His horse had nearly collapsed in front of the gates, trembling in the pouring rain. The Blades quickly took it to shelter, some of them throwing concerned glances his way, and he was almost appreciative of the worry. Almost.
He leaned heavily on the Sanguine Rose, eventually sliding down the walls protecting the temple. The Breton waved off the guards, tired but unscathed. The staff fell beside him with a loud thud, the rose at its top glowing with power, petals soft and delicate against his skin.
He had traveled three days, or what felt like three days, after running out of Martin's potion. Cyrodiil had chosen to be particularly unhelpful, showering him with storms throughout the journey. It wasn't very fun, and the damn staff he had worked so hard to get did pretty much nothing, so he thought he deserved a little moment to himself.
The Breton eventually stood, stumbling over to the entrance. His inner-thighs burned like the air of Oblivion as a result of riding on horseback for days at a time, making camp only once. He seriously needed to start reevaluating his life choices.
Iron boots pounded unevenly against hard oak floors, doors closing behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief. He immediately made his way to the fireplace at the end of the main hall, settling down in an attempt to warm up.
His armor had been hastily thrown on, not completely adjusted correctly. Of course, he hadn't exactly gotten the hang of putting on armor, sometimes getting help from one of the Blades, but it was worse than usual. Strands of hair were stuck to his forehead, darkened by the rain, and the greatsword at his back seemed colder than usual.
Hearing the sound of someone entering, he turned his head. Martin was there, blue eyes glimmering brightly under locks of brown. The Breton felt a surge of happiness he couldn't quite place, staring up at the priest as he made his way over.
Martin sat down next to him on the floor, straightening out his robe. The other just watched, shivering barely under his Kvatch cuirass.
"It's good you came back," Martin finally said. "We were worried about you." He gazed into the roaring fire, flames lazily eating away at the logs.
"Worried?" He echoed, eyebrows furrowing. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, he continued. "I was just gone for a few days, nothing much."
"It's not that," Martin insisted. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have sent you to that place. Sanguine is a horrible force, bending others to their will, and it was a rash decision to lead you into his deceit."
He was a little taken aback. "What? No, it was fine," he reassured. It wasn't like he had killed anyone or even hurt them, not really. "I got the artifact." He held the object up to the light, offering it to Martin. The priest grimaced, snatching it out of his hands like the Breton was corrupting it.
"Don't touch that!" He snapped, getting to his feet. The other copied the action, a frown covering his face.
"It's not like I had any other choice if I wanted to bring you the thing in the first place," he argued, but Martin's scowl only deepened.
"This was a mistake," he muttered, rubbing his temples, and that was the last straw for the hero. Because he had been out through three days of pain, obeyed the will of evil gods, and even went into a portal to another realm just for Martin Septim- yeah, he was a little grumpy right now, but what was the heir's excuse?
"I'm glad you feel that way!" He shouted. "Sorry for disappointing you all!" His voice rang out through the otherwise empty hall, too loud, and Martin flinched. He lowered the volume, arms crossed. "I was fine, it went fine. It's not- it's not like I'm going to break it. I'm not going to mess up anymore. I'm here to fix this, Martin."
He looked at the Breton in a reserved kind of way, almost pitying, almost guilty but not quite either. "I know that," he said quietly. "I'm not worried you'll break it; I'm worried that it'll break you."
He didn't really know how to respond to that, but it looked like he didn't need to. Martin left it at that, not bothering to look back as he walked off with the Sanguine Rose, figure disappearing behind the oak doors.
It was well into night when he found his way down to the gathering of guards, all settled right outside the Bruma entrance. The cold seeped into his bones, tiny flakes of snow falling, but he knew that was about to change soon.
The hero was just heading to the West Wing to rest when Jauffre had run in, telling him of the Oblivion gate that had opened near the Nordic town. Why? Because, obviously, one man who barely survived Oblivion once was clearly more qualified than a whole army of highly-trained soldiers to help decide the fate of the world.
Well, of course, he was also probably the only one who knew how to close the gates. The only one still alive, anyway.
The Breton still wished that he had been given more back-up. He really wasn't that strong, barely managing to pull his way through fights every time. Sure, he was getting better with a blade, but not better enough. And it wasn't like he was eager to dive into that world again, that dimension. The last time that had happened, he had been a complete mess. It took hours of spell-casting to get him into shape again, and that was only the physical damage. There was still that change in the back of his mind, that lingering difference he couldn't name, and the Breton didn't like it at all.
But hey, why don't you save the world (again), Breton? You're obviously very sane and skilled, and it's not like you didn't just come back from a horrible mission and are extremely exhausted. It's not like you're only conscious because of the potions you just digested earlier. Of course not!
He hated his life.
The first face he saw was a familiar one, Burd looking strong and confident in his city's armor. The Nord went over to him as soon as he was close enough, feeling even smaller and insignificant next to the warrior.
"Thanks for coming," he started, tones rich with gratitude. "Since we had the Hero of Kvatch available, I didn't think it made sense to try this on our own the first time."
He inwardly grimaced at the title, attempting to keep a straight face. It was an honor, a huge honor to be addressed like such, but it didn't feel like it anymore. Every time he had entered the city to get his armor and weapons repaired or to get some new clothes, it was all the same; "Say, aren't you the Hero of Kvatch?" Or, "It's you! The Hero of Kvatch!" He used to swell up with pride at that, but now he just kind of deflated. The Breton wished that someone, anyone, would address him by something else- or, more like, he wished he had an actual name to be addressed by.
Burd kept on going, oblivious to the discussion he was holding in his head. "We're ready when you are," he told the other. "Just say the word and we'll follow you into that hell-spawned gate."
He kind of gaped at that, ruining his indifferent façade. Follow him? The Breton didn't know what to feel at that. Overwhelmed? Uneasy? Flattered? He settled on a mix of all three, but agreed nonetheless.
"I'm ready," he told the captain, checking to see that his steel helm was snug on his head. It had been one of the little prizes he had picked up from a bandit camp on the way back from Sanguine's shrine. The Breton still felt kind of guilty for taking it from the dead, but it kind of served the bandit right for ambushing him in the first place. There had to be a kind of rule for this, right? And on any account, if he was going to save the world he needed a good helmet.
"Alright," Burd replied. "Give me a minute to talk to my men. Everyone's a bit jumpy right now." He guided them both to the garrison nearer to the gate, and the Breton got his first look at the thing. It was just the same as the one in Kvatch, causing red flashes of lightning to grace the night sky and being encircled by crude daedric architecture.
"Alright, boys," the captain called, gesturing at him to come. He moved forward to face the troops, standing next to Burd. "We gotta close that gate over there. Nobody likes the idea of going into that thing, but it's our job, and we're going to do it. If we don't, Bruma will end up like a smoking pile of rubble, like what happened at Kvatch. And that's not going to happened here, not while I'm captain of the guard."
He began to call out orders, pointing to his men. Two of them stepped forward, ready to help, which put his worries that he would be going alone to rest. Burd nodded at him, and he nodded back, all running to the portal.
Oblivion was just as horrible as it had been the last time. The temperature rose immediately, landscape hazard and torn apart. He could see the Sigil Keep from where they entered, looking magnificent in its own way.
The soldiers appeared downright terrified but they didn't have time to adjust, a scamp bounding out of the rocks. The three ran over to kill it, which he would've laughed at if it hadn't been such a dire situation. He stayed back, dagger out, ready to face worse.
Three more appeared where the one died, throwing fireballs crazily at the group. One of the Bruma soldiers went to far to the edge of the lava, falling into its depths. The hero yelled out, rushing to finish off the scamp, but the damage had already been done.
He felt sick at that- not even a minute spent in the realm and someone had already died. Pushing it away, he gestured at the remaining, telling them to follow.
He navigated them through the harsh terrain, having to dodge sets of spikes rising through the ground like teeth. It put a horrid image into his head; the rocks each a jagged tooth, lava burning spit, land the gums and tongue- all a part of a giant mouth, swallowing them up and eating them whole. He tried not to let that fester in the back of his mind too long, already feeling discouraged.
They quickly cut down any scamp along the way, heat burning their skin. Another guard met his death from a flurry of fireballs, leaving only him and Burd.
He got his first wound from a frenzy of crimson vines, lashing forward like whips and catching his arm. Burd managed to cut them off before they caused any serious damage, his cuirass luckily protecting him from the worst of it, but his upper-arm still ached horribly.
They continued forward, climbing up the small hills close to the tower. A Dremora surprised them along the way, screaming bloody-murder, but he and Burd managed to defeat it. Both of them were pretty winded after it was done but the Breton knew they couldn't rest, that they would only feel worse if they stopped.
They finally reached the tower, two more Dremora guarding the door. He replaced his dagger with the daedric greatsword, feeling it in his hands. It was heavy but not unbearably so, and he was relieved that the weapon was not burning his palms like last time he tried to wield it.
He dashed toward to the Dremora in robes, dodging the spells it sent his way. He lashed out, hitting the demon in the shoulder, and its whole body erupted into flames.
The Breton jumped back at that, knowing the blow would kill any human. The monster staggered a bit, but seemed to be immune to most of the heat. He aimed to hit it again but the offending spell came quickly, a bolt of lightning getting him in the chest.
He braved himself for the impact but it never came, the spell melting into his body. His whole form glowed a faint pink for the barest second, something feeling different in his gut.
The hero went ahead, striking the Dremora in the heart. Flames raced across its figure, sword only pulling out when it went limp. He hurried to the corpse, not liking it one bit, but taking all the potions hidden in its robe nonetheless.
Burd had just finished with his own armored enemy, looking completely exhausted. He handed a warrior one of the potions, unsure of what it would do, but it seemed to have a positive effect. He stored the rest in his pack, walking to the tower's entrance.
The Breton slung his greatsword over his back in exchange for the elven dagger at his hip, studying the stone barrier. He was careful not to look at the symbols inscribed in the material, afraid of what he would find, as he reached one unarmored hand forward. The door didn't split in the middle like last time, instead cracking from where it met his skin, eventually crumbling to the ground.
Burd didn't ask any questions, running inside. He wasn't sure what he thought about that move. Foolishly charging in? You have fun with that.
He stuck to the walls as best he could, watching a couple of scamps bound towards the guard captain. The Nord took care of them easily, looking at him for further directions.
He lead them to one of the side doors, trying to make sense of the description. The Blood Feast's centerpiece churned loudly in the tower, lighting up the whole room in orange, but still it was too dark.
Giving up, he cut his knife through the cracks in the doors, pulling the sides. He squeezed through the tiny space, helping Burd open it further so that the captain could get through.
He lead them up to the halls, trying to be as quiet as possible. The Breton attempted to ignite a fireball in his palm so that they could see, shocked when it came so easily. The flames licked at his skin, bathing the room brightly, and it was probably some of the best Magick he had created.
A screech came from behind them, shrilly and disturbing. He quickly turned just in time to see the beast dashing to them, small and ferocious. It dug its claws into his leg, making him scream as they broke through his leather greaves, and Burd managed to kill it before it got any worse.
He looked down at the thing's corpse, stomach churning, and they both made their way through the next door in silent agreement. It opened to reveal another dark hallway, but he decided not to use up too much Magicka this time. They instead picked their way over the room without sight, feeling for the walls.
The trap came swinging over his head, large and spiky and almost bringing him to his death. Burd dived forward just in time, toppling the two of them over onto the floor. He barely managed to breathe out a word of gratitude, a new enemy making their appearance known. It was a woman made of fire, floating towards them with too many bad intentions. Burd got off of the Breton, hurrying forward and swinging his sword at her, but it didn't do much damage to the body of pure flames.
Still in shock, he stumbled up to a standing position, concentrating harder. Again, the spell seemed to work too easily, a flurry of ice erupting from his fingers and killing the atronach instantly, but he wasn't complaining.
Burd sent him an impressed look but he waved the warrior off, not bothering to think too much on it. They entered through the Blood Feast once more, battling through some scamps to the next room.
This one was guarded with even more atronachs, and he found himself conjuring more and more ice storms and balls of snow. He tried his luck at summoning lighting, creating a small hurricane as Dremora and clannfear piled in, and the small army was dead within seconds.
The Breton drank some potions to regain his energy when it was done, feeling amazed. He found that he could barely create a spark of fire after it was done, but it was definitely worth it; winds roaring and forming into a tornado of ice around them, flashes of lighting dancing within the storm and paralyzingly the best of Oblivion's beasts.
They made it to the top level, a single Dremora guarding the way. It seemed a lot easier than before to take down the monster, him causing a small spark of electricity to minimally paralyze the enemy while Burd ran it through with his sword from behind. He dug through his bag for the sigil key, finding that it fit the tiny slot to the Sigilium Sanguis perfectly.
The grounds of the Sanguis squished under their feet, and they barely made it through the entrance before a clannfear assaulted them. Thinking quickly, he threw his dagger at the monster, hoping to nail it in the chest- and missed.
Cursing to himself, he jumped up to avoid its claws, swiftly unsheathing his greatsword and lopping off the thing's head. Burd grabbed his elven dagger but he let the Nord hold onto it for the time being, instead taking Burd's arm and pulling them up to the object of their troubles.
He kept a firm grip on Burd's arm, trying to guide them upwards. A robed Dremora snuck up behind them, knocking Burd to the ground hard and swinging its daedric mace at his head. The Breton tackled the monster to the ground before the hit could connect, shoving it off the edge of the walkway with extreme difficulty.
He knew that the fall wasn't far enough to kill it, standing hastily. A quick check for his pulse proved that the guard had only been knocked unconscious, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Preparing himself, he draped the man's arm across his shoulders, tiny frame struggling to support the muscled warrior.
The slowly made their way up the very top, but it wasn't long before more monsters came. He was not nearly fast enough to outrun the atronach heading towards them, shielding Burd from the onslaught of fireballs thrown at them. He felt his cuirass start to smoke, just a step away from being lit on fire, and this was probably some of the worst pain he had experienced in his entire life.
The Dremora started to head up to where they were, outnumbering him easily. The Breton felt like screaming, dreading this more with every growing second, fatigue coursing through him.
In a last resort he dropped Burd's body, running as fast as he could to the stone. It glowed brilliantly, held in a shining pedestal, folding into his palm nearly as he stole it. He quickly dashed back down to Burd, pushing them both over the edge as the Dremora tried to swing at them, and they disappeared into a flash of bright light as they fell.