"Why is this happening?" Martin demanded, only halfway caring if anyone else heard him.
It wouldn't matter if they did, anyways. None of them would remember, in the end.
The Dragon-god remained stubbornly silent, jaws frozen in a perpetual frown, stained-glass eyes staring impassively down at the dismal scene. The fires beyond threw flashes of brilliant yellow and pale blue light, warped impressions of his wings across the filthy, soot-smudged faces of the survivors huddled fearfully in the Divine's chapel.
As Martin had guided the scattered townsfolk to the safety of the Great Chapel, he had known with a sudden, bitter certainty that this was not the first time he'd done so.
Nor, he suspected now, would it be the last.
For the longest time, he'd thought them mere dreams, indistinguishable as they were from his other nightmares- those ones where he walked the nightmarish hellscapes of the Deadlands, helpless to behold Dagon's invasion brought to horrifying fruition—but unlike those dreams, these ones did not hold terror alone, and told a story far greater and clearer than the indistinct, might-be horrors of the deadlands.
Also unlike those nightmares, these ones had started coming true.
The woman was going to die.
Martin knew that the poor woman would, even long before he'd seen her curled on the makeshift cot near the altar, the fresh bandages wrapped around her midsection already blooming with a growing crimson stain.
Had known it since the moment he'd first set foot in the city, had been conscious of it every day, every time she and her husband- her husband, already dead, trapped underneath the burning rubble that had been their house- had set foot in the chapel for prayer, and still he had said nothing.
He was tired of people dying. For him. Because of him, his actions. His inactions. Tired of knowing , and doing nothing.
He was tired of-
The door swung ponderously on it's old hinges, opening slowly. The soon-to-be Champion's voice was an indistinctly murmured question he knew every syllable of by rote, the slow, cautious pace at which they approached as familiar and dear to him as his first memories of home, and when they slowed to a stop just a pace behind him, he had to force himself to remain calm and measured in his response, lest he startle them awa-
"Martin." they said in a patient way that was in no way a question, and that was all, and he froze midway through his mental script, "—having trouble understanding the gods right now—" trailing off into stunned silence.
He rose, and slowly turned on his heel, and there they stood, armored in strange but sturdy armor he'd never seen them wear before, bloodied and weary looking. "It's time." they said, after a moment.
"Time for what?" he hears himself say, and he wants to smack himself across the face because he's fairly sure he already knows what the answer will be.
"Time to stop waiting." they said with a shrug, and tossed him the shortsword they held unsheathed in their right hand. He caught it by reflex, and stared at the merish blade in bemusement.
"...For…" what on Nirn are they talking about here? "...salvation?" he guesses after a moment, trailing after them uncertainly as they turn and stride towards the chapel doors.
The hero-to-be tilts their head in consideration and then nods agreeably, and adds with a wry grin. "For destiny!" They sketch a mock bow, a lampooned, over-exaggerated parody of a courtier's airs, gesturing grandly towards the chapel door.
He barks out an incredulous laugh despite himself. "For destiny, indeed." he mutters, ignoring the startled guardsmen and the fearful stares of the remaining townspeople. He steps forward and shoves at the wooden door, and slips out into the desolation beyond.
Their eyes dart towards his, lingering for half a second as they pull something out of a pouch at their side before waving it in his direction- a scroll of Bound Armor, judging from the feel of it.
"...For change." they whisper, hesitantly.
After a moment's hesitation, he takes it, giving them a small nod. "For change."
Martin huffs, wiping sweat from his brow for what feels like the billionth time.
"I… I hate this place." he decides, after a moment of prolonged staring back at the fountain of blood, actual blood, and the ...massive spiked talon-shaped ...object that seemed to serve no discernable purpose that he could see, swinging aimlessly in the center of the lower room. "Used to dream about it when I was a child, you know."
"Mmhm, good, I'd be questioning several things right now if you said something like 'Oh, I love it here!'—your sense of decor and aesthetic tastes among them—Also, what a boring choice of dreamscape, why would you do that?" Martin watched his companion rant for a moment, then leaned forward to stare past them up the sloping walkway.
"I mean, look at this place, it's ...so predictable that it's boring-"
Shadows bounced and flickered, barely visible against the gore-stained wall, but there nonetheless.
"-So grotesque it's almost a parody of itself, I mean lava, spikes, mutilated corpses, really? A child's idea of 'evil'- Mmmph?!" They scowled irately at him as he dragged them back into the shadowed alcove, hand clamped firmly over their mouth, a hastily cast Chameleon spell the only thing between them both and the-
He stared at the approaching shapes first in surprise, and then dismay. The only thing between them and a ...pack of scamps...
Martin grimaced. What a waste of magicka.
They watched as the pack trotted down the ramp and into the room they'd just come from. One of them, smaller than the rest, wandered over to sniff at something on the floor—a stray arrow from one of the Dremora they'd fought, no doubt. It circled it curiously, and then stood bolt upright, calling to it's fellows—and then, midway through one of their kinds' signature grating cackles, there was a soft but distinctly audible click.
Moments later, the talon's twin came swinging down from above with a ponderous metallic groan.
Martin blinked, releasing the Hero and dropping the Chameleon spell as he did so. He surveyed the carnage and then let out a small, comprehending "Ohhhh."
"Yeah." the Hero muttered from somewhere behind him, "I... forgot about those. They do that."
Martin turned to give them an incredulous stare. They just shrugged at him, and then they both winced as the distant sound of another talon-trap triggering echoed up the ramp-well, followed by several dull, meaty thuds.
"How did you know that I remembered?" he asks, baffled, days later when they are on the road to Weynon.
"I didn't." the Hero admits. "Just got lucky, was all."
"Huh" Martin says, leaning forward to poke at the fire. "And what would you have done if I hadn't?"
"Looked like an idiot, I suppose." After a moment of silence they snicker and add. "Having no sense of shame helps."
"There's a joke there somewhere." Martin mused. "But I'll have mercy on you."
Leaning over, he knocks his shoulder into theirs, grinning impishly "For now."
"Oh, very considerate of you, my lord."