Chapter XXVIII: ...Die by the Dragon
The wind, the waves crashing against the stern of the tender, the same numbing sensation in her arms as she rowed towards the open sea. It was very similar to the first time she'd been there, when Azrael wasn't yet one of them. It seemed a lifetime ago, and the very concept of him not being a vampire sounded wrong somehow. She remembered thinking he was a vampire when she had seen him for the first time, though the scent of fresh blood running in his veins had quickly made her aware of her mistake. And after that long journey, she had been the one to paddle towards the castle. Just like this time, only this time there was the bloodied sky glaring at her from above and Azrael was no longer in sight.
How long have I been out here? she wondered, unable to see anything that might have given a glimpse of the time of day. The gaping wound in the sky didn't move like the Sun did, and there were no stars that could tell the way. I only hope I've been rowing in the right direction. The endless expanse of the sea was the only thing she could see in every direction.
She struggled to keep her own thoughts at bay. This is why I enjoy being with others, she thought, they distract me from all the things going on in my head and give me something to focus on. And when alone, a vampire doesn't have a lot to focus on. Her heart was still, she wasn't breathing, there was no heat and no other sensations worthy of notice in her arms, and the movements she made had become so monotonous that she hardly noticed the mental effort anymore. The world around her was similarly unchanging, and once she had grown uneasily accustomed to the red shade that the crimson disk cast on the water there was nothing else to keep her focused.
Her thoughts were the only place to go back to, but they overwhelmed her. Once you touch that shore, there's no going back. You'll be killing your family, the only people you truly know, she though. And as much as she thought she knew it, she found out that she really didn't. She had been guided onwards by the urge to end her father's madness, but had always put her affection for him in the back of her mind, from where it now whispered with accusatory tones.
There was one thing, one weapon which she wielded fearlessly against that fear. You're my old self, she told it, and the thoughts would momentarily disappear. She remembered what Azrael had told her. You're tired of swinging, are you not? She was a pendulum; in her feelings, actions and thoughts. But it was natural that one's feelings should change depending on the moment. That is the way of all things that live, even vampires. But thus far, she had allowed her feelings to dictate everything, her thoughts and actions included. She did what her feelings told her to do, with the result that those things were irrational, scattered and with no sense of coherence. Now, there is something more.
At first glance, she had guessed that Azrael simply had no feelings. She had come to realize that he had, but he wasn't swayed by them. When out in the cold outside of the Castle, the first time he had held her in his arms, he had claimed that a monster lived inside of him. He might have been right. His feelings were something different, something so violent and dark that he thought of them as a monster, around which he had built the icy cage that everyone saw and dealt with. But he was capable of great understanding when one could go just underneath that cuirass of impenetrable cold and unbreakable hardness. And I, the fool that I am, thought that he had no values. He does. He holds rationality, intelligence and secrecy above all else. It was incidental that those resulted in a demeanor that seemed unpredictable and capricious.
She had been with him for so long that she had understood and emulated that adherence to an internal compass, even if it was not the one most people had. The goal comes before everything, except the system by which it is achieved. Remember that well, princess, she had told her. It didn't matter if she felt horrible at the thought of putting a dagger in her father's back. It had to be done and she knew it. Nothing, not the vampires that stood with him nor her own doubt would stop her. I no longer am his little girl. She was no one's little girl any longer. She was Serana of House Volkihar, Daughter of Coldharbour. She was Lord Harkon's daughter and Azrael's lover, but those were things that were only added to her, but didn't define her.
It was a wonderful yet harrowing feeling. For the first time in her life she truly considered the prospect that death could just be around the corner. There was no one but herself to protect her from the world.
She squinted her eyes, noticing that she had completely forgotten about her surroundings for a few moments. Or had it been minutes? She couldn't tell, but something had snapped her out of her trance. The wind was no longer hitting her shoulder.
She drew the oar inside the boat and looked behind her back. She knew before looking that the only thing that could block the wind was the Castle. Its black walls were covered by thick mist that was of the same blood red as the red light of the sky, and a hellish vermillion haze hung just above the sides, where the waves splashed against the walls and covered them with foam. The tide was high. It must be dusk, then. The sight of the Castle was sending shivers down her spine, but she didn't know why. And after a moment, she realized there was something else.
There was a sound coming from all around her. A faint whistle or a hiss, rhythmic yet strangely erratic. She looked at the water, falling prey to the fear of the gigantic water creature that her mind had conjured up. She calmed down. There was nothing in those waters that could do that, and even if, she could have defeated it. She kept rowing, listening intently. The sound seemed to come and go, and she didn't understand how it was arriving from all directions at once. Except… She listened closer, and realized that it was coming from behind her, but the wind that traveled in the opposite direction sent it back. When rowing she showed her back to the Castle, which meant that the sound was coming from the same way she had come.
From Skyrim's shore, then. Whatever it was, she was supposedly staring right at it. She gazed at the horizon, but there was nothing. And yet, the sound was getting louder. Am I blind? What is happening? There had to be something, but there was nothing in the water and nothing on the horizon. The water would be rippling all around if something that made that sound was coming closer. It was only by aimlessly looking at the sky that she saw them.
An image flashed before her eyes. Azrael, standing in front of the crowd in Falkreath, telling them the story. Hooded and cloaked, darker than night itself, he had said those words that were enthralling for everyone, but prophetic only for her. And with his enemies' gone, she remembered him saying, he returned to the vampire's king, burned down his castle and killed him. And at the time, she had wondered how he could tore down Castle Volkihar.
She looked at the dozens of immense Dragons soaring through the blood red sky and she had her answer.
I'm not dreaming, she told herself, but a few moments went by before she could convince herself of that fact. This is real. All of them are real. Now that she had seen what made the noise, it almost deafened her. It was the beat of a hundred wings, maybe more, as the Dragons flew closer to her. The sound now came along with slight, irregular gusts of air that hit her face. Below the beasts, the water they were flying above rippled ever so slightly under their shadow. I'm not dreaming.
She had doubted she would see one of them, but this she had never imagined. They were more than she could count, and they were all so majestic and beautiful in a frightening way. They had been vanquished once, one could even say twice, but their souls were still those of the conquerors and the lords of old, who looked at the world from above in every meaning of the sentence. Their bearing was elegant in ways that no mortal, not even those made immortal through the blood of a vampire, could ever hope to be. Their impenetrable and intense gazes were all fixed on the Castle, a foreboding light shining in them.
There were so many, and they were so different form one another. The ones she saw best were the ones that flew in the front of the group. There were two whose scales were light blue and their wings white and thin, but the body ridges on their heads and the spiked fins on the back told her of their old age and great wisdom. There was one, a little further away from the others, who had scales of fiery orange, blood red and pitch black. His claws were long and the only sight of him suggested the fury that the beast was feeling. The large horns on his head and barbs on his tail and back gave him a brutal look.
Among all of them, she recognized only one. In the multitude of colors, there was one of them whose scales had lost their tint. They were of a pale yellow, the color of decay and death. Durnehviir flew alongside his ancient brethren, shielded by them and beating his rotten wings with a strength that Serana never thought he could still have. Though his return to Tamriel was temporary, there were few words that expressed the depth of his vigor and the extent of the determination and peacefulness he felt and which irradiated from the way he pounded his wings.
As she looked, the beasts had almost reached her. They were about to fly to her left and reach the Castle. Only then she noticed one of the Dragons, who remained further back into the group, but that was surrounded by a circle of younger brethren. He looked grizzled and old, with scales that were the color of bone. There was a long mark on his neck, which she could barely distinguish. Beside him flew a red Dragon. He was a fighter, by the look of it, but that wasn't why Serana had an interest in him. There was something else. On his neck there was a black outline.
Tell me that isn't… She looked more keenly, and the black outline had in fact a humanoid shape. Azrael, what are you doing? she wondered, half in fear and half in awe as the bone white Dragon flew over her, and Azrael with him. The whirlwind made by the pounding of all their wings shook the tender and rippled the water, making the small boat sway in the current.
A roll of thunder came from the heavens. It was Azrael's voice. 'Ag Gol Enook Kriist. Scorch the earth and all who stand upon it!"
'Dovahkiin, Jun,' the red Dragon said.
'Dovrahkren, Thuri!', all the Dragons roared.
The barbed, red-and-black scaled Dragon was the first to descend onto the Caste. He bent his wings and flew down, opening them to their full width and braking right before reaching the walls. A blazing firestorm lit up the Castle's gate and brightened up the gloomy red walls. Serana watched motionless as the flames grazed the stone, heating it to the point of making it incandescent for a few moments, and dispersing the mist. The Dragon pounded his wings and soared above the castle, but not before unleashing a powerful strike with his tail that tore through one of the spires that stood above the main entrance.
The lump of rock fell down, its base cracked and destroyed. It crashed against the wall, smashing into a thousand fragments and a thick cloud of debris and gravel. The bigger chunks hit the ground with hollow thuds. The Castle's gate, which was closed, now slowly began to open. The chains that tied it moved quickly.
Another two blazes lit up the sky and a choir of roars smothered all other sounds. Serana sat in the tender, forcing herself to show her shoulders to the Castle, and grabbed the oars. She had stopped and had remained there, adrift in the current, to watch the flight of the Dragons. But now, the assault was on. And, by the Mace of Souls, I mean to be on dry land when it happens. She rowed with all her strength, the oars coming in and out of the water in a whirl of splashes and foam, and the small boat slashed the waves with a speed it was never meant to reach.
The Dragons all flew above her as she paddled towards the island, and some of them also reappeared above her. They had already circled around the Castle once and were studying another strike. Most of them were brown or grey, though one had a vivid color that went from shades of orange to ones of almost purple of violet. Long horns grew along his neck, and he looked older than the others.
Sounds were all she could hear. She heard tails smashed on the rock, claws swiped against the spires and towers and torrents of ice and fire engulfing the stone walls. It sounded like entire pieces of the Castle were being ripped away. The wind that came from that direction carried gusts of burning and of freezing cold. An echoing splash came from her left. She turned, seeing a Dragon soaring higher and an enormous wave coming her way. The beast had dropped an entire piece of stone in the sea.
She sat in a deeper part of the tender and held on tight to the oars. The wave hit the boat and threatened to overthrow it. Serana felt time slowing down when the keel turned almost parallel to the surface of the water, but then they reached the crest of the wave and the boat quickly returned to its position. As they were on the other side of the wave, she grabbed onto the oars and recommenced her rowing towards the shores. It wasn't far now.
He's tearing it to the ground, she though as she rowed. There will be nothing self of that place once those Dragons are finished with it. The sentence itself still sounded strange to her ears. She had learned to adapt quickly during that journey, and it had been her blessing once as it was now. Dragons… And I thought I would never see one of them from up close. There had been Durnehviir, but that was different. Those were real. Those beasts inhabited the same world she did. She watched the few who still whirled above her in the blood red light of the sky.
The tender hit the shore. The keel scraped the rock and gravel with a grazing sound and came to a swift stop. Serana drew her arms in, tucking the oars inside the boat with a single pull, and then jumped out of the tender with a single leap. She looked around and found herself to the right of the arcing bridge that led to the Castle's entrance. She drew the dagger and ran to the base of the stone bridge.
A few vampires had gathered in front of the gate. Orthjolf, Vingalmo and a few others. She recognized all of them, but she doubted any of themm had seen her. They were all looking up, trying to aim spells at the flying beasts. At one point she saw them all looking a little to their left. The red Dragon, the one Azrael was riding, was charging right at them. A flash of lightning hit him in the neck, but he seemed hardly bothered. His teeth shone in the red light for a moment when he opened his maws.
A firestorm engulfed the vampires. The flames flew beyond the bridge's rail, shrouding in a fan of fire everything that was happening in front of the gate. Serana heard the screams and she heard the red Dragon landing heavily on the rock. The sound was muffled by the sonorous crashes on her sides, which were followed by a long hiss and a thundering sound. She turned to the right, looked and broke into a sprint away from where she was standing. The tower on the left of the entrance had been hammered down by the tail-blows of the Dragons, which had weakened the lower part. The huge mast was now falling down, its base unable to hold its weight, and was sliding off towards the ground and crumbling from the inside. Serana looked at it, wondering whether her senses were causing that impression of slowing time or if the tower was truly taking that long to crash to the ground.
She looked at the gate, where the firestorm had left nothing that she could see but a few smoking remains. The red Dragon was now battering down the door with his head and tail. The gate had caved in, its meticulous carvings shredded into a confused mixture of splinters and broken wood and iron. The wooden protection around the watchman's place was burning up in a single, huge blaze and the iron chains were running freely down the cogs, broken.
'Fus Ro Dah!'
A blue wave of faint light touched the broken gate, bent it further in for a split second and then tore it off its hinges. The two wings of the gate bent, cracked and shattered, disappearing from Serana's view and they flew inside the Castle into a flurry of debris and incandescent splinters.
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Azrael stepped swiftly to the side, landing on his left foot and pivoting. The crackling roar of the flames gathering in Odahviing's maws as he conjured the power of the Voice filled the air, together with the first, faint heat. He ended his pivot and pressed on the Castle's wall, halting the movement and throwing his hand behind his back, coiling his fingers around the handle of the longsword and drawing it.
Odahviing shouted a torrent of flames into the open ante-chamber of the castle. Azrael caught the last of both Orthjolf and Vingalmo being engulfed into the firestorm. The crumbling remains of the shattered gate had crashed against them before they could react, and they were still too stunned by the heat around them and the surprise to leap out of the fire. The Dragonborn averted his eyes from the spot where the light of the fire was most intense, but he glimpsed at the Altmer's frame dissolving into a frail pile of embers as the two screamed hysterically.
The flames died out along with their screams. A nearby window burst into splinters, either from the heat or the quakes that were running through the walls. Azrael looked in. The wooden planks that stuck out of the stone were consumed by spiraling blazes. Some of them had already fallen, and thin dust came down from the ceiling.
Odahviing raised his neck and pounded once with his wings, rising from the ground and taking his head and neck away from the shattered gate. Pounding again, he flew off to the side of the Castle. Azrael stepped towards the middle of the paved road that led into the Castle and stood still for a moment, the longsword motionless by his side and his cloak waving in the wind caused by the Dragons and their wings. His black frame stood out in the red shades of the Blood Sun, Auriel's Bow shining grimly with a similar crimson hue and the blade glittering with a sinister light.
Azrael drew an airless breath and strode through the gate.
A quake shook the walls, and more dust fell from the ceiling. He looked at the cloud of pulverized stone. Soon enough that will be all that's left of this place, aside from a few bigger blocks. Paarthurnax himself would oversee that Valerica's tower and the Moondial's garden remained untouched, lest there might not be a chance to get the woman out of the Soul Cairn. The rest was at the Dragons' mercy. A heap of shattered stone would be all that was left of the millennial heritage of the Volkihar bloodline.
There are things in the world that, despite being built with the best intention, eventually spoil beyond any chance of redemption. Azrael no longer thought of himself as a messenger of Fate, but he couldn't help but seen the same pattern recurring over and over in everything that he looked at. The Right hand of Fate sows and looks as the world as it grows, until the day comes for the Left hand to reap its bloody harvest. There are things which cannot be saved, people who cannot be redeemed. Someone has to put an end to those things. Why should it not be me?
Burn it. Burn it all to the ground. It was the final straw, the final act of the long charade that had kept the Court alive through the eons, silently waiting for the day of their ascent. And how real were the prophecies didn't matter to anyone, because the mere possibility was enough to blind all men and women on the pursuit to the possibly of failure. Maybe there are forces that shape events, making them steer in one way or the other, but do those forces have a will of their own, or are they simply the sum of the things that the little paws of Fate do as they play?
The Vennesetiid, the Currents of Time, are unreadable by their very nature, and the only thing Azrael had been able to discern about them was that the best way to influence them was to pretend they didn't exist.
The Dragonborn stepped inside the main hall. From the top of the short set of stairs he could see all of it in one glance, illumined by the red light of the sky that was rendered even gloomier by the stained-glass windows. On the left side, a portion of the wall at the height of the chandeliers was bend and had caved in, letting through faint rays of light. Smashed stone and thin debris rained down into the hall, onto the empty chairs and tables. The sound of the Dragons hitting the walls and tearing down the Castle echoed every few moments, spelling a frantic and hectic rhythm.
Azrael looked above him as he saw some dust fall all over his cloak. The Castle would crumble down soon enough. For better or worse, the sand in the hourglass would run out.
In the silence, he sensed something immaterial, nothing more than a sensation, which compelled him to glance behind. Serana. He recognized the scent, and could tell just from it that she was at once frightened, exited and conflicted. Her presence had the strange effect of threatening the cold silence of his own mind, but he wasn't suspicious of that sensation anymore. It was part of being with her, which shook the aura of absolute truth around a few of the things he held true above all else.
'So, this is how you meant to burn this castle to the ground,' she said. There was the slightest hint of humor in her voice, a last attempt to keep her feelings in check. 'I admit that I had thought of it as a metaphor. I didn't think there was a way you could tear down this place.'
'Language can be used to trick easily enough, but for once I meant it.'
'You're a madman.'
Azrael turned her way slightly, just enough to glimpse at her and cross eyes for a moment. 'Have I ever argued against it?' He focused for a moment away from the conversation and observed her gaze well, both because he found it interesting and both because he felt a pleasure that he didn't remember well. They were full of sincere affection. He would swear he was wrong, but if he had to put into words what Serana was telling him through that look it would be: You are the world to me. Karliah had once told him about her first few months with Gallus, thinking back to how unsettling it was. Not because she loved him, but because she was loved. I never thought she could be this correct.
He turned away, still pulling together the last loose ends of that reflection, and the icy veil of his piercing concentration once again returned to the monitoring of the environment and the execution of the plan. There were still a few vampires to cut through, and then Harkon would be waiting for them. There was no trace of him, but it wasn't hard to guess where he'd be. He would never cower in his chambers when he hears this. If we're here without the others, he must guess that we betrayed him. And he'll be waiting for us in the temple.
He gripped the sword's handle tighter. 'Follow me.'
Serana stepped behind him and cracked her neck, smiling. 'How funny that you lead the way the last time we come here, as I did when we first came.'
Azrael narrowed his eyes for a moment, thinking and observing the endless images that the sentence had summed. 'That's usually how it goes around me,' he said. The places where he had willingly chosen to enter were only a handful, and he eventually he had ended up being the one who accompanied others into those same places. The Dark Brotherhood, the Thieves Guild, the College. Even the Greybeards were ready to admit his superiority, after his victory over the World Eater. I admire their humility, but when was I ever meant to act humbly during this journey?
He felt a hand on his neck. Serana. Smart girl, she knew touching him on the pauldron wouldn't have awakened him as well. 'They're close,' she whispered. 'They're hidden here, somewhere. They mean to ambush us.'
That much was obvious even on a purely theoretical level. If they had attacked the two of them even after their companions had perished from the fire of the Dragons or their two blades, they were stupid. And those were the last remaining members of the Volkihar Court. There had to be something more than chance that had kept them alive all that time. The last days of community life in this Castle would be a sample that any thinker and Jarl should have seen. How does one move through the suspicious of others and reacts when the things that have been true one's entire life start to crumble?
The person who could have been considered the smartest man in the Castle, Garan Marethi, had committed the tactical and social sin of taking a clear side. From what Serana had gathered, his insistence that Azrael was a traitor had at length convinced enough people that he himself was the traitor. Everything had fallen into place. He had been the only one to never take sides and he had a secure position at the Lord's side, one that very few could rival, while also having the reputation of being uninterested in political maneuvering. How quickly a person's effort to prove something can be turned into arguments for the exact opposite. Garan had prospered and thrived in the low-key existence of the court, but when change had reached him, he had fallen prey to it.
Azrael walked towards a corner, keeping at a safe distance from it. It was the door that went into Feran Sadri's laboratory, and the alchemist was still alive. He had not seen him at the massacre at the Blue Palace and he had not seen him among the ones being incinerated by the Dragons. He stepped forward, turning his torso ever so slightly towards the door and keeping an eye on the sliver of the room he could see from where he was.
He heard a whistle. It wasn't anything that came from outside. It had echoed once inside the hall. An arrow? It was the only thing that matched the sound. The Dragonborn calculated the spot from which It came from and dodged to the side, hearing the whistle coming closer and then the clear sound of an arrow hitting the rock. Rargal… he thought, looking at the projectile. And here I thought you were only able to manage brainless slaves.
There wasn't enough time to tend to the Thrallmaster, who would surely be behind a line of minions that he had kept for the occasion. Azrael had seen movement behind the corner, but there was something else. There were at least three vampires scattered across the hall, and a number of thralls that he couldn't calculate with precision.
'Behind you!' Serana called out.
Instead of turning, he dashed forward and into Feran's laboratory. I wonder who is it coming from behind me. Ronthil had not been burnt to a crisp yet, not that he had seen, but there might have been others. Ronthil is the best option. Rargal seems unlikely. What he had seen behind the corner was indeed the figure of Feran Sadri, who suspected of having been spotted and had already a few spells crackling in his hands. Azrael focused intensely, but deep down he sneered at the irony of it. When it had all begun, a mage of the skill and age of Feran had challenged his life and had nearly killed him. How the tables have turned. It wasn't child's play to dart at Feran quickly enough to prevent him from firing one of the thunderbolts that sparked in his hands, but the battle was unevenly matched.
The Dragonborn's blade hissed towards the vampire's hands, which were drawn forward in the effort to cast the spell. Feran saw the danger and backed down, but Azrael chained the long running step into a leap and caught up to him. In one movement they had found themselves on the opposite end of the room, and only their preternatural minds and bodies saved them from comically crashing against the wall. Instead, they both turned and the same pattern resumed, but it could not go on for a long time. Azrael heard footsteps and more whistles in the hall, a sign that Serana had chosen not to fight for the time being but that she was still in their line of sight.
The sound of glass shattering came from above. Azrael leapt to the side and saw Feran doing the same. With the corner of his eye he saw the stained-glass window falling to pieces, while some of the splinters were blown inside the room. The rain of small glass shards missed both of them, but the gust of frigid air that came in right afterwards was different. Neither of them felt it too much, but Feran looked worried at the window before his eyes returned to his enemy.
The Dragonborn called forth some magicka in his hand, shaping it in a physical force that resembled the one that pulls all objects towards the ground. He aimed at the shelf, where long lines of potions were stocked, and closed the grip on as many of them as he could. He waved his hand to the side, towards Feran, and the bottles all flew towards the vampire, who did his best to evade them. Some of the flasks and vials shattered against him and their content spilled all over him. A groan twisted his composed features and he wiped away the liquid from his face. Distracted and thrown out of rhythm, Azrael thought. The only thing I needed.
Meanwhile, in the main hall, he heard one spell after the other. Blasts of ice and rolls of thunder alternated one another as magicka bled through the tear that Serana had opened in Aetherius. She's focused, Azrael thought. He brought all of his attention back to his own enemy. There would be a time to decide whether he should help her or not, but he was dealing with the more dangerous threat at the moment.
Azrael lunged at Feran with a thrust, which his enemy avoided and that the Dragonborn had never planned to hit. He recovered quickly from the strike and chained it into a slash. Feran bent backwards to avoid it, trying to keep the short distance, and Azrael had barely enough time to bring back the blade as the vampire leapt forward and grasped with his claws at his hooded face. He called back the blade, eluded the opponent's swipe and traced a swift, diagonal arc in the air with the blade, sending fire-shaped magicka into the handle.
The edge of the longsword cut along the vampire's throat and burnt it. The blade sank into the dry flesh and reached the still larynx and the insides of the neck, the fire bursting from the core of the sword and burning it from the inside. With a twist of his wrist, Azrael straightened the blade and cut right through the vertebrae, severing the spinal cord just below the head and making his enemy's head tumble down beside the beheaded corpse.
A feral surge of strength filled him to the brim, as if clearing it with fire from the inside out. His mind turned clearer than it had been since the combat had started and his body was filled with new-found energy. The vigor that spread through his body reached his fingers last, where it lingered, without anywhere to go, and it made them quaver with energy. The sense of touch spread to his mouth and teeth, the ends of which seemed to tingle. The enjoyment of the battle was washed away and he returned to his previous diffused focus, a complete understanding of the situation.
He turned to the side, and his gaze fell to the floor. Serana, my dear, I have underestimated you. Azrael would have been surprised to see Ronthil there, and not even to see Ronthil's corpse, but Ronthil's corpse was there and it was covered in blue lines and white hues, hovering in the air and being brought back onto his feet while surges of necromantic energies irradiated from his body like heat does from a fire. The mark of the magicka that was filling him with life was Serana's. Ronthil is young, but still powerful. She had never dabbled in necromancy too much, not even the situation was dire, but that didn't roll out the possibility that she had her mother's talent in that branch of magic.
Serana turned around and saw him. 'Go!' she screamed, her voice almost covered by the thunderbolt she threw at the balcony right afterwards. The blue flash of lightning disintegrated the stone and send a rain of splinters everywhere, but didn't hit anyone. 'Go to the cathedral. I can handle him.'
Rargal, Azrael thought. He was right. He couldn't see him, there was a wall between him and the side of the hall, but he could guess he would be there with his small army of thralls. If she can manage this, it truly is best that I keep Harkon occupied. He might have yet a few aces up his sleeve. And I have mine… he though, his hand running behind his back to touch Auriel's Bow. His fingers moved to the quiver, where he touched the sunhallowed arrows that he would need. He knew them by heart, simply by the shape of the vanes.
After a quick glance, he climbed up the stairs in a quick dash and proceeded towards the cathedral. The thunders coming from the hall came in between the sound of the Dragons' tails slamming against the sides of the Castle. Now several points of the walls were caved in, and dust fell down from multiple spots on the ceiling. The red light of the Blood Sun came in through the openings left by the shattered windows, and the roars and shouts of the Dragons echoed above them.
The corridor that run along the left wall and proceeded straight to the temple to Molag Bal was filled with rubble. The wall had shattered in one place, and the entire surface of stone above it was shaking and filled with cracks and widening crevices. The bigger chunks had fallen down amidst a sea of gravel and dust. Some had red shadows dancing over them, where the flames had struck them for so long that they had heated even hard rock.
As he rushed through the Castle, Azrael remembered every scene, every conversation that had happened on that overhead walkway; he recalled the details so vividly that he saw himself talking with each person in front of him, two figures conjured up by the magic of the mind, which had rules of its own. A chilling hiss resounded from behind, and the angry groan that followed could be none other's than Rargal. She found him; it won't be long before she gets to him. With Ronthil's corpse as her ally, Serana would be joining him soon enough.
The Dragonborn strode towards the door of the temple, pondering for one last time a question that he often asked in those circumstances. He felt lucid, his mind clear and his will intact. But what did it feel like to be consumed by madness and obsession, like it was for Harkon? Was there a chance that it felt exactly like what he himself felt in that moment? The answer was always that no, it wasn't. Azrael didn't seem himself falling prey to any kind of madness aside from the one Alduin himself had been consumed by. Still, when striding so far away from the beaten path, sanity is something never to be taken for granted.
The vase which contained the Nightshade flowers that Serana had put in front of the temple's door had been cracked by a rain of gravel that had come from above. The elaborate tiles were covered by a thin layer of dust. Azrael pushed open the doors, knowing that it was the last time he would see that place. The two wings opened wide and clanged against the walls.
'Where is my daughter?'
Azrael raised his eyes on the figure standing at the opposite side of the temple, near the shrine of Molag Bal. Aside from himself, he had not seen another Vampire Lord since his first days in dealing with the vampires, when he had struck one down. What was strange about Harkon was that he looked different. He was adorned with even more extravagant pieces of armor that covered his groin and legs, with golden layers and a red tasset. The rest was just as the Dragonborn remembered. The wings, the hideous face, all of it.
He stepped into the temple, twirling the blade once by his side, raising his hand and sliding it away. I wonder what he'll think of this, he wondered, but there was very little expression that could come from the deformed face of the Vampire Lord. 'She's close,' he answered. 'You need not fret.'
A deformed laughter came from the bat-like throat. 'Yes, clearly. I should have known it was only a matter of time before your own madness outgrew your loyalty.'
'Madness? Loyalty? Do you even know what those words mean? You are consumed by the former and unaware of the latter's existence. You cannot even fathom what happened beyond these walls, or why I am here now.'
'Why you are here is of no consequence. You are a fool, Azrael. Do you think I am mad? Well, at least I'm mad with a good insanity. And what are you mad with? Power? Ambition? No, you wouldn't have torn down this Castle otherwise. If you had come back with Auriel's Bow, those pitiful fools that call themselves my Court would have obeyed you. But you're tearing this Castle down.'
'I am,' Azrael said, coldly and emotionlessly. 'Power, however, comes in many shapes and forms. I have made a choice, and I have rebuffed the power that your Castle provided. But this is something you'll never understand. I believe you would have been ready to sacrifice me before you had understood it.'
'A vampire's life and a fleeting piece of wisdom were a small price to pay for the betterment of our kind.'
'The betterment of our kind is something so different depending on one's perspective that I doubt we can talk about it at all. You would give the vampires free reign over this world, while I think that channeling their strength in a focused way and bringing their weaknesses together to form a new way of life is the best solution. I would argue in favor of resisting the distraction of temptation, while you would argue that temptation is so rooted in the vampire that there is no use in resisting it. Our views cannot reconcile, and so one of them must go away.' He touched the top of Auriel's Bow upper limb with two fingers. 'And the Bow belongs to me now.'
'So, the strongest will win? No moral claim?' Somehow even the grotesque voice of the Vampire Lord could convey a note of sarcasm.
'No,' Azrael said, less interested in the banter and more in the reasoning. The life of the mind was still the most exciting kind. 'No fight had ever decided who was right or wrong, only who survived. There is no use in deciding which one of us is right, because our skill in battle will decide which of the two alternatives should go down the centuries, whether it is the right one or the wrong one. And I think that from your perspective, what you hold is the most logical option.'
'What do you know of my perspective? You haven't spent millennia contemplating every choice, every possible alternative.'
'Thankfully, I don't need to. And what have millennia taught you, anyway?' Azrael heard his own voice. Slow, glacial. Measured. He sighed and continued. 'Your viewpoint is flawed, partial, distorted and plagued by such boredom and yearning for death that losing yourself in the prophecy seemed the only escape.'
'But the prophecy is done. The Sun had been blackened.'
Azrael took out the Bow and felt for a sunhallowed arrow. He picked one from the quiver and looked at him. 'The Blood Sun was a warning. But after this day, it shall not rise ever again as long as I hold the Bow.'
Harkon groaned. 'Your stubbornness speaks poorly of you. Think of the things you could do with the Bow. What we could have done together! There are still many gifts I bestow upon you.'
'They are of no interest to me. I haven't come here to negotiate, Harkon. This is the final curtain call. This is the end of it all.'
Azrael drew the bow, aimed for the torso of the Vampire Lord and released. The string quavered for as long as the projectile was in flight. The arrowed glowed with a faint, white light as it flew through the air. However, even as it reached its half-way point, the Dragonborn saw that it would not hit Harkon. The bat-like beast had dashed to the side, quickly enough to avoid the missile.
The arrowhead hit the statue of Molag Ball. Azrael averted his eyes as the explosion of light shattered the head of the statue. When he looked back, he saw the blood coming from the spring spewing in the air and falling on the floor, the top of the fountain lying in pieces all around. He shifted, putting the bow away and coiling his fingers around the longsword's grip. He's quicker than I thought. It had been a simple mistake, one that had cost him only one arrow and a little time. And now, the real fight began, one that he had not planned on fighting.
Subtlety and subterfuge, he thought, rehearsing all the useful spells in his hands. They were both too strong to let the other mount a full-on offensive move. The first one to manage would be the one to win. Much like it had been with Feran, it would be about stopping and evading attacks before they happened. The moment they had committed, one of them had fallen, and it would be the same thing now. Azrael had grown quite averse to fire spells throughout his first weeks as a vampire, but they would have been useful now.
Azrael was ready to counter-attack, but Harkon didn't propel any kind of projective against him, didn't charge in and didn't do anything that might have been interpreted as hostile. He floated slowly to the side. Someone with power can control when and how everything happens, the Dragonborn thought, and he's mimicking it. The probability that he is really studying me are so slim that they can be eliminated from all predictions. He followed the Vampire Lord's movement, and walked to the side.
Harkon's hand twitched, and a moment later a red light shined in his palm. Azrael summoned a trickle of magicka and opened his palm towards the Vampire Lord. The small stream of ethereal energy crept into the magic flow of the opponent and cut the link between his Aetherius and the spell. Harkon groaned as the red light died out in his hand, only to return a moment later.
Back to the standstill. Dispelling the magic projectile had required more energy than the Dragonborn had thought, but whether it was because of the vampiric nature of the spell or his own inexperience with cutting off magicka from those kinds of spells, he didn't know. The incantation was still ready in the clawed hand of the Vampire Lord, but it wasn't being charged. That would require some time, a time that would allow Azrael to cut off the link once again. It's an interesting game that we're playing. We're testing out alternatives, and seeing to which ones the adversary has an answer. I'd be delighted to play it all the way through, but we won't have the pleasure.
Azrael fired glances at the temple and at the door, lasting each a split second, before returning his attention to his enemy. However, he had acquired much information. Any structural damage will bring this place down. That was something to keep in mind later. The tremors were now reaching them, and the loud yet muffled thundering crashing that came through the halls and the windows meant that on the other side of the Castle the first walls were coming down under the assault of the Dragons. However, the temple was still sealed and remained closed to the outside. Azrael had noticed a few bats hanging from the pillars and flying about, and he didn't remember them being there before.
A shattering sound came from behind him. He turned, stealing one last glance at Harkon but failing to see any movement on his part. The sound was followed by a screech, but even before that the Dragonborn had recognized the sound of a gargoyle coming to life. I don't know if mental illusions will work on such a narrow-minded creature. The best alternative was to kill it. Illusion works on an interesting curve, he pondered. The most difficult being to influence were the ones who were either immensely or abysmally intelligent. Those who were at one point in between were the easiest to influence.
The gargoyle had colored veins along his skin, as many of the more advanced ones had. The infusion of life into the was a fascinating process, but once their stony skin came off they were quite simple to kill. The Dragonborn seized up the creature with a glance, observing it as it towered over him and shook off what remained of the stone skin. Two swings at most, or Harkon will be biting my neck before I deal with this one. He dashed towards the monster and pointed the blade forward.
The first thrust impaled the beast against the column behind it, but Azrael retracted the blade immediately. The strength of those fiends was incredible, and if it had moved while his blade was still in there it might have damaged it, even if it would have died in the process. He prepared for the second swing, taking advantage of the creature's confused state and aiming right at the neck, where he could sever the head from the body and all the enchanted veins that ran along it. He raised the blade beside his ear.
A powerful tremor came from behind them, along with a shrill and piercing sound. Azrael leapt forward, beyond the gargoyle, and looked back from over his shoulder while preparing another hit against the creature. Shrill, cascading. He couldn't quite decide what the sound had been until he looked at the back of the hall, and looked at the light. The window. The massive window at the end of the temple had fallen apart all at once, and the gargantuan head of a Dragon poked through the opening.
There was red glass everywhere. A few flying pieces had hit Azrael on the back, but he had hardly felt anything. The gargoyle had been distracted by the sound and had turned for a moment too long. The Dragonborn was able to charge up the strike with more time than he needed, line it up and slash right along the nape of the fiend's neck. He immediately dashed to the side and looked ahead, uncertain as to Harkon's next move. Predictable, yet not obvious, he thought once he had looked. The Vampire Lord had turned away from him and was aiming his spell at the Dragon.
Azrael calculated briefly, and decided to stay as far away as he could. The Dovah will have his way. He spent a moment trying to remember his name, but among the shattered glass and the red light he didn't recognize him by the head alone. The chance was eliminated as a torrent of fire erupted from the Dragon's maws, emitting a light that he had to look away from. The comfortable dark of the Blood Sun was easy to get used to, and every and all sparks of brighter light hurt his eyes like looking in direct sunlight would for a mortal.
The roar of the Dragon and the blinding light of the firestorm continued for a few seconds. Azrael tried to listen, but there weren't many sounds that overwhelmed his brethren's roar and the crackling of the flames. He looked around, batting his eyelids, seeing that some of the bats he had seen were flying away from the heat. One of them lay on the ground in a pool of blood, pierced from side to side by a shard of red glass.
The roar died out, as did the flames. Azrael looked, seeing the Vampire Lord flattening behind a pillar, clawing his own flesh in the attempt to suffocate the pain. His skin was scorched and burnt on the right shoulder, and the red tasset was completely burnt on the same side. The right side of his face was deformed and charred, and the pointed ear had been vaporized. The movements of his head were twitchy and hectic. Well, well.
The Dragon roared, drawing his head back and getting it unstuck from the narrow pillars between the windows. In the attempt he ripped several crevices in the nearby wall. Vennesetiid, tell me I have put my trust where it was worth. Azrael didn't wait idly, but he watched the unstable pillar up until he saw a shadow descending on it. Yes, I have. A thunderous crash echoed through the hall, and the crevices in the pillar disappeared into a cloud of dust and gravel. The upper part of the column fell on the outside of the temple, while the lower half collapsed inwards. Foreboding creaks came from the wooden supports on the roof, where the wood was already cracking.
Azrael felt a presence. Serana. He had paid almost no attention to the door, but the sound of its wings opening had reached his senses, albeit without his conscious awareness. Good. Now that she's here, there is no way he can escape us.
Harkon moved out of the way of the falling pillar, but Azrael knew what to do. I haven't used that spell since Faralda and I designed it, he thought. It wasn't the subtlest thing in the world, which meant it wasn't among his common arsenal. However, it was designed to intimidate the quick-minded and kill the slow-minded.
He summoned fire in both his hands, and the flame took root on his back as well. The fire surged across his body as magicka flew in more abundantly, until the blazes became so strong that they lifted him from the ground. With a last command to the ethereal energy, the Dragonborn gushed all of that accumulated power onward. He took flight on wings of fire as a blazing trail was left behind him and he was propelled forward, right towards the Vampire Lord.
Harkon saw it coming, but his only retreat was backwards. Azrael slowed his advanced and stopped, dispersing the flames and standing on his feet. A hundred creaks and squeaks were coming from above, but Harkon was trapped and on his own. He could go nowhere safe. He was twisting from the pain, a hideous groan on his face as he tried to focus on the danger. I wonder how he'll survive this, if he does. Serana was covering his back, so there weren't many places where he could go.
Beyond the doors of the temple came a loud crash. A piece of the ceiling, Azrael thought. No wall could fall and produce that sound. He kept his eyes on Harkon, especially since he was looking towards the fountain, the one Azrael had shattered with the arrow at the beginning. But that's right under the collapsing piece. There's something I don't know, it would seem.
Harkon did indeed beat both wings and fly in that direction. The ceiling finally caved in and fell down, bring the two pillars adjacent to the fallen one down with it. Azrael backed down, using Serana as a reference in the space of the temple, and looking as the chunk of stone precipitated over Harkon's head and he didn't make any effort to move away from it. Either way, this is the time.
He drew the Bow from his back, searched for another sunhallowed arrow and picked it as well. He brought both in front of him and nocked it, drawing the string all the way to his chin while aiming at the same time and releasing. With a stationary target it was the easiest shot in the world.
The arrow struck Harkon in the shoulder at the same time as the heap of stone and gravel fell on him.
Time itself seemed to slow down. Azrael looked at the broken fountainhead, spilling red blood all over the floor, forming red streams that cascaded down the short set of stairs. The dust that hung in the air above the buried end of the temple shone in the blood red light, and it wasn't settling. It kept floating, refusing to lie down. With the crashes and creaks of the falling ceiling gone, the roars that came from the outside and the powerful strikes that the Dragons gave to the Castle's walls seemed an afterthought, something that was registered by their senses but barely reached their awareness.
Azrael was only faintly aware of Serana's footsteps as she walked up to his side. She still had her fingers clutched around the dagger, not unlike how Azrael was still holding the bow. 'Is he dead?' she asked.
'I don't know.' She had just voiced the question they both were asking themselves. 'I don't think he is.' He looked. He can't be. Why would he have jumped into danger? As much as the rhetoric between him and Serana led them to say that he was mad, Harkon was merely obsessed with his goal. His sense of self-preservation in the immediate was intact, and it always had been. He couldn't have a hidden death wish that would reveal itself in this way. 'If you're not afraid, go closer and poke him out. I'll be back here to stick an arrow between his eyes, if need be.'
'I'm not afraid,' she said stepping forward.
The moment she finished speaking the gravel near the fountain rose and collapsed. It fell to the side, rolling down the stairs, and yet more of it rose. Azrael brought his hand towards the quiver, ready to nock another arrow. Serana looked at him, stepping back beside him. 'I believe we have our answer. He's not the first vampire to survive a ceiling crashing down on him,' she said with a playful sigh.
'True. Vyrthur had no other plans to kills us when we survived it. I hope we're better prepared than he was for what comes next.'
A shoulder wearing a battered black pauldron emerged from the heap of gravel. The cape had been ripped from the brooch, and nothing but a torn sliver remained. The shape of Lord Harkon slowly emerged from the debris, covered in dust and heavily wounded, but human. He has reverted. Was it the Bow? The wounds were even more monstrous now that he had a form so common to the eyes of the Dragonborn. The burnt side of his face was black as coal and his ear was missing; the burn continued almost to his mouth, and the corner of the lips was missing. The armor was smashed on the opposite shoulder, which exposed a large gauge caused by a falling rock. There was hardly any blood coming out of it.
Serana leaned in closer. 'Should we attack him now?'
The implicit question was quite clear to him. There is indeed much to be discovered yet. He pondered their chances for a moment. 'No,' he said, 'we'll let him get on his feet.'
'So honorable of you, you… pathetic half-breed,' Lord Harkon said. The intact side of his face twitched with pain and confusion, but his eyes burned with hatred. 'And you, Serana. How have you been? Is your pet keeping you entertained?'
'He has kept me safe,' she retorted, 'which is already more than you have ever done.'
'You should think before you speak, my child. I have given you much, but you've taken everything I provided for you and thrown it all away.'
Azrael felt the surge of rage coming from her even from a distance. 'Provided for me? Are you insane? You've destroyed our family. You've killed other vampires. All over some prophecy that we barely understand. No more. I'm done with you. And him,' she said, pointing at Azrael, 'the pathetic half-breed, is beyond your reach. You will not touch him.'
The burnt face was distorted by a mocking grin. Harkon's hand went to the hilt of the curved blade he kept by his side. 'I see the Dragons outside are not the only ones with fangs around here. Your voice drips with the venom of your mother's influence. How alike you've become.'
'How ironic,' Azrael said, 'that they will both outlast you.'
Lord Harkon stared at the Dragonborn for a long moment, and his left hand went to the red pool in which the fountain had been pouring blood until a few minutes before. He sank his hand in the red fluid, and then dragged it up again. An object, dripping red from all sides, came out of the fount. When the sides stopped streaming with blood, Azrael recognized the shapes.
It was the Bloodstone Chalice.
'Everything is yet to be seen,' said Harkon, raising the Chalice and bringing it closer to his face. 'As Molag Bal is my witness, this day will be mine. You will not stand in my way. All men will fall before me.'
'With luck, some of those men will be better than you and stand against you,' Azrael said. He put the bow away and grasped the hilt of the longsword. He could not win that fight with one more shot, not for the moment. He took some more time. 'It's almost comical that you should rule men. When I came to Skyrim, if I had thought all men equal to you, I wouldn't have a sliver of respect left for them.'
Lord Harkon brought the Chalice to his lips and drank deeply, emptying it. He swallowed the last drop and lowered it, casting it aside with unnecessary strength. 'What is a man?' Harkon growled. The Chalice struck a pillar and scathed the stone, but it also shattered into four jagged pieces. 'A miserable pile of secrets. But enough talk. Have at you!'
Azrael had just finished pulling the longsword out and felt the slight rush and brief feeling of omnipotence of predicting the future correctly. He wouldn't have had the time to fire another shot. Harkon dashed towards him with unnatural speed, making use of some power he must had acquired in the millennia spent being a vampire. The Dragonborn felt his mind strained to the limit of its capabilities in trying to assess everything before it had to give up. The raised blade and the direction he came from. Those were the only two essential things. With those, he would survive.
The blow came swift but far from unexpected. He parried it by placing the longsword horizontally, but Harkon kept the blade still and pushed instead of letting it slide. The skin on the burnt side of his face had seemed to have healed after he had drunk from the Chalice. It was livelier, and although still black it was less monstrous. Garan did claim the Chalice was powerful. On second thought, that speed could be a result of the artifact's power.
Azrael pushed against Harkon's blade. Surprisingly, their strength was equal. This will not be won with strength, nor sheer cunning. The battlefield was simple only to the inexpert eye. The temple was on the verge of collapsing. More Dragons would surely come in to help him. Behind him, he heard more gargoyles bursting to life, which was probably why Serana wasn't helping him. She must be behind me, fighting the beasts.
Harkon took one hand away from the hilt of the blade, though the force he could put on it remained almost the same. He must know that any further pressure will shatter his weapon. Azrael followed his left hand, which went to his side and filled with a red glow. A draining hex, of vampiric nature. There was nothing like that color in standard magic, and even the charms that cursed one's mind with murderous madness glowed with a less intense shade of red. The hand of Lord Harkon came forward, and a crimson mist spewed forth from it.
Azrael felt the haze touch his flesh, and immediately a dull pain filled his entire body as everything that made him strong started to wane. The strength was sapped from his limbs and the focus from his mind. He's open on the side. He moved his weight to one side, twisting his wrist to let the weight of the enemy's blade slide to the longsword's tip, and kicked Harkon in the ribcage. He landed the hit and the red haze ceased to come his way, but the Lord managed to seize his foot before he could retract it. He freed the longsword and whirled it above his head, threatening the opponent's throat, and summoned a small orb of fire that he threw at the vampire's chest.
He missed. The projectile hissed beside Harkon as he ducked to the side to avoid it.
'Su Grah Dun!' Unlike other times, where the flow of the inner power towards his throat was slow and melodic, this time instinct had answered. He had chosen, but the Words had come with an unusual ease to his mouth. The spirit of the tempest flew out of his lips and infused his arms with speed. It would last but a few seconds, but he could make them count.
He was the only one to see the blade as it moved, as Harkon's eyes visibly failed to keep track of its movements. Azrael first brought the blade down on the opponent's hand, which was closed strongly around his boot, and grazed it so as not to touch the metal of his greaves. Two fingers flew away, but he was already hitting elsewhere, at the height of Harkon's temple, calibrating the strike carefully. His leg was now free, and he would need to land on his feet if he wanted to survive. He struck well, cutting a large wound right above the opponent's ear. He was about to strike a third time, but he glimpsed at a red shape peeking into the temple.
He interrupted his third strike and merely infused the blade with a little fire, making the edges flare and taking Harkon's attention for just a while longer.
The head that had appeared in the hole that the fallen pillar had left was of one of the two Dragons that came crashing down into the temple. One was Odahviing, who had followed him there and the other was a younger one by the name of Lunsoiiz, a white-scaled Dovah that had been among the last to be revived by Alduin before his defeat. He looked at the window, and glimpsed at the bone white scales of Paarthurnax. The two Dragons charged in, giving mighty shoves with their shoulders to whatever stood in their way. Odahviing opened his maws and a flood of flames erupted from his mouth. Azrael dashed to the side, once again seeing that he had made the right decision.
Two suffocated screams came from Lord Harkon, after which he shouted in pain in a way that no mortal could. It was a scream that could rend flesh from bone. Azrael felt barely a thing in hearing the man scream, but he sensed something. He knew that in hearing such a sound, most people would feel pity for the man who was being inflicted so much pain. Serana surely felt it. He didn't, or rather, he denied the effects that such pity might have had on him. His mind was cold and crystal-clear as he looked at the flood of fire engulfing the Lord's figure as he tried to stumble his way out of it.
The other Dragon ignored Harkon and trudged straight towards the side, where more gargoyles were coming out of hiding. He raised a clawed wing and smashed one of the beasts into the ground, flattening the head against the floor and tearing long crevices into the stony skin with his claws. Azrael followed the Dragon's tail, however, which whipped the side looking for another one of the brutes but crashed against a pillar instead. The column shattered and fell to the ground, and an entire section of the overhead loggias that overlooked the temple fell down with them. The chunks of rock crashed down on the Dragon's head, but the Dovah simply shook it and roared, flapping its wings to blow the debris away.
Azrael covered his eyes. The heat of the flames was scorching his skin and the dust was blinding him. Havoc reigned all around him. And the Left Hand reaps… he thought, once again unable to forget that metaphor.
Odahviing closed his maws and the flames stopped flowing from its throat. The fire dissolved without a trail of smoke and died out in one last gust of boiling heat. Kneeling on the floor was Lord Harkon, his back scorched black and most of his hair burned. Large, black spots now dotted his head. What foul magic keeps you from dying, I don't want to know, Azrael thought. There was power and power over death, and then there were the things which didn't allow you to die completely. Harkon was still alive through the sheer strength of his hatred and little else.
The Lord raised, his hand twitching and quaking, but holding the sword quite tight despite the two missing fingers. He lunged forward, and Azrael was ready for him. He knew that, as much as the tales tell of battles that lasted days and nights, battles of titans often ended far too swiftly. Before the winner had the chance to appreciate the flow and the ferociousness of combat and before either had really understood what had gone down. He remembered it, and made sure to remember every second of that fight. The heat, the dust, the smell of the burnt dead flesh, the hideous face of his enemy. He focused, descended fully into the situation, and fought with all himself.
The blades crashed in front of them, but this time Harkon brought his sword back and freed it. He performed a complex uppercut, which Azrael deflected while also preparing for the probable follow-up, which came and was blocked. The blades once again bounced off one another. The Dragonborn performed a narrow slice, aiming at the legs, but Harkon was quick enough to parry it. A burnt and clawed hand neared Azrael's face, but he ducked and sliced. He infused the flame in the blade, but its edges merely touched the knee of his opponent, who was in so much pain he hardly noticed.
The riposte was quick and effective. Harkon hit Azrael's longsword at an angle the Dragonborn had seen as dangerous but could do nothing to eliminate. The blade twitched in his wrist and threatened to fly away. He grinned, feeling the rush of the riddle to solve as he thought of what to do, and when he figured it out his sneer widened. His hand vibrated with energy as he used telekinetic energy to hold the weapon's grip close to his hand, unable to fly away no matter how out of his hand it was. He soon regained a hold.
Lord Harkon had not seen that coming. Azrael took the handle into his hands and gripped it firmly with his fingers, charging up the hit as much as he could. He aligned the blade to be parallel to the ground and released the swing, putting in it all the strength he could muster. The lord of the vampires raised his weapon quickly and without finesse, and the blades crashed against one another.
One moment there was the clang of metal. The second, there was a shattering sound and a rain of splinters flying in every direction. Azrael raised his forearm in front of his face just in time to shield himself from two of them, who bounced off his gauntlet but could have very well pierced his face or eyes. Those splinters… They were his sword, were they not? It's the only possible solution. The hit must have been so strong that even the sword carried by Harkon had shattered. Mine's intact, Azrael realized by the weight in his hands. It'll be chipped, but intact.
Harkon growled. Azrael peaked, and saw that there were small splinters all over his face, but the thing that bothered him was another. Two bats were preying on him, trying to bite his neck and flying around making a nuisance of themselves. This must be Serana. There was a black haze gathering a few feet behind Harkon, and he had seen Serana using such a method of teleportation. She'll be behind him. This might be nearing its end. The thrill of the battle and the flow of combat were filling him with energy, and his vampiric strength ran wild, filling his limbs and clearing his mind.
Around them, the temple was coming down. The Dragons had murdered the gargoyles and were plodding through the cathedral, whipping down pillars with their tails and burning the tapestries with storms of fire. Chunks of stone rained from the ceiling like hail during a storm, followed by cascades of gravel and dust. The windows melted under the heat or exploded at the hits, and large crevices opened along the walls.
Lord Harkon looked at the Dragonborn, and Azrael saw a hatred without end in his eyes. They were monstrous, they had nothing human that remained. The vampire had eaten away everything, and the pain and the despair of a lifetime gone awry did the rest. He stumbled towards him, still beset by the two bats, and didn't notice Serana sticking a dagger in his shoulder. Ignoring the threat that his daughter posed, Azrael thought, he makes the same mistakes on the brink of death as he made in life. Poetic, in a way.
The Dovahkiin brought the blade down at the height of Harkon's stomach while he was still busy clawing the two bats and trying to rip out the dagger that had stabbed him from behind. 'Serana!' he screamed. 'Your own father…' The Dragonborn laid the longsword's tip against his abdomen. Magicka flew in his arms and the edges of the blade flared with fire.
He pulled the blade up, cutting along Lord Harkon's entire abdomen, chest and up to his chin, leaving a flaming trail behind it.
We all think that the world cares about people who are important, thought Azrael, but it doesn't. The sounds of Castle falling to pieces and the roar of the Dragons didn't cease to honor the moment when the millennia-old Vampire Lord unceremoniously fell to the ground, his chest opened in two and his scorched entrails falling out of him. He had not yet touched the ground that his body begun dissolving into a fine red dust. You fool. You think men a pile of secrets, and because of this you lost. To me, men are an open book, ripe for the reading.
Azrael raised his eyes towards Serana. Her cheek was scratched, and her armor was dusty and grazed. Her jaw was clenched, but she appeared calm. She looked back at him, a look of incredulity in her eyes. A bit too soon for that.
'Come on,' he told her, striding towards her. He pointed at the other side of the temple, where the Dragons had entered and where there was nothing but a pile of rubble. More chunks of stone fell behind them, and a thunderous crash of a wall coming down sent a cloud of dust and gust of hit wind in their backs. 'There's nothing left for us here.'
A/N: And down goes two, and Azrael's little story proves prophetic after all. You'll have to excuse the Castlevania reference, but it was too good to pass it up, especially after I made him throw the Chalice to the side like that.
Now, I said that last time I said there were a few things that I wanted to say. For this once, I'll explain the reason for my prolonged absence. I'll save the stuff that centers around the story for the epilogue, which is much shorter and more digestible than this behemoth of a final showdown.
As I was saying, the reason I have been away is that in the meantime I have written a couple of original novels and self-published one of them; the other is still in the process of being edited. It took quite a long time, as you can imagine, but I had a break and it was the right time to finish DKNR.