Spottedfyre: Thanks! :) Yeah, I can agree with you that I feel pretty bad for Akatosh, but things in this fic will start to get better for him. Hopefully you like this chapter, and the next one will be up soon!
Anvil was a peninsula jutting out from Cyrodiil and all her awe, made of precious stone crafted in elegant buildings and built with a hardy docks shaped between rushing ocean waters. The Chapel of Dibella was a glorious one as all the other chapels but holding its separate kind of beauty, the beauty in the blooming flower gardens around each central pillar on Anvil's streets and in the fiery lighthouse flames that guided sailors to shore. It was a hold of magnificence and well-earned pride in the glory within its walls.
Akatosh could recount when he had first traveled to the city to close the threatening gate of fire standing outside its entrance, as it was with all the other towns. It was him alone that kept the Oblivion invasion at bay, he who prevented other towns from being snuffed out by the fury of the Deadlands as had happened with Kvatch. And for such a great hero, he was a lonely one, too.
But Anvil, crest of the Gold Coast and bracer of the Abecean Sea, was a place worth the long travel from the Imperial City. Of course, he had been here numerous times after the Oblivion Crisis, as he had all the other holds and small villages along the roads. However, it was this town he enjoyed coming back to the most.
It was the near evening when he dismounted from his chestnut horse at the town stables. Rain was pouring overhead in the midst of a thick storm, making his light clothes stick to his skin and brown hair that appeared black in its dampness plaster onto his forehead. He tied his horse securely under the stable's roof and headed to the front door, nodding at the guard that opened it for him.
Anvil's entrance closed at his back, walls completely enveloping him from the rest of Tamriel, as he liked to imagine. The stone barriers made around each house and inn and little building were a symbolism of protection, and for the Breton himself, they protected him from his sorrow. As much as it was pleasurable to travel the open world it only reminded him of seclusion and times when he was not.
He hurried through the rain and along the cobblestone trail, finding the inn he knew to be by the east. The only thing to tell the Count's Arms apart from the other marble buildings was its small wooden sign, flapping in the occasional harsh gust of wind. He pushed open the intricate turquoise door and felt it slam with one such breeze behind him, warmth flooding into his bones.
The room was too loud and full to notice his arrival, for which he was grateful for. Akatosh made his way around the tables and to the counter of the large upper class drinking establishment, made dark by the curtains covering tall windows and bright by the glowing array of candles and stoked fire in the dining area. The air tasted of smoke and smelled of rich spices and cooking meat, making his mouth water at the prospect.
He took a free seat at the empty counter, opposite to the filled tables around the inn. A tall Redguard in red velvet attire hurried over to his spot, dark eyes glimmering in the dim lighting.
"What can I get you for?" The man asked, voice rumbly. Akatosh ordered off the top of his head, deciding to steer clear of the alcohol. Hangovers weren't any good to an adventurer that never settled for a day. The Redguard, Wilbur, smiled curtly and went to get his food.
Akatosh was left in a comfortable silence, surrounded by a thick buzz of noise, before the stool next to him screeched along the floor. He glanced over at the man taking the seat, curious and only partially annoyed. It was too dark to see properly but he could make out the profile of an Imperial, hair pulled back into a low ponytail and features otherwise obscured.
The Imperial took no notice of him, and Akatosh simply decided to keep his eyes to himself. Wilbur came back with his glass mug of water, glancing at the stranger. The man took his order in a startling rich voice, naming some wine the hero didn't recognize, but he seemed to please Wilbur enough with his knowledge as the barkeeper bounded away.
The Imperial finally turned to him. Akatosh still couldn't see the man's face, but those shadow-veiled eyes didn't seem to share the problem. "You seem familiar," was the greeting, different from the praises he had grown accustomed to.
On any other night, Akatosh would have shrugged and moved away. With any other person, the short elf wouldn't have cared. But this mystery man held an air about him that made Akatosh want to speak. "In what way?" He asked.
"You're someone I've seen but never spoken to," the Imperial replied after a moment's thought. "Some dashing hero, I'm sure."
He felt strangely flattered at the remark, tinged with sarcasm as it was. "I closed the Oblivion Gate at Kvatch."
"Really?" His voice conveyed more amusement than surprise. "You're the one who went inside the Deadlands?" The man really was knowledgable, if he knew that tidbit of information so many others didn't. "Not only the one at Kvatch, though, was it? They say you fought in the battle of Bruma, saved the ruins of Kvatch and all our other holds, was there to witness Mehrunes Dagon as he invaded the Imperial City- well, to be honest, I imagined you'd be taller."
Up until that point his cheeks had grown steadily more red. The heat on his face stayed with him, even as Akatosh took a gulp of water. "That's not very nice." The liquid was warm, and he cooled it gently with a light fuzz of frosted Magicks that seeped through his palm.
"And you're not very impressive," the stranger retorted. The Breton didn't mind the insult as much as he should have. Really, it was better than the pointless praises he had received. He preferred to be treated like a normal person, not like a god, and definitely not when he had failed those he cared for in his incompetence.
Akatosh was fine with this.
Wilbur came back with his plate of delicately laid fruits and cheeses, along with a brilliant dark wine that glimmered in its fragile glass encasement. Akatosh reached for the bag at his hip, enchanted at the Arcane University just two days ago to hold an infinite amount of items like the one he had found in the Imperial Prison. He meant to pull out some septims but found himself being waved off, the man placing the golden coins in Wilbur's hand to cover both their meals.
The owner of the inn let them be, Akatosh glancing at the other man. "You didn't have to do that." And then, hastily, as to not seem ungrateful, "But thank you."
"My pleasure." He took a sip of his wine, Akatosh starting to eat at his food. "So, Champion, I don't suppose you have a name?"
Sure he did, but it wasn't like he knew it. As for his other name, the Breton had found he didn't care for the dragon god nearly as much as his best friend had before, not after said Divine and all the other eight of them left him to this fate. Lead Martin to his fate. He kept Akatosh out of love for the deceased Septim, but he didn't like it.
"Everyone does," he said. "Don't you?"
Akatosh imagined a delicately raised eyebrow to go along with the nonchalant tone. "You have a good point," was the reply, "but I guess you needn't know mine if you are to deprive me of the same pleasure." Another sip. "If you won't tell me what you're called, perhaps you can share why you're here? Shouldn't you, oh, I don't know, be up there with the Chancellor or trying to take a spot as Emperor?"
His eyes widened. "I can't just do that. Nobody can do that."
"Why not?" Akatosh put down the stem of his strawberry. "There's no more Septims to take the throne, if I am understanding this all correctly. Our mighty Champion should surely get the honor of replacing-"
"It just doesn't happen," he snapped. "And I wouldn't want it to." The Imperial didn't say anything, and he found himself embarrassed at the rude interruption. Akatosh let the silence seep in for only a moment. "I'm just here because it was the next place to go on my map," he answered. "Ever since the Crisis ended, I've been exploring all of Cyrodiil. Traveling the countryside, helping people." He had made himself a proper hero, giving aid to all in need the ways the remaining Blades and town guards couldn't. In the time that had passed since the Oblivion Crisis, neither long nor short, he had gone on more little quests to make his peoples' lives better than he could count.
For a time, he had pondered going into the Fighters Guild, but he wasn't a true warrior. He had lingered on the idea of joining the Mages Guild as well, but hadn't had the moment to inquire what that would cost in all the sudden work he had been swamped under, tasked with being Cyrodiil's idol and protector. His province had lost their true leader to stone, and in a way, he had taken the place in terms of morale.
He didn't stay in Cloud Ruler Temple anymore, barely considered himself a Blade. He didn't have a home. And just the same, everywhere was Akatosh's home, if he didn't think about it too hard.
"I suppose you've seen a lot, then." The enriching tone buried in the words brought him from his reflections.
"Too much," Akatosh muttered. "I've seen too much." He just wanted to have someone he cared about again. He held his civilians and his province in his heart, but even his want for someone to love as he had loved Martin overcame everything else. He felt lonely. He felt... lost.
The plate was empty soon enough, and his stomach full. The water was perfectly cold as it washed down his throat, tasting almost sweet. "Thank you for the meal," he said to the stranger, rising from his seat as well as his quiet tone of voice. "Barkeep!" He called over, catching Wilbur's attention from where he was tending to some hardy Nords. "Could I have a room?"
"If you've got the coin!" Wilbur started over to him, Akatosh leaning down for his bag. His hands touched only empty air. Confused, he glanced at his feet where he had laid his sack, shocked to find it missing.
Akatosh swerved his head around, searching. Why was it gone? Had someone stolen it? Who would steal from him? The hero saw a retreating back, belonging to a tall man with a slender build and a familiar hairstyle. The man he had been talking to, all of a sudden sprouting up from his spot and high-tailing to the exit.
"Hey!" Akatosh shouted, bringing down the noise level of the inn by a small amount as eyes glazed over at the source of the obnoxious interruption. The brunet didn't pay them any mind, running forward and dashing between the people in his way, trying to reach a door already closing.
He burst out before it could shut and stumbled out into the rain. Fog hung onto the ground, grey clouds still spewing drops of water that soaked clothes that had begun to dry inside. His fur boots felt heavy, as did his eyes, and even more did his gut as it sunk when he found no other being outside with him.
His dreams left him in the tensed air of his rude awakening, and the hero of Kvatch was left gasping in the stiff darkness.
His room was a divine one, small body enveloped in the thick velvet covers of a king-sized bed, wooden floor shielded with a fur rug and tall windows blocked out by large curtains. It had been given to him out of apology after Akatosh had explained what had happened (and seemingly more importantly, who he was), and although the situation was sorrowful he refused to be.
And truth be told, at the very moment he was not sad, but sickly. He allowed himself some seconds sprawled across his bed to rest the feeling. Just as his eyes were closing once more the pain behind his forehead erupted, and he lunged upwards, fingers flying to his temples. Nausea overcame his senses and made his vision fuzzy, throat inexplicably parched with mouth disgustingly dry. Akatosh bit down on his bottom lip to help prevent vomiting and was surprised when his teeth easily dug into the flesh and made it stung painfully.
The hero stumbled away from the bed, tripping slightly as he hurried to the small washroom within his large suite. He managed to get through the open compartment where an empty bucket and a table topped with a mirror took up the tiny room. His fingers clung onto the edges of the empty bucket, but all that came from his mouth was small whimpers under his breath.
His lip stung from the puncture but did not bleed, and when he ran his finger against the soft tissue, he could feel the heavy indents. Akatosh winced as his head continued its dull thuds of pain, and he wished more than ever he had knowledge of restoration magicks, or at least his potions. All he had now was a set of ragged clothes and Martin's knife.
Deciding his stomach was good for now, he got to his feet, world spinning dizzily around him. Akatosh made his way to the table, leaning against its countertop where the wood was carved into to create a pool of water. He reached into the now warm water and used it to scrub his face, bare lotus blossom hovering across the surface of the transparent liquid and giving it a flowery smell. Gently, his headache started to lessen its hold, and he glanced into the mirror.
And glanced again.
Akatosh's migraine and the stinging from his lips faded to the back of his mind. His finger reached to the shiny, clear suspension of glass, touching its surface. It was like the one in his statue friend's room, where he had first seen his face completely, but there was one minor difference; he saw nothing in this one.
The hero touched his face as if it the problem was that it had gone missing. He brushed against the scar on his cheek from the zombie in Miscarcand, felt the sweat-coated clumps of brown hair and features rubbed clean with the sink water. It was still there, but his reflection wasn't.
"I'm going mad," he murmured. Talking to himself probably wasn't the trait to disprove the claim to insanity. "Or, this, this is a dream. It has to be. Maybe I'm just stressed about loosing-" he cut off there, sentence dying in his wheezy throat. What hadn't he lost? All the items in his bag like his Kvatch armor and Baurus's katana, all his companions to the battle of Bruma, and perhaps the man he had loved more than anyone, had loved before he truly understood the concept.
Martin had been his best friend. When he wasn't off closing Gates he was at the priest's table of books or walking around Cloud Ruler's halls, seeing Cyrodiil in her grace from the view of high snowy hills. He had been there to patch up Akatosh's wounds from the moment they met, had given the hero a name and taught him the way of mages, taught him that it was okay to feel fear as long as you knew it wouldn't influence your courage and strength. He had seen the person closest to him die for Tamriel, and all he had gotten for it was something to cry for and a kiss.
Akatosh steeled himself. Just because his bag was stolen from some damned thief didn't mean the broken mirror was perfectly explained. And that was what it had to be; broken. It didn't truly need an explanation. Broken mirrors don't work. Things that are broken don't work.
He turned his back on the room and began to dress for the new day.
Akatosh braced the outside as if it were an enemy to conquer. The door clunked shut behind him. Fog hung around the damp morning, no wind to breeze along the bare branches of the cherry blossom trees. His thin sweater tucked into sack cloth pants, although protecting his arms, was still wet from the night before and brought shivers down his spine and goosebumps to his skin.
His fur boots walked the cobblestone road. Akatosh could do some grunt work to earn some septims, surely, and there was still nothing stopping him traveling the open trails. Admittedly, he wasn't going anywhere beyond the docks today; his head still hurt horribly, and it was only because his need for fresh air that he was out before any citizens had woken. Today was for recovery from whatever sickness he had picked up, and tomorrow was adventure.
This wouldn't be too difficult. He was starting from scratch again, just like the beginning of his first memories in a prison cell. Granted, he had been given assistance and guidance and aid, but the lack of those variables only added to the challenge, didn't it? It was like turning the first page in a book unread, not that he knew the feeling himself with his lack of literary skills, but it seemed to fit the analogy well enough. It was a new beginning.
He turned the corner from where he had been strolling. Akatosh was on a journey to the waterfront, wishing for the smell of saltwater and the gentle calls of seagulls, desiring to see the docked ships with their massive structures careening in the wake of rolling waves. He made it not too far before hearing a gasp of surprise, and met the owner of such a sound to only regret it thereafter.
It was a lovely child who had been sitting at one of the benches under the nook of a shop. Her dark hair was drawn into a braid, startling green eyes glaring at him, appalled. Akatosh was astonished to see fear buried within her features.
He could have carried on his way, but didn't, opening his mouth to greet her. The action seemingly prompted her to scream. Her mother, who had thus far been engrossed in a lengthy novel, snapped her gaze at the intruder. And for the first time, he recognized the intruder as himself.
He turned his face away before the woman could see it, covering it with his hands. What? Why was she screaming?
"Don't do that," the woman scolded her daughter. "You should apologize to the man."
"Mommy!" She screeched in a whisper made too loud. "His eyes were red!"
He could see the mother look at him from his peripheral vision. He was still standing there. Why was he still standing there? "I'm sure it was just a trick of the light, dear."
The girl whined. "No, mommy," she insisted. "He had fangs."
He felt his teeth with his tongue. Maybe his jaw was heavier than usual, and his teeth a bit pointy, but wasn't it always like that? He didn't have fangs. That couldn't be true. No, it wasn't, of course it wasn't, she was just seeing things. She had to be seeing things.
Akatosh finally faced the two. "Look," he prompted. "Look!" He hadn't meant to sound forceful, not with the migraine exploding back into existence behind his eyes. He glared at them through the haze of pain.
The woman stood, grabbing onto her daughter's wrist and backing away. "Don't come any closer," she threatened, and the fear in their faces was nothing like what he felt. "Get away!" She turned her heel and ran, making one of the patrolling guards catch sight of the situation.
It made no sense. Did he really look that sick? Nobody in the inn had been there to stop him, but truthfully, nobody in the inn actually awake had paid attention to him. But why had the mother reacted like that? Why had the daughter described him like a monster? Like a creature of the night?
Like a vampire.
Akatosh's world stopped. His arm ached more than ever, and for the first time, he raised it to his face. He pulled back the sleeve of his wool sweater, peeling back the linen bandage. Back when he had wrapped it up, it had been swollen, presumedly from whatever rock he had scraped against in the cave with the battle against Azura's vampires. Now the swelling was gone, and what he saw wasn't a scrape, but two evenly separated red dots against his pale forearm.
Akatosh's knees went weak, and the bile he had felt rushing up his throat when he had woken up came back at full force. He vomited on the sidewalk, barely holding himself up, body trembling with the new realization. His pointed ears picked up on each sound; the twittering of birds in the distance, the steps of the guard as he ran towards the hero, the moans coming from his own throat.
He back away before the soldier could reach him, wiping away the last of his meal from last night and turning to shield his form. Akatosh heard the guard trying to speak but couldn't make out the words he said, and then he was stumbling away, trying to run.
He couldn't be seen like this. He was their hero, not the same childish Breton fresh from the sewers. He was strong, not weak, and even now he refused to be seen like this. Akatosh escaped out the wooden gate, knocking into the barrier with his might and having it give. The hero heard shouts from behind but didn't stop, mounting his horse swiftly from the stable feet away and cutting apart the rope holding her.
With that, the hero of Kvatch fled from the small gather of soldiers, riding under a sun that should have scorched his skin.