*DRAGON KEEP*
HELGEN
SKYRIM
"What do you mean, NO?"
Isran's voice was equally heavy-laden with rage and disbelief. The throne room of the Dragon Keep was full of gold-cloaked individuals, and all of them, even the man seated on the throne on the far side of the room, looked supremely uneasy.
"I mean I will not invade the Vodahmin Covenant, Isran," Llewellyn Dragonborn answered. "I will not plunge Tamriel into war."
"I'm not asking you to," Isran hissed. "I'm asking you to help me exterminate vermin."
"Vermin who happen to be led by the mother of Queen Tala's Royal Consort," Tolan scoffed, "That is exactly what you are asking the High King to do."
"If they defend vermin, they deserve to die with them," Isran growled again.
"Queen Tala has ordered that the Vampires be allowed to live unmolested within the boundaries of her kingdom," Llewellyn answered, "That all the Vodahmin dwell in peace and be left in peace."
"Peace?" Isran spat, "At what cost? They are leeches that walk upright. How many farms must be raided, how many children must go missing before you all wake up and do something?!"
"Exactly how many farms along the border have been burned?" Arch-Mage Sarai Gellarus answered, from her seat. "Exactly how many children have been kidnapped from Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, or Solitude? From Falkreath?"
Isran only clenched his fists and growled in answer.
"The vampires have, against all expectations, kept their end of the bargain," the Arch-Mage continued, "They abandoned Volkihar Castle when we asked them to, for Aedra's sake, in the name of peace. They have refrained from touching or molesting a single Nord on Skyrim's side of the border, in the name of peace."
"And if they were Nordic men, women, and children imprisoned in their cellars as living chattel," Florentius Baenius asked slowly, rising to his feet to stand next to Isran, "and not Altmer, would you be so quick to leave them alone, in the name of peace?"
"My friends," an old man rose to his feet, looking around the room. Even Isran inclined his head respectfully; when Esbern offered advice, only the most foolish ignored it. The Commander of the King's Blades cleared his throat and continued:
"Skyrim and her people have suffered much. The Great War, followed by the Markarth Incident, followed by the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Coming of the World-Eater and the Dragon Crisis, the Vodahmin Rising and this latest Great War. Now, we've had five years of peace. FIVE YEARS where not a single mother has had to bury a son, or a daughter has had to lay her father to rest. Not a single harvest burned, or a single unmarked grave. We must carefully consider our actions, before we throw away such a rare commodity as peace."
"So in the name of peace," Isran stated as Esbern sat down, "you will abandon the survivors of Alinor to slavery and death?"
"They were captives taken in war," Llew replied, almost unwillingly, "and I am only the High King of Skyrim. I cannot dictate to the Vodahmin Covenant on how they should treat their prisoners. So yes, Isran: in the name of peace, I will uphold the oath I made on the field of Rorikstead."
Isran slowly reached up, and deliberately unbuckled the golden cloak from his shoulders.
"Isran," Tolan hissed, half-rising in his chair. "Don't be a fool, man!"
"Such a peace is not worth defending," the commander of the Dawnguard answered gravely. Another figure rose, and Gunmar Troll-Tamer unfastened his own golden cloak.
"No man should live in chains," he nodded, "not even gilded ones."
Isran turned away and strode from the hall, calmly and deliberately, followed by the figures of Gunmar, Sorine Jurard, and Florentius Baenius. Two armored Blades began to bar the group's way.
"No," Llewellyn Dragonborn said, rising to his feet. "Let them pass."
He cast his eyes around the rest of the table.
"Anyone else who wishes to join them, they are free to do so," he stated evenly. "This is Skyrim, not the bloody Dominion. Each of you are free men and women here, and those cloaks are not shackles."
A few other figures rose: Durak, Celann, Agmaer, and a few other veteran Dawnguard such as Ingjard and Beleval. These also shed their gold cloaks and followed their leaders out the door. As it closed behind them, there was a very long silence, and Llewellyn sank back down in his chair, placing his head in his hands.
"There are a great many things on the other side of the border that we may not approve of, my King," Sarai Gellarus spoke up finally. "But that is why there is a border between us and them. If we take it upon ourselves to settle all the injustices of the world, we will die of exhaustion before the month is out, and there will still be some land where a tyrant rules, or knees are bent. We cannot solve all of Nirn's problems, nor should we try. We are the defenders of Skyrim, and we have defended it well, against all who would do it harm."
There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around. Llewellyn nodded also, but the grave look on his face did not fade.
"So that still leaves us with a problem, Father," Prince Alesan said slowly. "What are we going to do about them?"
Down in the courtyard, Isran and the others were pulling their mounts towards the gates getting ready to ride back into the town proper and back towards Fort Dawnguard in the Velothi Mountains.
"Lord Isran!"
Isran paused and turned towards the older man coming towards him.
"Did you really mean what you said in there?" he asked the commander of the Dawnguard, who nodded in answer.
"Every word."
"You're really going to attack the vampires, even though that means the Vodahmin will attack you?"
"We have a duty to protect Tamriel," Florentius said, swinging up into the saddle. " Arkay says there are no addendums or special circumstances to that."
"Then we have a common purpose," said a Redguard woman, stepping out of the stables and into the light of the courtyard. "And a common enemy."
Isran looked from one figure to the other.
"Who are you?" he asked finally.
"My name is Raerek," the old man answered, bowing slightly. "This is Faleen. And we have been waiting for someone like you, Isran."
*WHITE-GOLD TOWER*
IMPERIAL CITY
CYRODIIL
Servetus Tullius, Imperator of the Legions of the Empire, swung from the saddle, the mud and dirt of the road still covering his armor. It had been a hard ridge from the Hammerfell border forts, but occasion was grave enough to warrant it. As servants scrambled to open the doors in front of him, a tall man in splendid green and silver robes met him, falling in step alongside him.
"Amaund," Tullius nodded in greeting, "How is he?"
"Worse," Amaund Motierre answered. "The mages and the physicians both say he will not live out the night."
"Fuck."
Exhaustion from the long travel ripped the word from Tullius' unguarded lips, but if the Elder Council member beside him was offended at the word, he did not show it. Rather, he nodded in agreement at the sentiment:
Titus Mede, second of his Name, Ruler of the Colovian Mede Dynasty, Protector of the Ruby Throne and Emperor of the Tamrielic Empire… was dying.
The two men entered the wide atrium outside the Emperor's personal quarters. Surrounding the marble walls was every member of the Elder Council. The best and the brightest (and certainly the wealthiest) from the Empire Titus Mede II had expanded all stood together, in close huddles of frenzied whispers.
Bosmer, Dunmer and Khajiit.
Nords and Imperials.
A dark-scaled Argonian ambassador stood in the corner, as did the Altmer ambassador from the Dominion Remnant. Tullius cursed silently; this was certainly the sort of thing that should have been kept away from their eyes and ears. But there was no helping it now and having them thrown out would only exacerbate matters and confirm everyone's gravest fears: that their Emperor was dying, and there were no heirs to succeed the old man.
The situation was, unfortunately enough, hardly unique in the Empire's history: the hastily-arranged, politically-motivated marriage of Titus' youth had produced no heirs. After his wife had died delivering their third stillborn child, there had come crisis after crisis: the Great War, the Redguard Secession, the Stormcloak Rebellion, all the way up to the Second Great War and the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Quite frankly, there had been no time for any formal marriage arrangements, though there had been plenty of young… companions and nameless entertainers over the years. The resulting offspring had all been secured good tutors, homes, and positions, as well as the surname "Medeborn," but none of them had been formally acknowledged or adopted.
Two armored soldiers saluted as the two men entered the Emperor's private chamber. Tullius drew in a short breath and stifled another curse as he took in the thin, frail body that lay on the bed, comparing it to the hale and hearty Emperor of only five years ago, at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Around the outside wall of the room, a circle of priestesses of Kynareth were constantly casting healing spells. The High Priestess folded her hands and joined the two newcomers in the room.
"Chancellor, Imperator," she greeted, her voice grave. "I swear upon the goddess, every spell, every potion has been utilized. By now… all we can do is ensure that he is in no pain."
Tullius nodded at the grave news, and placed his hands on his hips.
"I thank you, High Priestess," he said at last, "But I need you to stop."
"General?" Motierre looked as shocked and horrified as the High Priestess in that moment.
"The spells are numbing his mind as well as his nerves," Tullius answered. "If the Emperor is dying, there is business that must be taken care of first."
"I can't…" the older woman stammered.
"I can order it, High Priestess," Tullius growled, but then he made his voice soften. "I don't want to, but if it means ensuring the succession and avoiding Civil War, then so be it."
Understanding came into the religious woman's eyes, and she nodded slowly.
"Alright… but for only as briefly as possible."
"Of course," Amaund reassured her.
Tullius and Amaund took their places on either side of the frail-looking king as the chanting and spellwork slowly came to a stop. The old man laying on the bed stirred, and the eyes fluttered open. The breathing, which had been so calm and peaceful a moment ago, began to shallow and come in sharp, rasping gasps.
"My Emperor…" Tullius said softly, "Can you hear me?"
"Tullius?" The voice was reed-thin, and strained.
"My Emperor," Amaund Motierre broke in, his voice a thin wheedle compared to Tullius'. "Who will chose to succeed you?"
Confusion and incomprehension warred on the thin face.
"S…suc…succeed?" he asked, clearly confused.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Amaund repeated, "who should be crowned in your place, as your successor?"
"In my place…" Eyes darted back and forth and cold sweat broke out on the dying man's brow.
"DAMMIT TITUS," Tullius broke out, his emotions getting the better of him. "To whom do you leave your empire?!"
Suddenly, the frail figure on the man bolted upright, startling everyone present, including the veteran warrior. A hand, stronger than a dying man's should have been, gripped the armored shoulder, and the voice that spoke was hard, and full of purpose.
"To… the Dragon."
The free hand lifted towards the dais, and pointed to the royal Crown, perched atop the Ruby Throne.
"See it done, my friend," the Emperor of Cyrodiil continued, "Protect…"
And the voice faltered.
"Protect… my Empire."
Then suddenly the grip loosened, and the voice failed, and Tullius only just caught the Emperor's body as he fell backwards towards the pillows. Gently, he laid the body of his Emperor upon the bed, crossing the lifeless arms across his chest, and closing the lifeless eyes.
"Is… is he…?" Amaund asked, seemingly unable to complete the question.
"He is dead," Tullius nodded, and the finality of the words sank heavy on the old warrior's soul: Titus Mede II, Titus Mede the Lawgiver, Titus Mede the Conqueror, was dead.
"Amaund," Tullius said slowly. "Secure the crown and send that crowd of vultures outside away. I'm going to prepare the horses."
"Horses?"
"Yes, horses," Tullius repeated. "We have a long ride in front of us."
"To… to where?" Amaund asked, clearly not understanding.
"Skyrim, of course," Tullius answered, trying his best to keep his irritation in check. "You heard the Emperor's last words: the crown is to go to the Dragonborn. As High Chancellor of the Elder Council, you are now the Potentate in absentia of a crowned ruler. And Llewellyn Dragonborn is, by final royal decree, by Imperium Edictum Mortuorum, the new Emperor of Cyrodiil."
"So it would seem," the man nodded nervously, but said nothing else. Tullius sighed, and turned to look him fully in the eye, using all his willpower to not place his hand on the hilt of the sword on his belt.
"You secure the crown," he repeated. "And I will secure our transportation. We can get to Skyrim and back again within a fortnight and secure the succession with minimal unrest. But every second we delay courts disaster."
"Right then," the little man nodded again, seemingly goaded at last into action. "Let's not delay a moment."
The next two hours were a flurry of motion for Tullius, taking him back to the days of campaigning in Skyrim and Valenwood. Provisions, fresh horses, and men he could trust were gathered together with all speed. Finally, they were all in the Royal stables, with one glaring absence.
"Where is Lord Motierre?" Tullius asked the prelate on duty. "He should have been here hours ago.'
"I don't know, sir," the officer answered, "I haven't seen him since we began preparations to leave."
"What in Oblivion could be keeping the man?" Tullius muttered, and a cold chill went up his spine. "Something's not right. Legate, you're with me. The rest of you, stand ready."
Tullius and a small group of legionnaires made their way back through the now-mostly deserted palace. The atrium was entirely empty now, but then Tullius made his way back into the Emperor's quarters.
The Throne Room was filled with Penitus Oculatus standing at-arms. The body of the Emperor was now shrouded, covered with a beautifully-woven tapestry, depicting the events of his rule. Three figures though, immediately caught his eye. The first turned towards him, a fist coming up in a salute against armor.
"Imperator Tullius."
"Commander Moro," Tullius said slowly. The commander of the Penitus Oculatus was adorned in full resplendent armor, almost ornamental in design, but the sword that hung on his hip was fully functional.
"Lord Medeborn."
Tiberius Medeborn, he was not the oldest, or in Tullius' opinion, the wisest of Titus Mede II's bastards, but he was by far the most ambitious. He had served his father well, by all accounts, in the latest war, though without any singular distinction.
But now it was he that sat upon the Ruby Throne, with the figure of the High Chancellor at the foot of the dais.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Rejoice, Imperator," Tiberius Medeborn answered. "Yes, our beloved Emperor is dead. But the Empire is not left bereft or lordless."
The Penitus Oculatus drew their swords and saluted, including the figure of their Commander.
"Long Live the Emperor."
Tullius glared daggers at the figure of Amaund Motierre. "Lord Motierre," he stated evenly. "the Crown leaves with us, as we go to fulfill the Emperor's last command."
Motierre paused, glancing nervously at the white-haired veteran on the one side of the room, the rows of armed guards lining the room, and the young man sitting on the throne on the far side. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped towards the throne, away from the man whose hand slowly moved towards his sword.
"I'm sorry, Imperator," he said slowly. "But the wheels of Fate are in motion, and they cannot be stopped. Long… Long live the Emperor."
He knelt down, holding out the Ruby Crown towards the seated figure. Commander Maro extended his hand to take the crown.
"By what right do you claim the throne?" Tullius scoffed, causing the man to step back in alarm. "By the blood of your father, who named the High King of Skyrim his successor? Or by the right of your mother, who died alone in a whorehouse in the Dock District?
Dark fury clouded the face of Medeborn, but he kept it from his voice as he answered evenly:
"The throne is mine by right, as is the crown. They do not belong to a barbarian, sheep-fucking barbarian in the north. Commander, bring me the Crown."
"The choice is simple, Servetus," Commander Moro grinned, stepping forward once again. "You, the High Chancellor, and the High Priestess are the only ones who witnessed the Emperor's delirious final words. The Chancellor is with us. The High Priestess… has met with an unfortunate accident. Who exactly the Emperor left in charge is only a matter of your word against ours."
It was only then that Tullius noticed the blood stains in the corner of the room, with drag marks showing where a body had been dragged away.
"And what say you… Imperator?" Tiberius Medeborn asked smugly.
Tullius' fist clenched and he swallowed hard.
"I say… Testudo!"
With a flash, his sword was in his hand, and he was dashing forward, a dozen Legionary shields around him.
"KILL THEM!" the young man screeched, half-rising from his throne. The Penitus Oculatus agents came forward swords at the ready. But these men were secret police, glorified thugs, and the legionnaires they faced were veterans of many wars..
"LEGIONNAIRES!" roared Tullius, "Pila!"
The twelve men hurled the thin spearshafts forward, and seven men went down, four more hurling aside ruined shields or shrieking as the spearheads pinned their shields to their arms. Moro grabbed the High Chancellor, hurling the man between himself, and the pila that had speeding for his torso. The weapon struck with a solid whack, sounding for all the world a slap.
"We… had a deal…" Amaund Motierre gurgled, looking incredulously at Moro and then down at the shaft that had punched through his chest. The former High Chancellor's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled like a rag doll. The golden circlet, however, fell from limp fingers, tumbling down the steps of the dais, to land at Tullius' feet. Tiberius' face went purple with rage as the Imperator stooped to take the symbol of rulership into his hand.
"KILL THEM ALL!" he screeched again, making as if he meant to throw himself into the fray, but Moro seized his new Emperor around the chest, dragging him bodily from the room. By now, however, more Penitus Oculatus were pouring in, some of them armed with bows. A legionary on Tullius' left went down, gurgling as a shaft pierced his throat. Tullius bent and caught up the man's shield, plugging the hole in the solid line of steel.
"Fall back!" he cursed even as the order left his lips. Maybe they could reach the bastard and kill him. But none of his men would survive such an attack, and then where would the Empire be? No, he would obey his Emperor's dying wish, and get this crown north to Skyrim.
North to the new Emperor.
Author's Note:
Well, here is the setup for the second arc of this story. Lewis' happy little family is proving to be anything but, and the demands of the kingdom and the demands of the various factions are proving to be hard to reconcile.
And on the other side of Tamriel, the idyllic dream of Titus Mede II begins to fray at the seams…
As always, please leave your thoughts/suggestions/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, even if it's a simple "Good job, I enjoyed it."
Rock On, my friends!
-Tusken1602
Reviewer Responses:
Tech Warrior Ender – You are 100 percent correct, my friend, in your analysis of Tala and the Daedra. But at the risk of being pessimistic, the moral high ground has never determined victory in the real world.
Bloodwolf432, Ascended Humanity, Cap'n Smurfy, JimmyHall24, The Perpetual Shadow, Guest – But the POWERS you get with the masks will surely be worth the trade... right?
NotRevan, GalacticHalfling, Dunnezeu – I would describe Tala as "ultimately practical." I WOULD describe Potema as "wonderfully evil." The balancing act will be tough to handle.
tylermech66 – Excellent suggestions, and yes, I am aware of shadveristy's videos. But I disagree with giving short species long pikes: they are ALWAYS going to be shorter than their enemies, so rather than try and meet their taller enemies on unequal ground, why not embrace their size and use tactics and equipment that give them the advantage (daggers for slitting ankles/throats, throwing spears to harass and then disappear back into the underbrush, etc.)?
Spartanzerg75 – No offense taken at all, my friend! Every story appeals to a different audience, so there's no need to be apologetic over being attracted to one story over another.
Wiwerse – Thanks for the suggestion. I was trying to go for "frenzied insanity" and I think it's very easy to overdo it. As for Falion, I'm honestly not sure how welcome he would be in Markarth, as his main achievement is the cure for vampirism, in a queendom that views it as a blessing, rather than a disease.
siddharth1998m, badkidoh, glix357, derpysauce – Thanks so much! I appreciate your support! Means a lot to me, truly.
EE-RAH!