years ago. Twenty-six years and it was still affecting him.

XxXxXx

Chorrol, Cyrodiil 4E 174

He had seen the smoke from the road. The Great War was still raging all throughout Cyrodiil but was mostly centered in the Imperial City. Still that didn't stop the Thalmor from spreading into the surrounding cities to prevent any sort of uprising of local militia.

He ran past North Country Stables, which was burning merrily. The horses were rearing and plunging in the pen, straining against the wood rails in a desperate effort to escape. There were nicks on the top rail from where the more athletic (and terrified) horses had made the desperate leap over and out into the woods beyond.

Thalmor.

Nevano had never held any amount of respect for the Thalmor. They claimed they saved the Altmer from the Oblivion Crisis. Unless he was mistaken, all oblivion gates closed when Martin defeated Mehrunes Dagon. Beating back the lesser deadra that came out of the gates and maybe closing a gate or two was not saving a race…it was riding on the coat tails of those who gave everything to beating back the Prince of Destruction. They had ridden that tide of meager fame, taking over the Summerset Isles and slowly spreading to Valenwood and Elsweyr. They hated Tiber Septim, which was understandable seeing as how the man had basically squished them when he assimilated Valenwood into the empire. Nevano had his own reasons for disliking the empire but that didn't mean he would plunge an entire continent into utter chaos because of his religious preference.

However his problem with them was that they were attacking his home. HIS home. He had grown up in Chorrol, been raised in Chorrol, had been trained and found his purpose in life in Chorrol. His family was there. And they were setting it on FIRE!

Rage began to bubble up from the pit of his stomach, spreading through his body like a raging inferno. His vision took on a red haze. This was HIS home, not those sons of bitches who had come crawling out of the woods! This was his home and he would do whatever possible to protect it.

He pulled out his two swords, the blades' enchantments glowing brighter to match the intensity of his rage.

There were three Thalmor soldiers left to guard the gate. Obviously they weren't expecting much resistance coming in from outside. After all, all the Imperial Legion was busy fighting in the Imperial City. The very last thing they expected was a lone Dunmer walking up, weapons bared. They stared at him, not threatened enough to approach him but definitely confused at this display.

They weren't so confused when Nevano thrust both swords in the gut of the middle Aldmer, arcing the twin swords up into his chest cavity, puncturing his stomach, both lungs and dissecting his heart. The Thalmor soldier never got the chance to even think about fighting back before he died. Nevano yanked both swords free as the body twitched in death throes, a gush of blood drenching his weapons and arms.

Nevano heard the hiss of a sword being drawn and wasted no time, whipping his right sword towards the throat of the Thalmor on his right. This time the soldier was a bit more prepared and managed to get his sword up in a block, the resulting hit showering him the castoff blood of his comrade. Shaken up by the brutality of this mer and unnerved by the blood shower, he forgot about the other sword. The left sword cut low, slicing through his leather armor and spilling his guts out. Instinctively he dropped his sword and grabbed at his stomach to hold his intestines in. Nevano took advantage of the exposed position and put the Aldmer out of his misery by relieving him of his head with a quick swipe of an incredibly sharp blade.

He spun around just in time to block a two handed thrust from the last remaining gate guard. This one was a heavily armed, rather large Aldmer and had a massive bastard sword that he swung rather quickly for a two handed weapon. Normally Nevano would dodge and duck until his opponent had tired out, leaving the perfect opportunity to land a deathblow but he was too angry to even think about fighting smart. He wanted blood, Thalmor blood, to coat the street, to cover the blood of his family and friends that they had spilled. He wanted to land a cut for every bit of damage they had wrought on Chorrol. His rage was a wild animal. It had gotten the taste of Thalmor blood and it howled for more.

Sparks flew as he swatted the bastard sword aside with his left sword and drove the point of his right sword home in the exposed opening at the neck. His sword bounced off the colar bone and shredded the wind pipe as it sought the path of least resistance to the chest cavity. Gold skinned hands desperately clawed at the wickedly barbed edge of the blade, trying to pull it out but couldn't even get a grip on the blood slicked sword. Blood spurted as he freed his sword, spraying him in the face as arterial blood pulsed out with the last few heartbeats. The rage beast in his chest roared its approval. It wanted more.

No…no no. He had to rein in the monster. There were entire squads of Thalmor in the city. He couldn't just charge in like an enraged troll. There had to be others in the city who could still fight.

He sheathed his twin blades and unslung his bow from his back ignoring the pang of irritation. The pulsing rage in him wanted to see blood spurting, wanted to feel the heat of their last breaths. But he had to wait. There would be plenty of time for that later. Find his guild mates. He had to find them first. Then the slaughter of the defilers could begin.

Nevano had grown up in this city. He spent his childhood running through the streets and his training days trying to see if he could cross the city without being seen. It had been a game back then. Now it was matter of life and death to make it from the gate, north through the city and to the Fighters Guild. Running through the gate and into the city streets would get him killed for sure. But there were other ways into the city.

He ran back to North Country Stables and ran behind the ruins of the farmhouse. Right by the wall there was a large rock settled next to a rather large oak tree. All the lower limbs had been hacked off but the rock provided a great stepping-stone to the next branch. He had done this so many times that not even with slick blood coating his hands could make him slip. Quickly he scaled the rest of the way and jumped onto the top of the wall. On the other side, another oak tree just peeked over the top of the wall. He had tried only once before to jump into that tree but he had missed and had broken his arm and a shoulder. But he had no time to try to pick the lock in the guard tower, or even see if he even had a lock pick on him. He sucked in a deep breath and leaped. By the blessing of Azura he managed to catch the trunk square. He hung there a moment, trying to get his heart rate down before dropping from the branches like a squirrel. He had no time to waste.

He ran along the wall, keeping low and ducking behind the rocks that dotted the grassy areas of the city. He could see Thalmor soldiers in the streets in glimpses between trees and buildings. So far they seemed focused on the task of herding the surviving citizens towards the center of town. He could hear screams and crying over the crackle of flames. He pushed harder, skirting behind the shacks in the lower southwestern part of the city, tripping over Valus Odiil's basement door. That trip ended up saving him. A Thalmor soldier he hadn't seen the moment before suddenly turned as soon as his body hit the ground. His black armor blended in with the burned timbers and the Thalmor fortunately didn't see him.

Nevano waited until the soldier turned his back to him again before he pulled an arrow out. The bone biter bow warmed in his palm as he knocked the arrow. The bow was old and beat up but it had never failed. The arrow flew smoothly through the smoke and struck the Thalmor solidly in the side of the neck. He went down with nothing more than a gurgle, his vocal chords neatly severed.

The Dunmer warrior pressed on through a few gates, going around the temple, hopping the short wall into the cemetery. He could see the back porch of the Fighters Guild. Thankfully the guild hall was mostly made of stone so it hadn't been set on fire…nor had it been destroyed yet. Strange but a good sign for him. He crept up to the door and slung his bow on his back, drawing his twin swords. If there were any Thalmor inside he would paint the walls red with their blood.

Sure enough he was met with drawn weapons and battle cries. He ducked as a hammer slammed into the wood right where his head had been. Nevano almost lashed back out, but he saw a flash of green skin. A very familiar green skin too…

"Ogol!" Nevano yelled as he ducked again, "You crazy orc STOP HITTING AT ME!"

"Nevano?" Ogol gro-Blufim stopped his hammer halfway through his swing to Nevano's head.

"YES! For Azura's sake…GAH!" Nevano started to get up but suddenly felt himself lifted up and wrapped in a bear hug by a giant orc that squeezed the air clean from his lungs.

"You're alive!" Ogol cried, squeezing tighter in spite of Nevano slapping at his arm to release him, "We didn't know if you had tried to come in…we had no idea where you were!"

"Where's Oreyn?" Nevano wheezed as he tried to get air into his bruised lungs.

"He…he was fighting them off. I…he…" Nevano narrowed his eyes. He could see Ogol fidget. There was something he didn't want to tell him. The other Fighters Guild members also looked at the ground and shuffled their feet. Apparently the horror outside paled in comparison… Realization hit him like a thunderbolt. There was only one thing that they would fear telling him, to hesitate to admit to themselves out-loud.

Modryn Oreyn was dead.

The mer who had rescued him from a life of slavery, raised him and turned him into a fighter. He was dead. He had been there for Nevano for everything, for every good thing and every bad thing. He was dead. The only person in this miserable world that actually cared if he lived or died, who didn't care what his titles were so long as he believed in what he did. He was dead. The one that rightfully earned the title of father…but he had never said it out loud. He was dead.

He. Was. Dead.

The world dissolved into a numb haze. He could see the others talking but he couldn't hear their words. Something deep in him shattered and fell into ten thousand pieces. He had never really fit in anywhere before, he had always been a wanderer but as long as he had had Modryn he had been ok. Now…he was truly alone in this world, in a world where he could not simply grow old and die.

Then the rage started to build. Unlike the red rage he had felt earlier, this one built up slowly, freezing the blood in his veins. He was cold, he was numb…he was MAD.

"I'm going out there. I'm going to start killing any Thalmor that moves. Get whatever mages that are still alive next door. Find SOMETHING that can still fight I don't care if it's a stray dog." Nevano's voice was ice cold, "None of them will leave this city alive."

He didn't hear if they argued or not. He couldn't hear anything above the roar in his ears. The ice finally completely consumed him. He didn't remember a thing after that.

XxXxXx

Helgen, Skyrim 4E 201

Shivering, Nevano forced one unsteady foot in front of the other. He had to fight through this. He couldn't give in. There was still something left in him. He wasn't ruined yet. He had learned that lesson a long time ago. He sucked in a breath of cold, smoke tinged air. The sharpness in his lungs helped him focus and chase away the black fog of fear and anxiety in his mind. He could do this. He was in control.

Somehow, in a brilliant stroke of luck, the carriages had never moved. The horses were still in their traces, or what was left of them anyway. No one had had any time to cut them loose and the dragon made sure there was no way for anyone to escape. No seemed to have time to grab the evidence chest that had been in the lead carriage either but the lock was not on it. Nevano frowned. Imperials ALWAYS locked things up. It was like an obsession with them. Dunmer would put curses on valuables, Bosmer would trap things, Altmer would magic things away and Nords often left things sitting out but Imperials loved their locks. Nevano carefully opened the chest, noticing that it looked like it had been rifled through quickly. Someone had been in here. But then he caught sight of a familiar piece of black leather and smiled. A small bit of hope finally filled his heart as he tugged at it, revealing his armor.

He stripped out of his…borrowed armor and clothing quickly and eagerly. Something about wearing clothing that wasn't yours just gave him the creeps. He brushed off his armor and pulled them on. Black leather with the typical Morrowind taste in rings and small ridges concealed the flexible mesh of glass plates. Super strong, super light and had been on his arse through a lot of fights. It had been a gift long ago for a rather difficult errand he had done for a blacksmith. He had no idea HOW the blacksmith knew his precise measurements but the armor fitted him like a glove and he hadn't worn anything else since. It was a little ragged and covered in dirt but it was nothing he couldn't repair later on his own.

Another small box contained the smaller pieces of his equipment. He refused to call it jewelry. That would imply that these were nothing more than useless hunks of metal. All of the pieces had enchantments on them…well ok, not the plain silver rings that he put back on his pointed ears. But the amulet he had gotten from the Urshilaku clan a long time ago and a very special ring were enchanted. He felt the slight tingle as the enchantments came alive and coated him like a second skin. He was rather surprised at how tense he had been without them.

His pack had been untouched…and he unabashedly added to it with all the other items he deemed worth value from the chest. His compensation for his unfair treatment at the hands of the Empire…again. Standard release fee.

But his weapons were missing. THAT irritated him more than anything. Like his armor, these weapons were one of a kind and not something he was going to just let go. As far as he knew, just him, the young Nord currently bouncing on the road to Whiterun and that Stormcloak soldier that dragged them through the caves were the only survivors. But knowing how fate went, the names of important men he had heard, General Tullius, Ulfric Stormcloak…he would bet his newly acquired septims that they had found a way to survive. While he rather had his doubts that they had his weapons, they might have an idea who else had survived and a clue as to whoever had gone through the chest. Well he came to Skyrim to find a fresh new adventure…looks like finding his weapons was going to be his first one. Giving the craptastic iron sword a disgusted look, he strapped it back on his waist and headed back down to Riverwood. As he took a step, something shook free of the ash and soot. Nevano blinked. His bow. The chiten short bow had withstood the fiery heat with the hardiness of its homeland. Well the string had snapped but that was an easy fix. Nevano smiled. Whoever stole his weapons hadn't given the seemingly worthless bow a second look. They didn't realize that this bow had a nasty tendency to drain them to the point their bones snapped while running away.

Feeling much better now, he left Helgen in peace.

XxXxXx

Whiterun was… a bit more impressive that he initially thought. If he went by the disparaging remarks made in both Cyrodiil and Morrowind, Nords lived in animal skin tents, gnawed on deer legs and drank mead all day. However he was pretty positive that there were plenty of Nords who lived like that and happily so. To be honest it sounded rather nice. However the stone and wood buildings were not so squished together that he felt claustrophobic. The wind blew through the streets, making it feel so light that Nevano could easily forget he was behind walls.

He initially wasn't going to go into Whiterun but he had a few extra septims to burn and after all he had been through the past couple of days a stiff drink and an actual bed was sounding really good. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had slept in a bed. Thanks to his time in Morrowind, he was very wary of sleeping on the ground, especially when he was alone with no one to take shifts in keeping watch. Too many nix hounds had thought him a delicious free meal. His habit was to climb a tree, find a fork in the branches to anchor himself in and tie himself in with his cloak. He did it a few times in the Great Oak in Chorrol JUST to confound his guild mates. It worked the first few times but then Modryn dragged him out and hauled him into the guild hall by his ear. That ended THAT.

People stared as he went down the street. At first he thought it was because he was a stranger. That happened a lot. People get curious, especially when the stranger wasn't from that particular province. At least the stares weren't hostile. He knew perfectly well how Nords and Dunmer felt about each other and suffice to say, it wasn't always….friendly. However it wasn't until a child looked at him and giggled that he realized that there just might be a different reason for the stares. A quick glance down revealed just why; his armor was still covered in mud from when he had been shoved face first into the ground when he was arrested. He rubbed one hand on his face and it came back completely blackened with dirt and soot from the fires. Well…no wonder. He looked like he had just crawled out of a bog…and probably smelled like he did too. Hot meal first…then hopefully he could find a place where he could get a bath in. Preferably a hot one. He was already done with being cold.

The sign said the Bannered Mare but in all honesty it could have been a sign publicly cursing his heritage but so long as it warm he didn't care what it was called. Fortunately he wasn't disappointed when he opened to door and was immediately enveloped by delicious smelling warmth. Several Nords were seated around a huge fire pit in the center of the room, drinking mead and telling obviously exaggerated tales of deeds. Nevano smiled; just the way he liked it.

"Welcome to the Bannered Mare, stranger! Hungry, tired or just plain thirsty?" said a Nord woman behind a wooden counter.

"All of the above." Nevano pulled out a coin purse and handed it over.

"You look like you need a good rest sir…Dunmer?" She angled her head to get a good look at his face, "I don't think I've ever seen of a Dunmer with yellow eyes before…"

Oh yeah…the other source or stares and whispers: his eyes. Everything about Nevano screamed Dunmer, from his stormy blue grey skin, dark red hair that tended to go in every direction that was somewhat tamed into a warrior style Mohawk, tattoos that were more Ashlander in nature he kept hidden under his clothing, his manner, his dress…all except his eyes. Whereas all Dunmer had eyes the color of hearts blood, his eyes were gold. His old guild mates joked he must have been hatched from a hawk for not only were his eyes the color of a hawk's but his exceptional eyesight were very hawk-like. When he went to Morrowind though, he heard whispers that he must have Chimer blood in him. Modryn Oreyn had the most sensible explanation of all: "You were born with it. Just be happy you were born with both eyes working." He desperately missed Modryn's super blunt declarations of wisdom.

"It makes me a hit with the ladies." Nevano felt his smile crack the dirt on his face, "Though right now I don't think I would attract even a troll, let alone a woman. I'm pretty close to offending myself to be honest with you."

The Nord woman smiled a bit critically as she took in his rather deplorable state. "Saadia will you help our customer out here?"

A Redguard woman came over from passing out more mead, "Yes, mum!" She turned to Nevano, casting her eyes up and down him before beckoning with her head, "Follow me."

Obediently Nevano followed her past the counter and down the hall, sadly away from that lovely fire pit. She didn't go that far, fortunately, before she ushered him into a tiny cell of a room that held a wooden bathtub filled with steaming water. Nevano had never seen a more welcome sight.

"Get yourself in. I want your armor in a pile by the door and I'll get you some clothes to wear. No good looking mer such as yourself needs to go around in a second skin of mud like a Foresworn madman." Saadia smiled at him warmly. Well, seemed even nasty and stinking he still made women fuss over him.

Nevano didn't even wait for Saadia to leave the room. He eagerly stripped and got in, groaned with pleasure as the hot water enveloped his body. Already he could feel layers of grim melting away, slowly transforming him back into a mer instead of the creature from the black lagoon.

"Judging by the groaning noises I'd say you haven't had a good bath in a while." Saadia raised an eyebrow but flicked her eyes over him in appreciation.

"No ma'am." Nevano murmured, not embarrassed in the least bit, "Haven't been able to submerge myself like this since I left Cyrodiil."

Chorrol had a nice swimming hole a few miles northeast along the mountain trail. He had spent many a warm day with guild mates on their day off playing in the water there. It was a small pool, created by a waterfall from melting mountain snow and rain. No mudcrabs or slaughterfish to bother them and it was just a few miles from the overlook that offered a gorgeous view of lake Rumare and the Imperial City. Nevano used to go up there after particularly difficult contracts and just float silently well into the evenings. If he was lucky, deer, foxes, and once a pack of wolves would come and drink, never noticing he was there. The day he left he had sat on a rock next to the pool, trying to remember all the good times but all that came to him where the reasons for leaving.

"You ok there?" Saadia had gingerly picked up his dirty pile of armor and was scrubbing the mud stains off in a smaller tub.

"I'm fine. Just amazing how a hot bath starts bringing up the solemn memories."

"Well at least you aren't prone to singing like some of my other customers."

"Singing is not among my many talents."

"Oh go on sir…I don't think I caught your name?" Saadia looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Nevano."

"No last name? You ARE the most unusual Dunmer aren't you?"

"I get that a lot. But yes I am."

"Well, I think I got your armor clean. It should be dry and ready to go in the morning."

"Thank you sera."

"When you're done there's a bowl of stew waiting for you." Giving him one last warm smile Saadia went back into the main part of the inn, loud shouts for mead heralding her arrival.

Nevano sunk under the water as soon as she left and scrubbed at his face and hair. Fortunately his unruly ridge of hair was short enough it didn't require too much attention. The rest of his shaved skull was just as easy. The warm water was starting to remind his body just how exhausted he really was. He hadn't been able to get a minute to rest from the moment he had started running from a giant oblivion forsaken dragon. He had a right to be exhausted.

Once he deemed himself clean enough to be seen in public, he dragged himself out, instantly feeling the full force of his exhaustion. Almost automatically he pulled the clothes Saadia left for him on, ate his stew, somehow got up the stairs and into his rented room. There was a bed with a straw mattress and warm animal skins on top. He stripped, laid his sword on the bed next to him and crawled into the furs. That was the last thing he remembered before he crashed into a deep sleep.

XxXxXx

A/N: I would like to point out now before someone attacks me with Elder Scroll Knowledge that, as usual, I take artistic liberties with these fics. I tweak things to make them fit what's in my head while generally staying "historically correct". So like the Thalmor sacking Chorrol; there is no mention if they did or not but I rather doubted Chorrol just sat pretty and untouched and no one did a damn thing. So I sent Thalmor there. Oh, and there really is a tree behind the stables in Chorrol. I actually ran Nevano through the same route. I consider playing the games research. Makes for a great conversation "What are you doing?" "Research, I'll call you later." "Is that…your xbox? I hear your xbox!" "As I said…research."