Emperor Titus Mede II
A ghost walked into the Emperor's cabin on the Katariah.
Titus Mede II looked up and regarded it calmly.
The spirit was robed and masked, glowing an ethereal blue that contrasted the warm lanterns throughout the room. It was one of the most frightening things he'd seen in a long time, and it had, quite literally, just walked straight through his locked door.
He opened his mouth to greet it—
"Okay, so what I don't understand is." It said, looking back at the door. "How come I can walk through people, and I can walk through walls, but I don't fall through the floor? What's with that? It's not like I can float or anything. I'm worried that if I think too hard about it I'll just fall into the earth and suffocate, and that—"
The figure flashed, and its ethereal qualities vanished. Its robes were black, and its mask silver. "Ah, right. Give me a second." It asked, politely.
"Of course." Titus replied, slightly off-kilter.
The figure turned back to the door, looking around in brief confusion before twisting a crank that caused the deadbolt to thunk into the unlocked state. The door opened, and another figure walked in. This one was visibly female, dressed head to toe in contoured grey armour. Her face was masked and cowled, and he could see practically nothing of her features.
She promptly turned back and locked the door behind her, as the first figure turned and bowed to Titus. Their technique was flawless Imperial court manners, as they said "Emperor Titus Mede. It is an utmost privilege."
"Likewise." Titus gave an answering nod, pleased by the geniality. "Now then, shall we get to business? I doubt you worked your way here just for a pleasant conversation with me."
"Come again?" Said the masked figure.
"You are assassins." Titus replied. "I would hate to be rude and waste your time talking."
"What?" It asked, distorted voice coming through as confused. Then, "OH, the uniform!" It reached up and yanked the mask off, revealing a young Imperial man. He had bright yellow-ish eyes and only the beginnings of facial hair. "My name's Alexander Meteuse, I'm here to rescue you!"
"Rescue me?" Titus repeated, stunned. Meteuse? Related to my new commander and the Thalmor ambassador?
"Yeah!" Alexander smiled. "See the Dark Brotherhood was given a contract to kill you, and then I took over that and realised what was going on so I decided not to do it, but then the Morag Tong got given the contract instead so we had to stop them, and I may have had to knock Octavia unconscious but I think all the actual assassins are dead or captured now so—"
"Excuse this one." The woman raised a hand, her voice and words pegging her as a Khajiit. "Can L'laarzen perhaps use something in here as a tourniquet? She suspects she may bleed out otherwise."
"By all means, use the curtains." Titus said, in something of a daze. "So…you're not here to kill me."
"Nope!" Alexander grinned.
"Ah." Titus 'ah'd. "That…that might be something of a problem. Do you think you could possibly kill me anyway?"
Both of them went very still and stared at him.
"…I'm sorry, what?" Meteuse asked.
"Yes, it's a very awkward situation, I do apologise." Titus drummed his fingers on the table. "But you see, I really need to be killed sometime soon. I could try and do it myself, but if it becomes obvious that it's a suicide then the whole exercise becomes moot."
"You…" Alexander pointed a finger at him, then back at the door, then exchanged a very confused glance with his companion, then pointed at him again. "Did you…No."
"Go on." Titus prompted, with a smile.
"Did you…order your own assassination?" The man asked.
"Not quite." Titus replied. "But I certainly aided and abetted it."
He glanced back to the door. "You may wish to sit down and listen, but I recommend we be quick. You need to be done and out before my guards reattain control and come and check, or you'll both be implicated."
They looked at each other again. Then L'laarzen went back to ripping down a curtain and tying it around a wound on her shoulder, and Alexander shakily pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
"Explain." The Man demanded, though he followed it up with a much more pathetic "Please?"
"Very well." Realising that this was going to be a much more civil event than he expected, Titus reached for the bottle of firebrand wine he'd been working through throughout the trip, and poured two glasses. "In short, it has occurred to me that my death at the hands of an assassin would be beneficial to the future of my Empire. So I willingly permitted the formation of a conspiracy to kill me, and took steps to make their job easier. Came to Skyrim, ignored the advice of everyone trying to save me, etcetera."
Alexander waved away the proffered glass, before demanding, "How in the world would you being killed be beneficial to the Empire?"
"Why wouldn't it?" Titus asked, smiling.
"Well for one thing, the effect on the economy would be devastating!" The man protested.
"Spoken like true Cyrodiil nobility." Titus chuckled. "But the simple fact of the matter is, I am going to die soon anyway. My doctors expect I have two years at most. I will die, I have accepted that. But I am at liberty to decide how."
He looked down into his goblet. "If I kill myself, or I fall to rattles or blackheart or some other disease, it will be the death many of my critics expect of me. The death of a weak, cowardly old fool. But a death at the hand of assassins? That will make me a martyr. A symbol for my people to rally their outrage behind, to make way for a younger, stronger successor."
Alexander stared at him. Then grabbed the second goblet and took a drink out of it.
"But what—" He coughed, "Talos, that's strong—But what do you want? I mean, no offense, but the Empire is kind of —"
"Utterly screwed?" Titus finished. "I know, young man, I run the thing. I look out of my palace window and see Thalmor agents brazenly patrolling my streets." He gestured to his map. "The empire that once spanned Tamriel is reduced to three provinces, one of which is in open rebellion. The Aldmeri Dominion wants to take over the world, destroy our god, and quite possibly revert the continent to the state it was in before the revolt of slave-queen Alessia."
His hands curled into fists. "I fought for my empire. I led men to die for my empire. I agreed to the White-Gold Concordat to save my empire, and every second of my life I wonder if I made a mistake. I will die for it."
"But if you're assassinated, then what?" Alexander protested. "We can't…Divines, I haven't read enough for this…even if you magically unite your people, what happens?"
Titus waited.
Alexander's eyes widened. "…The Second Great War."
"It's coming. Whether we like it or not." Titus sighed, and took a drink. "But just like my death, we must think if it should happen sooner or later."
"Why would we want it to come sooner?" Alexander protested, reaching for the glass of wine again.
"Because Men screw faster than elves." Titus replied. He smiled, when the man choked on his drink. "Almost thirty years since the last war. The next generation of Man is here. Elves reproduce far slower than we do. Their numbers are lower, too, so they rely on the expertise they attain through their long lifetimes. Why do you think they are so determined to infiltrate and weaken us in every way, at every possibility? They wish for the Empire to fall with a sigh and a whimper, because they fear what will happen if it goes out with a bang."
"But our odds are still bad, right?" Alexander looked back at L'laarzen (herself applying the glow of healing magic to her wrapped arm), who shrugged. "Octavia told me we'd still probably lose!"
"But those odds only get worse every year we wait." Titus grimaced, standing. He turned to his room's map. "Yes, we would need to be fortunate. We would need a strong leader, and there I have done my best to prepare us, but that would not be all. Take, for instance, when I was wounded after the Aldmeri forces took the capital from us, and a forgotten warrior-leader donned my armour for the battle of the Red Ring."
"That wasn't you?" Alexander gasped—
"Perhaps we need for Skyrim and Cyrodiil to resolve their differences and unite." Titus continued. "Perhaps for Elweyr to confront the Thalmor for their lies and turn on them. Perhaps for Hammerfell to throw off its own shackles and join us."
He looked back at them and smiled. "Perhaps it would require a warrior-Dragonborn the kind the world has not seen since Tiber Septim. What the world needs, Alexander Meteuse, is heroes. And I cannot be that, not anymore. But I can die, and hope that my death brings them into being."
Alexander stared at him, his own glass empty. There was an awe in the young man's eyes that Titus found himself a little inordinately pleased by. Heh. Still got it.
"…Someone once said you were the only honourable politician in Cyrodiil, and we know you're honourable because everyone hates you." Alexander said, meriting a full laugh from Titus.
"Well, I'll certainly take that." He replied. "So? Shall we?"
Alexander stood, slowly. "Sir—or, your Emperorshipfulness—I'm assassinating you on behalf of the Dark Brotherhood. You…know what that means, right?"
"Ah, yes, about that." Titus raised a finger. "I do have one other favour to ask. Once you have killed me, and collected your reward for it...Would you mind killing the one who ordered it?"
Alexander's eyes widened. "You clever bastard." He muttered.
"I do try." Titus replied.
"Gentlemen?" L'laarzen called to them both. "Boots on the deck. I suspect we are running out of time."
"Crap, right, okay." Alexander looked at Titus, who spread his arms. He gulped. "Sir, I…I'm not sure I can do this."
"Of course you can." Titus reassured. "It's easy. One quick thrust."
"Yes, but…" The young man floundered. "I…I've killed people before, but not like this, I mean…You're my Emperor! I'm not a killer."
That was when L'laarzen walked up behind him, and put an arm on his shoulder. "No." She told him. "But I am."
He spun on her. "What? No! L'laarzen, I roped you into this, I'm not going to make you—"
"It's alright, Xander." She told him, pulling her mask down and meeting his eyes. "Go. Stall the Penitus Oculatus for a few seconds if you can. I will be quick."
Alexander grit his teeth. Then nodded, and took off at a jog.
L'laarzen waited until he had left the room, before smiling apologetically. "Forgive Alexander. He is a good man."
"Oh, I quite agree." Titus nodded. "I am extremely grateful to the both of you. I was quite upset at the thought that my death would come from a hostile face, or lack thereof…But enough wasting time. How do you want me, shall I turn around?"
"Draw your sword." L'laarzen replied, herself standing perfectly relaxed. "Let us suggest to the world that you provided some fight, hmm? Plenty of my blood is going spare, I shall ensure some winds up on your blade."
"What a kind gesture." Titus did so, his personal blade coming free from his sheath with a clean ring. Despite everything, he found his heartrate skyrocketing, and his mouth curling into a smile. "I had always hoped to die with a sword in my hand. How do I look?"
"Rather dashing." L'laarzen admitted, looking him up and down with a smile of her own. "Tch. Khajiit would have so loved to style your hair…Prepare yourself. L'laarzen will make this painless."
She reached forward with one hand, placing it on his forehead. Her other hand held an already bloodied dagger.
There was a brief golden glow…
And then everything went dark.
And now I've made myself sad.
What, I've thrown every other conspiracy into this fic, you think I'd miss out on one of Skyrim's most famous? Titus Two dies, in part by his own hand, in part by the hand of a cat who never wanted to get caught up in this.
Poor L'laarzen. Someone get that woman some therapy. Or a hug, at the very least.
Next Time: Interlude. Someone writes a note, someone cries, and someone opens a door.