Interlude: Taking a Breath
The door to Castle Dour Prison opened, and Mirri looked up, dully.
She'd been tossed in a different cell, this time. Now there were two guards outside her door, and more patrolling nearby. Oddly, though, the Orc that had crippled her wasn't there.
Her head had been throbbing persistently for the last two hours, as had the stump of her left hand. A side effect of the spells and potions she'd been given. It was better than what she'd been feeling before they'd tried to help her, however.
And when she saw the face of that Octavia woman who limped in, the feeling was better than any painkiller she'd ever felt.
She grinned. "He did it, didn't he?"
Octavia stopped before her cell, and said nothing.
Mirri started laughing. She couldn't help it, a manic sound that echoed throughout the room. "HAH! And you were talking all that smack a few hours ago! How does it feel to know that—"
"Your co-conspirator is dead." Octavia answered coldly.
Mirri stopped laughing. "…What?"
"Vendil Ulen, I believe?" Octavia clarified. The woman looked like absolute garbage, but her voice didn't waver. "He was stabbed in the heart on the way out by one of our agents. Bled out. My condolences."
The last of Mirri's mirth flickered and died. She lowered her head, looking to the floor. "You…killed him."
"No, but I would have liked to." Octavia pulled a key from her pocket and set about unlocking the door to the cell. "How does it feel? To lose one you care about? To experience what you inflicted on countless others?"
"Bitch." Mirri snarled.
"Hmph. To think a creature as pathetic as you helped kill Commander Maro." Octavia entered the cell and approached. "You are charged with assassination. You will be found guilty. When you give up everything you know about your employers and other co-conspirators, you will either spend your life in prison or simply be executed. I'm afraid it's not up to me which happens."
"When I give up everything?" Mirri laughed again, but this time it was a hollow sound. "You can't possibly expect me to tell you anything."
"No." Octavia replied. "But that's alright. I don't require you to."
Before Mirri could react, the Imperial had grabbed her by the forehead.
Her screams echoed throughout the prison.
The master of birds, a fairly young Nord, turned away from his completed setup with a worried expression.
This man had gotten the job recently after the resignation of his predecessor. That had happened right after sending out the news about Torryg.
General Tullius, stood behind him, gave him a sullen nod.
He gulped, then turned back and unlatched the cage.
A veritable torrent of birds flew out, a cacophony of flapping reaching eveyone's ears as they all took off into the pre-dawn sky. Over thirty birds, each with the same message.
Stood just to Tullius' right was Jarl Elisif the Fair. The two of them watched silently as all the avians vanished from the view of the tower.
"Nothing's going to be the same after this." Elisif said, quietly.
"This is Tamriel." Tullius replied. "Things change. Emperors die. It's the way of the world."
"And what does it mean for you?" She asked, glancing across at him.
Tullius gave a long, long, sigh. "That I've missed another night of sleep."
Jarl Korir of Winterhold read the letter.
He barked out a brief, surprised laugh.
Jarl Lalia of Riften read the letter.
Gulped. Handed it across to Maven Black-Briar.
"How long until the Thieves Guild learn of this?" Lalia asked, once Maven's eyebrows had shot up.
"Depends on a lot of things." Maven looked back at Lalia. A look of understanding passed between the two women. "…Do you want me to—"
"Yes, just tell them yourself. Where's L'laarzen?"
Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun read the letter.
Read it again. His hands shook.
"Sir?" Irileth asked, from his side.
Balgruuf stormed to his feet, crumpled the paper into a ball, and hurled it into the fire.
Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm read the letter.
Quietly folded it up and put it down, before reaching for a mug of ale and toasting it, even alone in his room.
"See you in Sovngarde, sir." He uttered, quietly.
Jarl Elisif of Solitude read the letter.
Blinked.
"Why did he send one here? I already—Oh, for goodness sake."
Snrk.
Shut up, you.
Jarl Thongvor of Markarth read the letter.
Squinted at it. Made a baffled face.
"Something wrong?" Asked Verulus, sat next to him.
"…I need to go get Hjar, I have no idea what to do about this."
The Elder Council in Cyrodiil City read the letter.
And promptly exploded into outrage, shouting, wild gesticulation and utter pandemonium.
Throughout it all, Maximus Motierre sat back in his seat and remained silent, his Elder Council amulet conspicuously absent from his chest.
First Emissary Elenwen read the letter.
And smiled a quiet smile.
Head Ambassador Julius Meteuse read the letter.
Breathed out.
Went to book a ship to Skyrim.
Some time later, Amaund Motierre's pulse quickened as the door to his room opened (by this point, he'd just given up on locking the thing).
The assassin walked in, and his pulse quickened further.
"W—Well?" He asked, barely controlling his voice.
"…Emperor Titus Mede the second is dead." The assassin declared.
Something inside Amaund burst. He leapt to his feet with a whoop, throwing his fist into the air and laughing. "Yes! YES! Finally! This is—Are you sure?"
"Certain."
"Ahahahahaha! WONDERFUL! Oh, my friend, my good man! You have no idea the good you have done for the world! Events have been set in motion by this event that you cannot even conceive of!"
"I will try to keep on top of things." The assassin tilted his head.
Beside Amaund, Rexus coughed, jolting him out of his ecstasy. "Oh, right, of course, your payment. Stored in an urn, in one of the early antechambers of Volenruud, a Nordic tomb not far from here. I assure you, you will find it more than satisfactory."
He'd had to do a lot of economical meddling, but he'd been able to add another ten thousand gold atop the previous reward. Hopefully that's enough to keep him happy…
"Thank you." The assassin nodded. "And what happens now?"
"Now?" Amaund snorted. "Now the entire geopolitical situation of Tamriel changes. But if you're referring to us, well, now we go our separate ways and hopefully never see each other again."
"Indeed." And yet the assassin did not leave. Just continued to stare at him from behind that disconcerting metal mask.
"…Ah…" Amaund floundered, looking awkwardly across at Rexus and then back at the killer. "I could leave the room first, if you'd prefer…"
"The Emperor spoke to me, before I killed him." The assassin spoke. "Tell me, what do you really know of Black Sacrament?"
Uh oh. This sounds bad. "Th—That it must be performed to draw the attention of the Dark Brotherhood?" Amaund replied. "It's some strange ritual to attract Sithis or something, right?"
"Not quite." The assassin answered. He began pacing, stepping purposefully from one side of the room to another. "The primary purpose of the Sacrament is to alert the Night Mother, yes. But it is also a binding contract with Sithis. It promises one soul to the void."
Amaund gulped. Beside him, Rexus subtly reached down and loosened his sword in his scabbard.
"Traditionally, that is the soul of the contract's primary victim," The assassin continued, "fast-tracked past any afterlife and straight to Sithis. A horrific fate. But there are alternatives. If the assigned assassin dies in their attempted murder, it is instead their soul that is sent to the void. The Brotherhood will, of course, usually continue sending men just to maintain their image. And critically: If the contractor dies before the victim's soul is dragged down, then it is the contractor instead who's soul is forfeit. I suspect you did not know that."
"Th—They never told me…" Amaund stepped backwards.
"Titus Mede made a request of me, before he died." The assassin stopped, and turned to face Amaund. "He asked that I kill the one who ordered his death. An attempt to limit the ruination of his empire? Perhaps. But also, an attempt to save his own soul from Sithis."
The killer's tone took on a melancholy, slightly amused lilt. "Clever move, eh? You can tell why they say Men are the children of Lorkhan. Our leaders do tend to be tricksy bastards."
Amaund, at this point, was absolutely bricking it.
"But, but, but we had a deal!" He protested, as Rexus moved to stand protectively in front of him. "You can't…Please, please don't—"
"Relax, Amaund." The assassin said, just as calmly. "I'm not going to kill you."
"You're. You're not?" He asked, flabbergasted.
"No. I wouldn't shoot the messenger." The assassin shrugged. "You, Amaund Motierre, are a largely spineless pawn who's just as pathetic now as he was on the school playground. But that fact has just saved your life. You didn't order the Emperor's death. So I'm going to find the person that did, and kill them instead."
Now, there were a lot of things that could have come out of Amaund's mouth at that moment (including perhaps the best option; nothing at all) but for some reason the one thing that he could think to say was "You knew me on the playground?"
The assassin paused. Leaned in.
"Be careful who you call ugly in middle school." He whispered.
Then stood back up, looking into the middle distance and saying "Did you hear that, Night Mother? Is it alright if I…Great. Thanks for being patient. Well, Amaund, I must be off. Tell your friends in the conspiracy I said hello. Or, if you're feeling less suicidal? Stay far, far away from them. Warm sands."
He turned, walked back to the door, and left without another word.
Almost a full minute passed before Amaund and Rexus turned to face each other.
"The Dragonborn…killed the Emperor." Rexus clarified.
Amaund nodded. "And he went to St Alessia boarding school."
Otavia Meteuse sat at her desk on the Katariah. Paperwork was strewn about in front of her, and she had a glass of wine in one hand. Her guards had been dismissed. As far as anyone could tell she was alone in the room.
"So are you coming in or not?" She said.
The door opened, and Julius walked in. As usual, his grooming was absolutely immaculate (contrasting the utter state she was in) and he had a concerned look on his face.
"Hey, Oct." He greeted, quietly.
"You are not allowed on this boat." Octavia pointed out.
"No, but I'm here anyway." He walked in and flicked a wrist. The door closed behind him, and a chair lifted itself up to sit itself down next to her. He promptly sat down in it, asking "Are you okay?"
"Why are you here, Julius?" She asked, not looking at him.
"To check if you're—"
"Sure. Captain fancypants deigns to come down from Summerset just to check up on me? Why are you actually here?"
"Really?" Julius asked her, exasperated. When she didn't reply, he sighed, and said "Okay, um, fine. The prisoner, Mirri."
"What about her?"
"Gimme. The Aldmeri want to interrogate her first-hand."
"Julius, the Aldmeri are the ones who bloody did it." Octavia snapped.
He paused, looking closely at her. "…Are you sure?"
"Went into Mirri's head. Vendil, the other killer, apparently told her so." Oct answered, shrugging. "Of course, she could be misremembering, or wrong, or lied to. Or it was someone pretending to be with the Thalmor, or a splinter group, or a traitor who was 'dealt with internally'. Whatever excuse the new Emperor needs to disregard the evidence and not go to war."
"Depends on who gets the job." Julius muttered, seemingly to himself. "The Mede dynasty ends here. They were the only nobles prominent enough to rule after the Septims died, and even then after a bloody interregnum. Next…"
"Yep. Chaos." Octavia took another gulp of her wine. "Screw it, take Mirri. The Thalmor'll just kill her, but whatever, right? Not like her giving a testimony to the Elder Council would do anything."
"Okay, great, thank you." Julius put a hand on her shoulder. "Now answer me. Are You Alright?"
Octavia didn't reply for a few seconds, staring into her glass.
"Turns out I want to be remembered." She muttered. "Which isn't something I knew about, until a few days ago. I wanted to go down in history as the great Octavia Meteuse, who did…something, at least. I only realised this, by the way, after I watched one of the few men I actually respect gutted in front of me." She drank again, emptying the glass. "And now…now, if anyone remembers me, it will be as the stupid bitch who let the Emperor die."
She tossed her glass. Julius caught it with telekinesis, setting it down.
"That's not fair and you know it." He told her, but—
"For the love of the Divines, I'm sick of people talking to me about fair." Octavia spat. "Life isn't fair. If you want things to be fair you have to make them fair, and you can't do that if you lie to yourself! But nooo. Everyone's always patting me on the shoulder and going 'there there, Octavia, don't blame yourself for Maro dying, don't blame yourself for the Emperor dying, it's fine! Don't blame yourself for not ending the civil war, even though you could have by now, but you didn't because it wouldn't be neat and it wouldn't be clever and you were so desperate to come up with some magical better solution! Don't blame yourself for all this suffering you should have stopped'—"
"You have done more good in twenty five years than most people do in a lifetime. An elven lifetime." Julius stressed. "And you'll go on to do more after this."
"Will I?" Octavia laughed, brokenly. "I was the Commander of the Emperor's personal defence force for one night, and he died. I am taking this boat back to Cyrodiil where I will promptly lose my job, either because I resign or because I'm forced out. And I'm probably going to jail for treasonous incompetence! And I…"
She took a shaky breath to steady herself. Then gave up, and buried her face in her hands.
"I screwed up, Julius." She whispered, as tears started to fall. "I screwed up so badly…"
He shifted closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Easy." He reassured. "Just…its okay."
"And the worst part?" She exclaimed. "It happened because I was being a complete and utter moron! Assassins were on the ship and I was fighting my bloody brother!"
"Alex was there?" Julius clarified, blinking.
"Trying to help! Yes, he was trying to scheme without enough experience, and yes he'd already made mistakes, and I didn't know what he was planning to do, but I didn't ask! I just panicked, and tried to take him out of the fight so I could focus, and then he kept resisting, and then he won, and…" She sobbed. "And when Gaius came and woke me up, it was to tell me that the assassin had fought and killed the Emperor. Xander and one of his friends had taken the killer down on the way out, and then fled because they knew they'd be under suspicion. Good, because Divines know what I'd've said to him if he'd stayed..."
Julius sat there silently, just listening to her. When a few minutes had gone by and she hadn't said anything new, he spoke. "So, you screwed up."
"Thank you for admitting it." Octavia grumbled.
"What do you do now?" He asked.
"I…I have no idea. What can I do?"
Julius paused, fingers drumming. Then, "You mentioned you wanted to be remembered. What if I said there was something you could help me with that would overwrite bungling the Emperor's life?"
"What could possibly be more important than that?" Octavia asked, meeting Julius' eyes.
He smiled. "How about saving the world?"
Thud.
Jingle.
Everyone in the Dawnstar Sanctuary stared at the frankly enormous sack. Nazir had had to help drag it in from Shadowmere, and all of them had had to help to lift it onto the central table.
Cicero, Nazir, Babette, and Me'Daro all looked at each other before simultaneously asking:
"How much?"
"It was more money than I've ever seen. But I was able to count it." Xander replied, pulling up a chair and falling into it with a sigh. He made them wait far too many seconds before answering, "Thirty thousand septims. Well, thirty thousand and eighty six. In coin."
Babette sat backwards in her own seat as the table went crazy. Well well well, this should be fun.
Cicero was laughing manically, Nazir was gushing about it, Me'Daro was making her own strange noises.
Xander gave them all a confused look. "Alright, calm down." He placated. "I said 'more than I've ever seen' because I've never seen this much coinage in one place before. Thirty kay isn't that much."
"Isn't that much?" Nazir laughed. "And I thought Cicero was the jester. I can't think of anything we couldn't buy with this!"
"Clearly you've never seen property values in the Imperial City…" Xander muttered.
"We could use this money to renovate the sanctuary!" Nazir said. "We have contacts in the Thieves Guild. Set up all the essentials in here, scout for more assassins to join the family, build up our connections again! This could kickstart the return of the Dark Brotherhood!"
"Eheh. Yeah. About that…" Xander steepled his fingers.
Oh? Babette leaned forwards.
"Of course, you'll take your cut of it for personal use." Nazir chuckled. "You're the Listener, and you made the kill. Still, I'm sure you'd agree that we could start making even more if—"
"No no no, not the problem." Xander waggled a finger in the air. He looked tired, Babette noticed. Or more accurately, just…fed up.
"Do I do this now?" He mused, as everyone stopped to look at him, "Yeah, screw it. Okay so. The Dark Brotherhood thing? Just sort of, isn't working out. For me."
Everyone went quiet. It was Me'Daro, sat on the table, who gave the first confused "Pardon?"
"The whole 'killing random people for money and sending their souls to Sithis' thing." Xander waved vaguely at his surroundings. "That's just...not gonna fly. Anymore."
They all looked at each other. Cicero was grinning like he was in on a joke the rest of them weren't, but then he always looked like that.
"You're quitting?" Nazir asked. "But you're the Listen—"
"No, no. I mean I'm not allowing this anymore." Xander replied, almost boredly. "This all stops. Now."
"You're…disbanding us?" Babette asked, carefully.
"Yep."
She hummed. "Okay. Why?"
"Well besides the fact that it's the most horrifically immoral thing I've ever been a part of..." Xander steepled his fingers on the table. "…Alright that's most of it. But also, the Dark Brotherhood is currently four people and a debatably on-board cat."
"Khajiit!"
"Trying to build it up again would be inordinately dangerous and an absurd amount of effort," Xander finished, "and quite frankly, I've got better things to do with my time."
"Whoa, hold on." Nazir held his hands out. "You can't just do that."
"Can't I?" Xander asked, raising an eyebrow.
There was a long, long silence.
Then Nazir reached for his sword, Cicero darted up behind him and put a knife to his neck, Me'Daro yelped and jumped off the table and—
"Alright enough, just hold on a second, please?" Xander raised his arms and sighed. "Look, firstly, I'm not actually morally bankrupt. Surprise! So I can't let this continue. Now, with that in mind, there are a few things we can do."
He made eye contact with Babette. "You've been remarkably calm."
"I'm waiting to see what happens." She replied, simply.
"Fair enough. Cicero, let Nazir go, for goodness sake."
"But Listener, he might—"
"Now, Cicero."
The jester pouted, but took his knife away from (a very confused) Nazir.
"So, option one is I kill everyone except Cicero because he obeys only me." Xander said. "Don't wanna do that. Partly because I'm a little sissy, but also partly because…I don't want to? Because you asshats made me empathise with you, and now I want to help you. It's very bothersome, but I'm also really tired and I have a very distressed Khajiit in my college I should be looking after right now, so I'm done lying to you all."
He leaned forwards. "Another option is that you all leave, now, and agree to stop causing trouble, because if you do I'll come for you and finish the job. But I don't like that option either, because you could do a lot of harm before I catch you and then it'd be my fault."
"But, you have a better plan?" Me'Daro asked.
"I do." Xander looked at each of them individually. "The other option is that you all continue to work with me. And I continue to make use of your skills, to complete objectives I think are important and morally justifiable."
"But not as the Dark Brotherhood?" Babette clarified.
"No. Just as a collection of very talented people."
"And what's in it for us?" Nazir asked, arms rising up from his weapon to cross in front of his chest.
"Well, for one thing, a large fraction of thirty thousand septims." Xander raised a foot and kicked the sack of money. It made a very satisfying jingle. "With more to come, since I wouldn't ask you to work for free. And for another thing, my protection. Operating under my more public personas, you'd be a lot safer from the eyes of the law. How would you like to walk in public without eyeing every wanted poster you see around town? Not to mention—"
He pointed at Nazir, "You just want a job where you can exercise your skills—"
Pointed at Babette, "and you just want a family to live with until we all die and you have to move on. Uh, Me'Daro, I don't know you, you're still on watch. Did I get those right?"
The corner of Babette's mouth quirked upwards. "What are your rates?"
"I'll match Brotherhood pay for anything I send you to do." Xander replied. "I'll also guarantee you a place to live, food, and basic comforts. I won't stop you taking other freelance work, so long as it isn't 'immoral' in my eyes. And there are plenty of other benefits you can reap by being my friend. How'd you like enchanted equipment that beats that raggedy black and red stuff?"
"Hmm…" She mused. Then shrugged. "Alright. I'm in."
"Babette?" Nazir exclaimed, looking at her, and she laughed.
"What? The young man offers a good deal. Oh, come on, Nazir. Neither of us particularly cared about the Brotherhood, not like Veezara, Astrid, or…well, Cicero, but that's a moot point. I'm also very impressed that he's taking the time to be nice, when he's clearly confident he could kill us both."
She stretched in her chair, eyeing Xander. "Are you sure you'll be comfortable with this? Having such evil, monstrous murderers in your company?"
"I think I'll manage." Xander replied.
"And you aren't at all worried about us killing you in your sleep?"
"You're welcome to try. But I'm well protected, and even if you succeed, I know the people who destroyed your sanctuary in the first place."
("You do?" Nazir exclaimed—)
"Hah! Look at him go!" Babette pointed at Xander, while looking at Nazir. "What a confident little child! Yes, I'm in. But you'll have to facilitate my drinking habit~"
"I'll see what I can do."
Me'Daro raised a paw, adding "I'm in! If, that, means anything. You said an eighth of the money, right? Is that still on the table?"
"Quite literally, yes."
Nazir looked between them all, and sighed. "Alright, I'm in. It's…a better deal than I was expecting, honestly. Just, will the Night Mother be okay with you shirking your duties like this?"
"Don't worry." Xander smiled. "We have an understanding."
Mirabelle paused at the entrance to the Arcanaeum with a cup of tea in her hands, and sighed.
At this time of the night, the room was devoid of students (though that would not be true closer to exam time). The only people present were Urag at his desk...and a highly unobtrusive figure sat at a table in one corner, who Mirabelle probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been looking for them.
She walked up, coughed quietly to introduce herself, and placed the teacup on the table.
L'laarzen looked up, blinking. "Hm? Ah, Mirabelle, is it not?"
"Yes, that's me." Mirabelle smiled, and sat down across from her. "Figured you could use something warm. The College can be a chilly place, especially at night."
"Thank you." L'laarzen took the cup, blew on it, took a tentative sip. "Khajiit would like to apologise. She did not mean to impose upon you, appearing out of the blue like this."
"It's no trouble at all." Mirabelle dismissed, genially. "We have enough spare rooms, so I've been able to outfit one for you. Uh, would it bother you to sleep where a cultist once slept?"
"It would be rather ironic if it did. L'laarzen will be fine."
"Good to hear. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Can you turn back time?"
The request was odd enough to give Mirabelle pause.
L'laarzen looked up at her, and smiled, sadly. "Forgive this one. She is very tired, and feeling sorry for herself, and not quite watching her tongue."
"No, I understand." Mirabelle chuckled. "I'd get a lot back as well, if I could rewind time by a few months. It's always a tempting thought." She looked down at the table, drumming her fingers. "But then, I'd lose a lot as well. New discoveries. New bonds, with new people. Perhaps, if I was careful, I could thread the needle, keep the old and build the new...but it would be quite the gamble, wouldn't it?"
"Quite. And Khajiit has always been rather poor at gambling..." L'laarzen took another sip of her tea. "Agh, apologies again! L'laarzen is afraid that she will be a rather dreary conversation partner for some time."
"Perhaps we should wait for Xander to get back." Mirabelle offered. "He always finds a way to cheer me up."
"Is that so?" L'laarzen gave her an inquisitive look. "Khajiit can understand why. He's a good looking young man, isn't he?"
"That—That is not what I meant." Mirabelle spluttered. "I couldn't—I mean, he's my employer, it would be highly inappropriate! And besides, he's too young for me."
"Is he really?" L'laarzen asked. That question hovered unanswered for a second, before she tittered. "And now Khajiit is entertaining herself by bothering others. She must be very exhausted. What is the time?"
"Ah, about two past midnight." Mirabelle answered, recovering herself.
"Oh dear. L'laarzen has been sitting here for far too long." She finished her cup, and stood. "You said you had prepared me a room. Would you awfully mind taking me to it? That way you can be finally allowed the rest I'm sure you greatly deserve."
"It would be my pleasure." Mirabelle stood as well. "But I suspect I'll be waiting up until Xander gets back."
"That is an impressive degree of loyalty he has inspired."
"It's not 'loyalty'." Mirabelle chuckled. "He's my friend."
"Mine as well. But I suspect he will forgive me getting some beauty sleep." L'laarzen gave Mirabelle a significant look. "So, as mutual friends, may I ask that you make sure that he gets some sleep as well?"
Mirabelle smiled, warmly. "I'll try my best. But, you know what his sort are like."
"Boys?"
"Mages."
The Dragonborn gasped for breath, grimaced, and hauled himself out of the snow.
Behind him, Alduin the World Eater roared, and the blue light around the Dragon shattered.
His throat burning, the Dragonborn stood, and with all his strength shouted "JOOR ZAH FRUUL!"
Every time he brought Dragonrend to bear, it was like a war inside his mind. Mortal. Finite. Temporary. The part of him that was Man understood these words. They were a constant part of his existence, the certainty of its fragility. Every moment of his life, from his past, to the chopping block in Helgen, to every time he was almost reduced to a charred smear on the landscape; the end was always close by.
But part of him was Dragon. And that part of him simply Couldn't Understand the Words. They were as foreign to the Dovah as shadow to a candle, for those great mythical beasts were Immortal, Infinite, Unending. It tore at his own being to summon the words, forcing himself to confront the confusing, horrifying reality of the inevitable end of his existence. He suspected that the Nord heroes of old had had a much easier time wielding it than he did, even with the insight of the Elder Scroll emblazoning the words into his mind.
But whatever he was feeling, he knew Alduin was getting it at least twice as bad.
The Dragon-God roared again, this time in agony, its entire form shaking and its wings crashing back to the snow of the Throat of the World.
But it could still Shout. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" Alduin declared, launching a torrent of flame metres high and wide at the Dragonborn.
A death sentence, as the Dragonborn couldn't match Alduin Shout-for-Shout. But he did have a trick he'd learned from someone along the way. He coughed, inhaled, and "FEIM!"
The single word was all he could manage, making him cough up blood as he forced his mortal body to the limits of magic it could bear. But it was enough to render him ethereal for a few seconds.
He cast aside his largely ruined shield and charged ahead with his sword in both hands, sprinting through the fire even as the snow melted, then evaporated between his feet.
He reached Alduin's head, raised his blade, met the Dragon's eyes, and the etherealness cut out for a split second, leaving his torso in sudden, searing agony—
And then he buried his blade hilt-deep in Alduin's skull.
The fire stopped, leaving everywhere from the Dragonborn's upper thigh to lower neck charred black and smoking. Alduin shook, then crashed down to the ground.
The Dragonborn followed it, nerveless fingers losing grip of his sword as he crumpled backwards onto the stone.
He tried to breathe. Breathing was hard. He knew he would survive the seemingly mortal wound. He had already survived worse. But Gods, it hurt.
Then, there was a rumbling sound.
Loose pebbles started skittering around at the gradually increasing, harsh noise, and the Dragonborn became aware that Alduin was laughing at him.
"Fool." It declared, in Dovahzuul. With the number of Dragon souls the Dragonborn had consumed, he was practically fluent at this point.
"You thought you could slay me here? You think this victory means anything?" Alduin's form moved. Barely under its own volition this time, still with a sword buried in its skull, as though it was being puppeted from elsewhere. "For now, I cannot kill you here, treacherous blood-kin. But neither can you kill me. My essence is in Sovngarde, where I grow stronger every day. Come and face me there, if you can. And I will show you what it truly means for something to be finite."
The Dragonborn, still struggling to get up, froze.
Alduin laughed again. "You think I cannot speak the words of your accursed Shout? I Am Al-du-in, the end of all things. I will bring an end to you, and one day, to this entire Calper. But first, I will rule. As is my right. And you will die. As is my will."
Aldujn took off, the force of the displaced air sending the Dragonborn off his feet again. He swept away through the sky, vanishing into the blizzard.
There were more stomping sounds. Paarthurnax appeared, clambering over the destroyed remnants of his word wall. His scales were rent and bleeding and many places, his blood leaked across the stone and snow, and his voice was weak. "Dovahkiin?" He asked. "Are you alive?"
Still on his back, the Dragonborn looked up at the sky.
"…I need a new sword." He muttered, disgruntled.
Then he fell unconscious.
And here we are, at the halfway point of the Arc.
Yeah. That's the halfway point.
Okay it's not at all, I've written it and there's like four chapters left, but the point is we're not done yet.
The Emperor dies, and the world responds. Xander comes out as not evil to the Dark Brotherhood, with less of a bang and more of a disgruntled sigh. How unlike him, for his best laid plans to fall by the wayside and force him to solve the problem with a spur-of-the-moment decision.
This interlude will be followed by a short timeskip. An in-universe one; don't worry, you'll still get your new chapter next week. But the characters need time to respond to what on God's green Tamriel just happened, because not only did the face of international politics just change: Hjar just took over a small country! Seriously, she's just on a roll right now.
Next Time: Someone gets some books, someone wakes up after sex, and someone else also gets some books.