Next Deadline: December 7 2014
My internet completely crashed yesterday, haha. Sorry for the delay. I added a lot more, around another two thousand words, to make up for it. I believe the next chapter will be the last one?
"It's ready," Martin said, looking down at his friend. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah." Akatosh answered, sending him a reassuring grin. "I'll come back. I promise you that, Septim."
"We'll see, my friend." The portal erupted from the ground, a mass of gold and pure light, and they both knew it was the way to Paradise.
The hero was seconds from stepping in, foot just leaving the ground, when he heard it.
"I love you, too."
If he listened closely he could catch the singing of birds, sounding true and permanent in the strange world he had intruded on. It was a weird place, even weirder that there was no portal behind him to retreat back in, but he supposed he had never been one to run away from unfamiliar realms.
His feet had landed on a marble pedestal, iron boots thudding against the stand. Large pine trees were stretched to the indigo sky, light wind rustling their leaves. The sun had diminished into a pinkish hue in the horizon, bouncing off the ocean's waves in the distance.
Akatosh took it all in, stepping forward tentatively. A white stone path marked the way he was meant to go, bright purple and blue flowers blooming along the trail. He fingered Baurus' katana, strapped to his waist, newly repaired Kvatch armor set on his chest.
The hero walked only a few paces through the woods before being stopped, a booming voice reaching his ears in Paradise. "So, the cat's paw of the Septims arrives at last."
He drew his dagger, flames igniting at his fingertips. "Hello?"
It continued on as if his words hadn't been said, tone flaunting around him from all directions. "You didn't think you could take me unawares, here of all places? In the Paradise I created?"
He narrowed his eyes, continuing on in the small clearing. It traveled upwards slightly, climbing up a hill, and he ascended the even steps. "Look now, upon my Paradise," it invited, and he did. "Gaiar Alata, in the old tongue. A vision of the past. And the future."
"I'm sure," he murmured, coming to a bridge. It hung over a slow and lazy current down below, and he didn't doubt the fall would kill him.
Akatosh stepped over, walking past to the other side. He was welcomed by an eyeful of autumn-turned trees, standing tall and strong over his head. More flowers bloomed, followed by strongly colored mushrooms, popping up between lush bushes and from rich soil.
"Behold the Savage Garden, where my disciples are tempered for a high destiny: to rule over Tamriel Reborn." Akatosh couldn't tell if his speaker could see his every move, but he didn't feel like taking a chance. "If you are truly a hero of destiny, as I hope, the Garden will not hold you for long. Lift your eyes to Carac Agailor," it told him, but the hero could only see trees. "I shall await you there."
He continued to walk through undisturbed, scenery becoming more lovely as he passed. The trees wilted into spring, full of fresh green blooms and ripening fruits, marble arching over his head. The evening sky was lazily trailed with puffs of clouds, wind stinging at his skin.
He turned the corner, only to be met with a decision. The path was split, one half leading downwards and the other leading up. Frowning, he went right, going down and deeper into Paradise.
The path rounded out, leading into the distance, and the hike continued. With Camoran's voice absent it was silent, and he grew more unnerved with each passing moment.
Akatosh simply didn't understand. He wasn't much good at puzzles or even basic comprehension, as much as he hated to admit, and this was a bigger puzzle than most. This realm seemed to pure, so perfect, but he could feel a darker energy within. Something was terribly off.
Martin had warned him of what may be lurking inside, but this hadn't been anywhere near what he had imagined. It hardly mattered, either way. He had been through the Deadlands countless times, and this was no different. This time, Mankar Camoran was his Sigil stone, and this was just another trek through a hellish word.
He broke into a slow jog as the path cut once more, both choices leading out to either side. Akatosh veered his head to the left, seeing the path slope down, and craned his neck to the right. He immediately jumped back, unsheathing his katana, eyes wide.
The Dremora stalked up to him, beady red eyes trained on his features. He didn't attack yet, though. It seemed to be observing him, armor stained with blood, face broken and covered in a multitude of bruises.
"You destroyed the Sigil tower at Ganonah," it greeted, voice sounding uneasy in Akatosh's tongue. "My kin say you fought well."
He dropped his katana but didn't unsheathe it, loosing the protective stance. "Ganonah?" He repeated, remembering the plains of the Deadlands. He switched languages with some difficulty, words being registered carefully before coming out. "It was an exceptional battle."
"So the legends are true," the Dremora muttered. "Our clan sacked your city of Kvatch... a trifling task fit for scamps. Your swift retribution earned you much respect among my people. We had not expected that a mortal would act with such resolution and honor. It is no dishonor for us to speak, especially if you bare the means to our language."
Akatosh nodded. It was a strange thing between them, a mortal speaking in daedric and a beast speaking as a human. There was an understanding between them, something not tangible but instead felt, felt underneath his skin and deep in his gut.
"I seek Mankar Camoran," he told the daedra, and the other grunted.
"You speak directly like one of my people, almost," it admitted. "I am glad I did not kill you immediately."
He narrowed his eyes, loosing his train of concentration. "What do you want, then?"
It considered. "I am Kathutet," the Dremora told him. "There is one way out of the Garden, and I guard the key to that path. You will travel that path, and it will bring me great honor to defeat you. But..." It hesitated. "You shamed my kin at Ganonah. To bring you into my service will also bring me honor. So I offer you a choice."
He narrowed his eyes, waiting, and Kathutet continued. "Would you confront me in battle? Or will you offer me service?"
Akatosh blinked. This Dremora, offering him a choice? Judging by the armor it wore Kathutet was a Kynval, but he couldn't be sure.
"Is this not demeaning to your own honor?" He taunted. "Allowing a mortal to decide his own fate?"
Kathutet did not grow angry, as Akatosh knew it wouldn't. "I admit, your claim would be true if what you say is correct."
"Oh, but it is."
"No," it reinforced. "What was a daedra is always a daedra, even out of time or place. You have not changed."
"I am no daedra." He promised in a language not his own.
Kathutet chuckled, the sound reverberating through its throat. "What is that mortal saying?" It questioned. "Yes. Every man to his own."
He opened his mouth to object, closing it just as quickly. Akatosh had a choice to make, after all. Honor was a flitting thing, sure, but he cared too much to loose it. Even so, he would abandon it in order to keep his life, but he simply didn't have time to serve while Camoran continued on with his plans.
"I will meet you in battle, Kynval." It appeared to sigh, obviously disappointed.
"Your mind follows the simple path, the choice of an animal," Kathutet told him. "But you have courage, at least. You will fail, mortal, and then where will you be? Dead, and nothing."
"Oh, but you have it wrong," he told Kathutet, drawing his katana. "I will take the key from your corpse."
"So be it." The Dremora charged forward with a blade he didn't see, aiming to slice his head off cleanly. Akatosh moved, but the edge of his neck was snagged by the tip of the sword.
Its enchantment rippled across the decent wound, flames licking at his exposed skin. He gasped in a mixture of surprise and pain, raising a hand to the thin cut, and the Kynval took that as an opening. This time, Akatosh met him with Akaviri metal, sending a high-powered charge of electricity down the length of his sword.
He hadn't planned very well, current sending some feedback down his way, but it produced the desired affect. Both he and Kathutet were knocked apart, gaining the hero some space.
"You have unusual methods, Breton," it told him, sounding snarky even in its own language.
"Glad to hear it," the hero replied. "And the name's Akatosh, daedra." He raced forward, swinging his katana, at it managed to catch his enemy by surprise. The end of his sword was lodged deep into the Dremora's thick skin, and he used the distraction to launch himself on top of the beast.
Akatosh doused his hands in flames, letting the fire consume Kathutet. In a quick span of seconds he launched a field of frost over the Kynval, ending the spread of heat and taking out his dagger.
"Give me the key," he threatened, holding the ebony weapon to its throat. "You have lost."
It looked at him, long and hard, red irises gazing into his soul. Akatosh gave a sudden gasp as his shoulder was struck, body jerking, and his hand was forced forward in the motion. The blade cut cleanly through the Kynval's neck but he could barely see it, falling over.
It was an arrow- he could see its daedric-made tip poke through his cuirass, longer than any type he had seen in Cyrodiil. It was lodged straight through his right shoulder, and he tried to bend over, only managing to jerk wildly. Black dots were starting to take over his vision but he couldn't let them, couldn't let himself fall into unconsciousness.
"Divines," he got out, coughing up spots of blood. He dug into his bag, ripping off the strap and dumping out all its contents. Potions spilled onto the marble path, some cracking, and he took some of the healing bottles and downed them.
Akatosh winced as the liquid crawled down his throat, tasting copper. Remembering what Martin had done for his countless scrapes, he brought a trail of frost over the wound, trying to numb the pain. The hero twitched crazily, unused to damage this extreme, and he brought his hands away when he nearly conjured a spike of ice to impale him.
He needed to get the arrow out, that was for sure. It didn't appear to have struck any vitals but it hurt like Oblivion, and he doubted he would live very long with the amount of blood he was using. Sending a quick prayer to the gods, he tightened his fingers around the arrow's shaft, tugging it as hard as he could.
Akatosh screamed, falling forward and back onto the ground. He didn't know how much it had moved, didn't know if it had even moved at all. The hero struggled to sit up, panting. This was pretty bad.
He needed another strength potion. Scooting over to the torn bag, he searched through its scattered contents, finding the ornate bottle. It had suffered a crack in its side, liquid oozing out, but the half left was enough. He brought it to his lips and drank, waiting for the extra kick of brewed Magicka.
Taking another healing potion, he brought his fingers to the arrow once more, readying himself. With a hard pull he slid the entire weapon piece out, letting it clatter to the floor. Akatosh seethed, blacking out for a few seconds, allowing himself the small token of rest.
The Breton had no clue where to go from there. He was fresh out of healing potions, and he doubted he could hold on until the battle with Mankar Camoran.
He closed his eyes, thinking, body sprawled out on the ground and hands putting pressure to his shoulder. Back at Cloud Ruler Temple, when he had been training with Baurus and Martin, the heir had warned him never to attempt healing Magick unless there was no other choice. It was arguably one of the most tricky schools to learn, and the easiest to go awry, but he didn't think he had a choice.
He didn't have any supplies or help, and he was short on time. Sitting back up, he pulled away his hands, taking a shaky breath. He had practiced conjuring the actual Magicks with Martin, and he knew he just needed to focus.
Akatosh let the full pain of the wound get to him, imagining it consuming his whole body. He clenched his fists, closing his eyes, focusing his raw emotions into energy.
He could see a burst of golden light behind his eyelids, and he opened them, watching as the stream of gold swarmed up his arms and struck his shoulder. It was a tricky thing to cast, flitting and spanning, as if it might erupt into flames and destroy him at any second. Akatosh tried to keep the flow going, doing his best not to fall unconscious, and only had it die out after a few minutes.
The hero breathed in deeply, prodding his shoulder. He thanked the Divines when it only gave into a few waves of pain, and it would have to do for now. He shakily got to his feet, feeling lightheaded, and stumbled over to Kathutet.
The Dremora was dead, that was for sure, and he couldn't muster up any pity. He looked for a key but found none, instead being drawn to the set of arm braces on it's wrists. They came off with a simple tug, glowing ruby red, inscribed with unintelligible symbols.
Akatosh furrowed his eyebrows. He had a feeling this was it, and his gut was yet to let him down. He pulled the bands over each hand, watching as they clicked in place, and he gasped in surprise as a field of red overtook his skin.
It didn't hurt, and he frowned. It seemed like some sort of enchantment. Not caring to test it out, he stood, attempting briefly to pull the braces off. They didn't yield, and he knew he was stuck with them.
"How little you understand," Mankar mocked him. "You cannot stop Lord Dagon."
He huffed. "Shut up!"
Akatosh stood there, waiting, but Camoran's voice did not come again. Making sure he had all his weapons, leaving the bag behind, the hero started forward to the cave recently blocked by the dead Kynval.
The entrance was sealed by a boulder, depicting strange drawings and more ruins. Akatosh raised his hands to push it, jumping back when it burst apart. He nodded to himself, drawing up some courage.
"I will stop you, Camoran," he whispered. "You can count on it."
Akatosh stepped forward, into the darkness. It sloped downwards, farther away from the light outside. The Breton's feet splashed in water, the Grotto inside drowned and flooded.
He made his way through the tunnels, wishing for a torch, but he didn't dare waste anymore Magicka. His eyes made out people, standing in silence, the immortal reincarnations of fallen Dawn.
Akatosh pushed on, brushing passed the enemies. There was no point in striking them down, that he knew, and they saw no victory within slaying him.
He climbed up a slanted hill within the Grotto, leaving behind the pool of murky water. A Clannfear came at him and he struck it down with a simple swipe of his katana, hurrying onwards. More of its kind met him on the journey through the caves, just as easily brought down, and his shoulder had began to ache as he killed the last of them.
Akatosh was met by another boulder, crumbling just as the last as soon as it was touched by the bands. He kicked his way through the rubble, having to back away as a scamp lunged at him through the dust.
He killed it swiftly, rushing into the new area of the cave, and two of the Mythic Dawn ran at him. Akatosh blocked their strikes, dodging rapid balls of fire that had no true aim. There were trenches filled with boiling lava in the area so he pushed one of his attackers down into them, stabbing the other in the head.
Akatosh made to continue through the side passage, another robed figure coming out of the darkness as he attempted to pass. He swung his sword but was stopped, a hand lashing out to grab his wrist and stop the attack.
"Wait!" The figure ordered. "I'm not here to hurt you!"
Akatosh narrowed his eyes. He tried to tug himself out of the grasp, failing, and was forced to submit. "What do you want, elf?"
It had to be an elf, judging by the sound of his voice and the tall, willowy stature. He simply didn't have time to wait, but it didn't seem like he got to choose, either.
"You wear the bands of the Chosen," he observed, gesturing towards the braces on his wrist. "But you are no prisoner."
"They're the key to getting out of here," he muttered, trying to grab for his knife. The stranger saw what he was doing before he could get it, taking his other hand and slamming it against the cave wall.
"Who are you?" The elf asked. "What are you doing here?"
Akatosh gritted his teeth. It hurt more than he wanted it to, and his shoulder was complaining. "I'm here to kill Mankar Camoran."
He could see pale skin in the darkness of the cave, eyes widening under his hood. "Really?" The elf asked. "You truly think you can do it? Can you bring this eternal nightmare to an end?"
"Nightmare?" He questioned. "Paradise seems pretty sweet, especially for the damned souls who reside in here."
The elf backed off, allowing him freedom, but he didn't strike. "They hunt us down everyday," he said. "The beasts. Daedra. And each time we are killed, we are brought back, only to live through it again."
"Why would Camoran do that to his own followers?"
"I do not know," the elf admitted. "Listen. I can help you. You need my help if you are ever to leave the Forbidden Grotto."
Akatosh crossed his arms, being mindful of his wound. "Why is that?"
"The same binds that allow you in here will keep you from getting out," he said. "The next door will not open to those who bear the bands of the Chosen."
Akatosh blinked. He supposed that explained why Kathutet gave him a choice. Either way, if the elf was telling the truth, the Kynval thought him to be dead meat.
"Who are you?" He asked, deciding to place his trust.
"I am Eldamil," he introduced. "You?"
"Akatosh. The mortal one," he added, before his new companion could get out the question. "Tell me, why would you want to help me? Why should I believe you won't betray me?"
"I was at the sack of Kvatch," Eldamil admitted. "They had no chance. We took them by surprise, and we carried the walls in the first assault. But," he paused. "But they fought on, anyway. Desperately. They seemed to think this decadent, mundane world of theirs was worth living."
Akatosh put away his katana, listening, and Eldamil continued. "I was slain after the battle was over. Three townsfolk hiding in the cellar attacked me when I entered their house, hunting down survivors. They tore me to pieces, although I have no doubt they were immediately killed by my companions."
"Okay?"
"I've had..." He sighed. "I've had plenty a time to ponder my deeds as I came here. Ponder, and regret. And eternity of regret. For my weakness, the Master sent me here. To torture my fellow comrades who showed similar ingratitude for his gift of eternal life."
Akatosh considered. "I believe you," he decided. "But how can you help me?"
Eldamil smiled, lifting off his hood, and although he couldn't see the elf's features he appreciated the gesture.
"I can remove the bands," he said. "But I will need time. The Dremora overseer will be here anytime to check up on me. You need to play along until he leaves."
"How?"
"Just act like a prisoner, and do as I say," he told the hero. "Once Orthe leaves, we can find a quiet spot to remove those bands."
He nodded, understanding. "I should probably give you my weapons," he realized. "But I'm keeping my dagger. And I will not hesitate to carve out your heart if you try anything."
"I won't," he swore, but there was only so far Akatosh could go. The Breton slung off his greatsword, hiding a pang of displeasure in his chest as it was given away. He unstrapped Baurus' katana as well, handing it over once Eldamil had secured his sword.
"You need to be careful with this," he said, tightening the straps around Eldamil's waist. "It belongs to a friend."
"I'll guard it with my life," he told the other. "Now, come on. Follow me."
He was lead away from the side passage, going out into the adjoining room. There was another trench filled with lava, a cage hanging over its depths, and he came to a stop by the edge.
They didn't have to wait long before Eldamil's superior came out, finding him instantly. "What's going on in here?" Orthe questioned. "Who's this?"
"A prisoner," Eldamil said. Orthe was a bulky daedra, strong horns protruding from his forehead and eyes a deep coal black. "He was sent in by-"
"Show me some respect, worm," the Dremora warned, Akatosh keeping his head bowed. His brown hair flailed around his cheeks, falling into chocolate colored eyes that burned holes into the soil under his boots.
"Yes, of course, sir," Eldamil backtracked. "This prisoner was sent in by Kathutet for questioning. I was just about to begin."
"This is not one of Mankar Camoran's chattels from the garden," Orthe observed. "Who is he?"
"Nothing escapes your great knowledge, sir," Eldamil praised, though he could hear the evident sarcasm. "Kathutet wanted to know the same. This is why he was sent in for questioning."
"Well, carry on," he ordered, and Eldamil nodded.
"Prisoner," he demanded, voice strict. "Get in the cage!" Akatosh was forced to follow, hesitating only slightly as his weight tested the durability of the cage. It was crudely made, tittering slightly as he got in, and as the door closed behind his back it shook.
Akatosh held in a shout as it started to go down, sending Eldamil a fearful look, but he didn't catch his companion's expression. His sight was obscured by the inside of the trench, boiling lava getting closer and closer. Just as he was afraid it was about to go in the cage stopped, liquid inches away from his feet.
The cage slowly started to rise back up, and he was greeted by Eldamil's face looking worriedly at him. Orthe lay dead at his feet, presumably struck by surprise.
"There's no way I can get to you from there," he called. "But I know a different way through. Just keep going! I'll meet you there with your weapons."
"Got it," he promised, and the cage door opened up to the opposite side. "And thanks."
"No problem," Eldamil replied. "Now go!" He obliged, stepping out quickly, and Eldamil disappeared into another passage. Akatosh jogged out, following the cave and heading right.
There were more torture chambers on the way, and it proved to be a challenge to get through all the Mythic Dawn with such a small weapon. He was grateful for the time when daggers had been all that he had used, able to get through with only a few cuts and scrapes.
Akatosh ran through the tunnels swiftly, coming out after a near hour of being hunted down by enemies. Sure enough, Eldamil rushed over to meet him at a small clearing, looking exhausted but grinning all the same.
"You made it!" He exclaimed. "I didn't doubt you would be able to get through."
Akatosh laughed. "You should have," he said, taking back his katana. Eldamil moved to unstrap the greatsword but he shook his head, holding out a hand. "It's fine," he said. "Why don't you hang onto that until this is over?"
Eldamil nodded, smile spreading. "Let me take off those bands," he proposed, and Akatosh straightened out his arms. His companion shot a thread of red-hot Magicks at the braces and they flew off at the strike, thudding as they hit the ground.
"That's amazing," he breathed. "You wouldn't by any chance know healing, would you? I'm not that good at it."
"Where's the wound?" He asked. Akatosh jutted out his right shoulder.
"Outside, I was battling Kathutet," he explained. "He managed to push an arrow through my shoulder while I was distracted. I pulled it out and tried to heal but I think it's starting to open back up."
Eldamil reached for the wound, and he winced. "Try to spare the armor?" He asked. "It's grown on me." It was probably the only reason he lugged around the cuirass at this point, and if it was good enough for Savlian it was good enough for him.
"Of course," the elf promised, and blue light flowed from his fingertips and into the wound. It did its job in a matter of seconds, taking away the ache and leaving only a scar behind. "You did pretty good before," Eldamil told him. "Just need some practice, but you healed most of the damage."
"I've got a great instructor," he replied. "Now what?"
"Well," he considered the question. "You're not a prisoner of the Forbidden Grotto anymore. You're free to continue on. But..."
"What's wrong?"
"Let me come with you," he proposed. "Let me help you kill Mankar Camoran. I am not without power."
"Sure," Akatosh answered. "I'd be glad to have your help."
Eldamil grinned. "I'm not match for the Master," he admitted. "But perhaps together we can find a way to defeat him." Akatosh shared his hopes. "Lead on."
The hero clapped his companion on the back before descending deeper into the cave, turning left and heading through its tunnels. A Clannfear jumped out but he stabbed it in the head instantly, kicking its corpse away.
Mankar's voice came back to haunt him. "Well done, champion!" He congratulated. "Your progress is swift and sure."
Akatosh glanced behind him at his friend. "You can hear that, right?"
"Indeed," he murmured. "Let's just continue."
The Breton silently agreed, heading into deeper darkness, but their watcher didn't stop. "Perhaps you will reach me after all," he considered. "You think I mock you? Not at all. In your coming, I hear the footsteps of Fate. You are the last and greatest defender of decadent Tamriel, and I am the midwife of the Mythic Dawn, Tamriel reborn."
Akatosh only sighed, but admittedly, his attention was drawn. He rounded the corner, being ambushed by a couple of scamps, but Eldamil killed them before he could react.
They went along through a series of torture chambers, enemies admittedly weaker than they should have been, and it smelled too strongly of a trap. Akatosh brushed that off. They didn't have the luxury to think this through, only push on.
"I welcome you," Mankar continued, just as he did in the Grotto. "At least, if you truly are the agent of Fate, hero of Cyrodiil. I tire of the self-styled heroes who set themselves on my path, only to be proven unworthy in the event. But I have a feeling, as does my Lord, that you are not like them."
His speech stopped just as their path did, the cave ending at the last door to outside. And Akatosh?
He went onward.
They were greeted by Paradise's lovely land, flowers smelling sweetly of nectar and skies still a rosy evening color. He could feel the wind blow across his sweat-covered face, hear Eldamil's laugh of joy, but the singing of birds was now absent.
"We're so close, Akatosh!" He promised. "I can taste the victory."
"I hope it tastes sweet," he replied, looking out into the horizon. He could spot the ocean still, calm and glimmering in a sun that wasn't there, and he could see why so many had fought to reach this realm.
"Let us continue," Eldamil invited, holding the hero's greatsword in his hands. "Mankar Camoran will suffer just like he ought to."
"Yeah," Akarosh agreed, and they started to walk up the marble path. "Eldamil?"
"Yes?" The Breton thought for a moment.
"What are you going to do?" He asked. "I mean, after we kill Mankar." There war wasn't over yet but it was drawing to a close, and he could use the elf's help to end it in their favor.
"Well, I'll be dead, I suppose." His hood was down, silvery hair pulled into a low ponytail. Amber eyes looked at the serene world around, framed by pale skin, and he smiled even then.
"Dead?"
"Well, Camoran is what holds my soul here," he said. "He won't once we kill him. I have no body to return to, and even now, I have no life."
"But you..." He trailed off. "You would still help me?"
"Of course," Eldamil said. "It's only right I die. I deserve this punishment even more, admittedly, but my suffering is not worth your own victory."
"I don't know what to say," he realized.
"You don't have to say anything," Eldamil shrugged. "You're the hero, here. And I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out to be the greatest hero Nirn ever knows. You, my friend, don't owe me a thing."
"You really think that?" He questioned, and Eldamil laughed.
"I wouldn't be able to think any different," he replied. They neared the hill's top. "Now, actually, I have a small request. And I doubt you will have trouble fulfilling it, if you choose to accept."
"Of course," he promised. "What is it?"
Eldamil actually stopped, looking him in the eye. "Never become what I did," he begged. "You, Akatosh, are a better person than I have had the pleasure of knowing in a long time. Don't stoop to the level that I have, that others have done before me. Kill with a faithful purpose, not with the means to pleasure or wrongdoing." He faltered, continuing upwards, and Akatosh followed. "Be a hero."
"Of course," he said. "I promise."
It was an Ayleid temple. Not a ruin, but a temple, glimmering and standing tall, architecture intricate and deserving of great praise. Akatosh gasped, seeing the blooming gardens held inside and the way it stretched to the heavens, unable to register the sight in his mind.
They walked in, stepping towards the entrance, open to the outside. Akatosh made sure to catch all that he could of the beautiful place he had wandered into, not seeing the figure rushing toward them.
"Watch out!" Eldamil wanted, drawing Akatosh's sword, and the shorter turned. It was a woman, a woman he recognized, dressed in the same robes he had killed her in.
"You did not expect to see me again, did you?" Ruma Camoran asked, teasing, Altmer eyes flashing dangerously. He unsheathed his katana. "You have no grasp of the power that my father holds at his command."
"What do you want?" He sighed, ready to slit her throat for the second time. "I'm a little busy."
"You think you can stop us?" She seethed. "Soon Mehrunes Dagon will walk upon Tamriel for the first time since the Mythic Age, and our victory will be complete." She took in a deep breath. "Come," she invited, sounding sweet. "My father is waiting to welcome you to Carac Agailor."
He and Eldamil both shared a look, having to oblige. He brushed passed her and who appeared to be her brother, walking into the entrance of the Ayleid structure. It was even more beautifully built on the inside, walls carved with words in a forgotten tongue and low blue lights giving brightness to the interior, but he only had so long to gape.
Mankar was seated on an elegant stone throne atop several rows of stairs, dressed in a unique set of blue and gold robes. His face was oh-so precious, holding a set of glittering blue eyes and a row of white teeth that was used to show off a bright smile.
His children stopped near the door, Eldamil several paces behind as Camoran addressed the hero. "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel."
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he quirked, and his rival only chuckled, irises showing mirth.
"You are the last gasp of a dying age," he told the Breton, voice less ethereal sounding than it had been before in person. "You breathe the stale air of false hope. How little you still understand! You cannot stop Lord Dagon," and it was another claim he would have to prove wrong. "The walls between our worlds are crumbling. The Mythic Dawn grows nearer with every rift in the firmament. Soon, very soon, the lines now blurred will be erased. Tamriel and Oblivion rejoined, the Mythic Age reborn!"
Akatosh snorted, holding his katana tight in his hands. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, but I would," he agreed. "Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade. The new age shall rise from the ashes of the old. My vision shall be realized. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire. My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery. The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. And the last defender of the Septim line stands before me, in the heart of my power."
"You don't understand, Camoran," Akatosh intruded, and the mer let him speak. "I will defeat you, and I will save Tamriel. Nothing has stopped me this far. What makes you think you will?"
"If that is what you believe," Mankar said. "Then let us see who has proved stronger."
He drew his staff, his children coming forward. "I've got them!" Eldamil promised, charging towards the back. "Good luck, Akatosh!"
And then he was on his own.
The Breton went first, aiming for a nice clean hit across the Altmer's neck. Mankar dodged, shooting a string of lightning at him from his mage stick, and he jumped back just in time.
The brunet tried to cut at his legs, being blocked with a kick to the stomach. He stepped in close, igniting his fingertips with fire, but the Magicks only lasted a few seconds against Mankar's enchanted robe.
"Akatosh, did your friend say?" He seemed to consider the name humorous, and the hero replied by striking out towards his heart. It was, of course, dodged, and Camoran laughed. "Just a question, you know. Perhaps if you-"
"You sure talk a lot, you know that?" He interrupted, encasing his fist in ice before swinging it at his enemy's face. The punch connected, jaw cracking, and Camoran stumbled back. He used the opportunity to lunge again with Baurus' katana, being brought down by a heavy charge of electricity.
They both backed up, recovering, and Camoran glared. "Nice hit," he snarked. "It's the only one you'll be getting." He charged his staff again, more lightning spraying at his body, and Akatosh was shot back.
He landed hard at the base of the steps, temple banging against the stone floor. Akatosh managed to roll out of the way of another strike, getting to his feet, but his attack was slightly slowed due to the sudden wave of nausea.
Mankar sighed, stepping out of the attack's range. "You're already proving to be disappointing," he remarked. "And here I had such high hopes."
Akatosh grunted, legs giving under, katana dropping to the ground. He coughed, hands bracing the ground to keep him from face-planting, and Camoran laughed. "This is the pitiful excuse for a hero Fate throws my way?" He taunted. "It brings me little honor to kill you."
He brought down the end of his staff hard, Eldamil shouting out from afar. Akatosh rolled out of the way swiftly, dropping the façade, and Mankar stumbled as his attack hit the ground. The hero quickly jabbed Martin's dagger in his rival's heart, catching Camoran before he could fall.
Akatosh set the man to the ground, pulling out his ebony knife. His children had stopped fighting, gazing at him in terror, and Eldamil held wonder in his gaze. Mankar stared up at him, bleeding out, not yet dead.
"Mankar Camoran," he whispered, voice soft. "You feel that pain, deep in your heart?" He heard as Eldamil made quick work of the other two robed Altmers with his greatsword, keeping his distance when Mankar nodded shakily. "That is nothing compared to the pain that the survivors of Kvatch feel everyday. Nothing compared to Count Cheydinhal's pain as he grieves for his son each day, or to the empire at the death of their King." He took in a deep breath. "What you feel is not a thing next to all the ones you have made suffer, and your life is worth even less compared to theirs."
His fingers ripped the Amulet of Kings from around Mankar's neck, holding the precious necklace in his hand. "As you die, wherever your soul may take you, my only wish is that you understand two things." The whole world came to a standstill, realm trembling at every word, but he knew it would hold on. "One of them, to finally understand their grief. And the other?" A tear fell down Mankar's cheek, and he brushed it away, determination set in the hero's features. "To know that I will do anything to take away all their pain."
He stood, holding his knife and the Amulet, watching as Mankar's life left his form. The hero of Kvatch didn't have time to say his goodbyes to Eldamil as the roof fell over his head, only managing to grab his katana as Akatosh was carried away into sweet oblivion.