He looked into the mirror, frown making itself known. Big brown eyes blinked back at him, the color of roasted coffee beans.
His hair was the same color as his warm irises, ruffled only slightly atop his head. It was a bit long but much shorter than Martin's, framing a young-looking face. The occasional freckle dotted his cheeks, one hidden behind a scar that hadn't quite faded away. He frowned further, light pink lips morphing features he found hard to recognize.
The Breton was so entranced staring at his reflection that he didn't notice the heir, nose almost touching the glass. Martin coughed deeply in the back of his throat, causing him to spin around and knock over half of the things on the shelf.
Neither of them moved to pick anything up, the former priest looking at him with an unamused expression. He grinned sheepishly, Kvatch cuirass rugged on his chest.
"Hi," he started, straightening subconsciously. Martin nodded back, taking a seat on his too-large bed. He looked so modest compared to the grand room, shabby robes clashing with polished furniture and shiny trinkets.
"You seem to be having fun," Martin noted, but he saw past the general grumpiness caused by trying to save the end of the world. Sure enough, concern broke through the snappiness. "I'm glad you made it back safely."
He shrugged once more. "Yeah," the hero replied. "Burd did most of the work. And the... others." He remembered how the happiness of victory had strained when the guards learned of the deaths, how the captain's grief ran so far as Burd held himself accountable.
Oblivion was a wicked place, that was for sure. He thinks that he's just starting to see the importance of closing those gates.
He eventually meets Martin's worried blue eyes, taking in the lines drawn across soft features and the evident lack of sleep. The Breton wants to glance back at the mirror, wants to see how the potions he takes each day has made him look less ill, wants to see the underlying spark of crazy energy in his pupils from the even more insane life he lives. He wonders if Martin is trying to memorize each detail of his face like he's doing to the priest, wonders if the other can see that spark, too.
"I didn't know it was like this," he murmurs, fingers fiddling with the fabric of his light armor. His statement merely draws confusion from Martin.
"What do you mean?" He gestures to his face like it can reveal the answer.
"Me," the hero elaborates. "I mean, this was the first time I saw myself. Just, um, interesting. I guess." He looks younger than he feels, but for Martin, it's probably the other way around.
Martin's mouth softens along the edges, shifting into a ghost of a smile. "Yeah," he mutters. "Interesting." They both seem content to leave it at that, shadows wrapping around the corners of the room and snow falling gently outside the walls.
The doors to Sancre Tor creak as he opens them, sound echoing throughout the structure. He cringes as he steps inside, not bothering to force the entrance shut behind him.
The walls inside are dusty, slabs of stone layered with cracks. The air carries that same dust, tasting old on his tongue. He attempts to light a flame in his hand but not even a twinge of fire comes from the effort, leaving him slightly concerned and wishing it weren't night outside.
The Breton steps through the dark for some time, hugging the walls and shivering in the cold. He sees the ghost before it sees him, wisps of lost life rolling off the apparition and brightening the hallways.
He walks forward to the cloud of light, curious. A face forms out of the fog, ugly and vicious, and a ball of blue energy disentangles from the enemy and launches towards him.
The hero is hit in the chest, staggering back slightly. The offense didn't seem to do any damage, body flushing pink as it was absorbed. He feels something start up in the pit of his stomach, adrenaline bringing him to throw his steel dagger at the enemy.
He felt like cheering when it hit, but the excitement was short-lived. The weapon merely sailed through the cloud, landing with a clank some distance away. He couldn't help the curse that broke out of chapped lips, completely exasperated. He had just gotten that dagger!
The spirit appeared even angrier than him, throwing another ball of energy to his form. He fell to the ground, narrowly avoiding it. Breathing hard, the hero stumbled to a standing position, unsheathing the greatsword at his back and charging.
The daedric metal seemed to have an affect on the apparition. It disappeared in flames, terrible screeching filling the halls. He was alone before he fully knew what was happening, adrenaline pumping hard through his veins.
The Breton continued forward, using the glow that emanated off his weapon for sight. Finding his knife was a lost cause, and he had a brief spurt of amusement trying to imagine Jauffre's reaction when he asked for another. Tucking that away, he began to delve further into the dark reaches of the fort.
The Breton didn't really fully understand the reasons for sending him on this mission. Martin had uncovered yet another trial for them to pass in order to traverse into Mankar Camoran's Paradise; the blood of a Divine. That was nice and all, but of didn't explain why he was the one to get it.
He was fine with helping the Blades, really. In fact, it was kind of an obligation that kept him moving forward, as it was the Breton's fault that they were in this mess. How did he ever manage to forget to give Jauffre the Amulet? It was the whole reason that he had gone to Weynon Priory in the first place: Take this Amulet, give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Only he could mess up that badly.
Yes, he was fine with going on these expeditions for the Blades and Martin Septim. But why were they fine with it? Martin seemed to trust him, in the very least, despite the toll the Xarxes have taken on him. But Jauffre should've have told the Breton to leave ages ago. He said that he believed in Uriel's judgement, that he was the one to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion,' but it was obvious that the deceased king had been wrong. And yet they send him to a place of legends, to retrieve one of the most important items in creation?
Okay.
He found himself in a bigger room, lit by torches of white flames. The ghosts spotted him immediately, three of them swarming him at once, but the hero of Kvatch managed to defeat them with one hit each. He descended the stairs, greatsword in his hands humming with a power that he hadn't felt outside the Deadlands. It was almost frightening, but the strength was intoxicating enough that he didn't want to pull away.
The same braziers dotted the continuing halls, path becoming more destroyed as he traveled along. His weapon's hilt seemed to grow more heated with each kill, making him feel lucky that he had managed to find a pair of thick leather gauntlets before leaving for the expedition.
The Breton finally reached a more distinct room than the others, the creaking of bones reverberating quietly through the walkway. He creeped around the corners of Sancre Tor, peeking around the wall to find the source of the noise.
A lone skeleton trudged through the room, bones clacking against the stone floor and crunching against each other. It brandished a shiny katana in its skinless fingers, worn Blade armor displayed proudly on its figure.
He winced in sudden pain, the heat of his weapon flaring up. It fell with a loud clang, alerting the enemy to his position. He shrieked, trying to pick the weapon back up, but it was too painful to hold.
He rushed away as the skeleton came after him, blade grazing his cuirass slightly. The Breton dodged another swing just in time, tripping and falling on a large mound of dirt. He spluttered, spitting dried soil out of his mouth as the monster bounded towards him again.
He held his hands in front of him, trying to find the surge of Magicka he had summoned all the way back in Oblivion. What came was less than a shadow of that power, a shard of ice lodging itself into the skeleton's ribcage.
It knocked away some of the bones, melting swiftly as the spell wore off. He tried again as the monster walked onward unharmed, thinking of the burning oceans of the Deadlands, and the ball of fire that erupted from his fingertips burned the skeleton's bones to ashes.
The Breton stood shakily, keeping a wide berth between him and the ash pile. He sheathed his greatsword with some difficulty, leather gauntlets completely destroyed. He made a mental note not to use Magicka while wearing armor that covers his palms, briefly considering going back in hopes of recovering his fallen dagger.
Brown irises landed on the shimmering katana, looking new compared to the rusted armor. He wandered over, cautiously picking up the weapon and holding it in his palms. He was stronger than when he first held a blade like this one and the difference showed, hilt perfectly balanced in his grip.
Feeling reassured he made to go on, coming to an abrupt halt as the ash pile started to shimmer. He could only watch as a shape formed from the mound, the spirit growing until it was a ghostly version of a man in armor. Its eyes found him quickly enough, feet taking form and bringing the apparition forward.
A voice rumbled from its throat before he could try to attack, low and male. "At long last, you have freed me. Now I can finally complete my lord's last request."
He blinked in confusion. "Who are you?"
Fog mingled with the bright silhouette of the ghost, appearing blue in the light of the brazier. "I am Rielus," he answered. "Loyal Blade of Tiber Septim. I do not know how long I have been dead. It feels like an eternity."
He furrows his eyebrows, strands of brunet hair peeking out from his borrowed helmet. "What happened to you?"
"My three companions and I were sent here to discover what evil had defiled the holy catacombs of Sancre Tor," he moaned. "We did not know that the Underking, who was Zurin Aretus, had arisen to take his first revenge upon his former lord. The Underking defeated and ensnared us in his evil enchantment, and bound us here to guard forever the defiled shrine of Tiber Septim."
The hero had no idea who Zurin Aretus was, but he didn't sound too nice. "Is the Underking still here?"
"No," Rielus answered. "He departed long ago. But his evil will remains, preventing any from paying homage at the shrine of Tiber Septim."
He fingered the katana nervously. "Well, uh, is there any way to get rid of-" he faltered, trying to find the right words. "His 'evil will'?"
"Over the uncounted years of our slavery here, we have brooded over our defeat," he told the shorter. "I believe that we can undo the Underking's magic." He nodded, but the ghost wasn't finished. "I go now to complete my duty to my lord. Free my brothers, and together we may be able to lift the Underking's curse."
Rielus faded just slightly, turning away and walking through the doors. The Breton followed, thoughts racing faster than his heart.
He was lead to a room much more spacious than the others, path branching off to other doors and ceiling stretching high over his head. The architecture was old but beautiful all the same, caked in dirt but built so precisely it didn't jar the sight too much. The white flames reflected off the walls, looking blue against the stone, and he could hear the distant trickle of water.
Ghosts were spread across the room, all of them completely ignoring Rielus. The Breton was running low on Magicks by the time he had cleared them out. He continued to follow the deceased Blade further, going across a bridge extended over a long fall. He tried not to look over the edge, watching for more enemies.
The hero was about to go further when the spirit held up a hand, making him stop. Rielus left him standing on the bridge, disappearing into shadows.
He frowned, turning back. His eyes landed on a small-looking chest, curiosity getting the best of him. He opened it, mildly surprised that it was unlocked, finding a pile of potions tucked inside. The hero beamed at the object, taking all the potions out and stuffing all but one of them into his pack. He downed the smallest looking one, colored pink like the others, slightly disappointed when it turned out to be a bad one.
If he had a septim for every potion that didn't work...
Pushing the thought away he stood, observing his choices. There were about three or four doors, all made of cracked stone, all looking the same. The Breton picked a room at random, figuring that whatever he was looking for would be behind one of the entrances.
It was more confusing than the last hallway he had traveled through, dead ends branching off at every corner and ceiling looking as if it were about to collapse over his head. He was at least grateful for the light, whether it came from white flames or ghosts.
The other three Blades were somewhat easier to defeat, his Magicka seemingly having recovered. He didn't really understand that and he figured he wouldn't for a long time, but he was thankful that it provided a way to defeat the ghosts as his greatsword cooled off. The katana was especially useful, and he managed to replace it with an enchanted duplicate when the ancient metal snapped.
The deceased Blades didn't try to stop him as he made his way over the bridge once more, katana in his hands and demeanor alert. He went through another door at the very end of the hall, opening the rotted oak entrance.
It creaked horribly before falling of its hinges, looking so out of place next to stone. He stepped over the wood, boots splashing in the water and getting stuck in mud. The Breton pushed on, going through one last entrance, eyes being met by a strange sight.
It was a different sort of hall, larger and even more destroyed, raised platforms on the sides. The Blades froze, all facing the end of the tunnel. A light shined brighter than the sun, taking up the whole end, emanating a force that he couldn't get pass.
He stepped forward slowly, muddy boots making tracks on the ground. The light and power it gave off started to dissipate, allowing him to continue. The Blades kneeled down at his feet as he passed, giving him a kind of tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach. The walls turned rocky as he pressed forward, eventually meeting the end of the path.
The armor of Tiber Septim gleamed beautifully on its podium, golden and pure. The katana clattered to the ground, left to be forgotten in the fort. He picked up the heavy chest plate, barely managing to hold it. Knowing it wouldn't fit in his bag he simply chose to carry it, turning away from the room.
He stumbled across the harsh grounds of the tunnel, crawling over mounds of dirt towards the exit. The Blades saluted him in a show of respect as he passed, bringing a goofy grin to his face. The defender of Bruma pushed through the exit, heading to Cloud Ruler Temple with the fate of Tamriel in his arms.
The armor of the Blades felt strange on his form, too polished and too heavy. He still managed to wear it with pride, made to match his small figure.
The hero sat cross-legged on one of the sleeping bags in the West Wing, flipping through the pages of a book. The words were still meaningless to him but one sentence stood out, letters morphing into something he could read.
He glanced up at the sound of the door opening, brown eyes anxious. Shoving the book under a mass of sheets he turned to the entrance, Martin's face meeting his line of sight.
He quickly stood, walking over to the heir. The simply looked at each other for a while, silence filling in the otherwise empty room.
Martin was the first one to talk. "I was... wrong," he admitted, but that only increased the Breton's confusion.
"Wrong?" He repeated. The former priest nodded, elaborating quickly.
"About being worried, and all those things I said a while back. I mean," he paused, considering. "You brought back the armor of a Divine from a damned place that many have met their fate in. You have gone into Oblivion and come back to tell the tale. You can handle yourself much more than I gave you credit for."
The blush spread across his cheeks, his hand combing through chestnut hair nervously. "Martin-"
"No," he interrupted. "Please. You're a hero, whether you believe it or not." He looked so sincere, expression solemn and clear of all doubt. The Breton couldn't speak for a moment, mind reeling.
"Thanks," he decided on, still blinking stupidly. He took a short moment until he spoke again, this time with a soft grin. "Goodnight, Septim."
"And you," he replied, nodding, and he ascended the stairs to his room. The Breton watched him go, heart feeling light and face positively beaming. He eventually took his seat back on the bed, finding the book hidden under blankets.
The hero stared at the words written on the crisp page, thinking long and hard, and it was a while until he let the book go.
"When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee."
I have been thinking of the HoK's appearance for some time, and I hope it came out okay. Your guys' thoughts?