Wow, guys, this is the last chapter. For those who don't know I will be making a sequel, so try to check back at my profile in about two weeks or so if you're interested. As for TMA, I actually apologize for this, and ask you to be gentle as you throw rocks at me.
RamenKnight: Thank you for all the reviews! You've got me blushing here, haha. I may do something else for Skyrim later on, so hopefully this fic can get a little attention from that if it works out. Honestly, you've got me on the fact that I absolutely love writing this, but it also makes me swell with pride at awesome feedback like yours. Thanks for totally making my day!
"You did good, you know."
Akatosh blinked, the sentence traveling to his ears and waking him from his slight daze. His arms were wound tightly around Martin, the horse they were riding on just beginning to leave the snowy mountains of Bruma behind.
He considered that for a moment. It was late, stars dotting the sky, and they didn't have a torch to light the way. Only instinct, at this point, and luck.
He lit a flame in his hands. "Thanks, your Majesty."
"Don't call me that," Martin barked out, sounding hurt, and he realized his mistake.
"Sorry."
They rode in silence a bit longer, only the pounding of hooves interrupting the serenity of night. "What happened in Paradise, Akatosh?" Martin asked him, using the name he had given the hero himself, and he swallowed.
"I already told you," he said. "It was this kind of heavenly world, and I went through it and into this grotto-"
"I mean," he interrupted. "What you haven't told me." The Breton shrugged.
"The details aren't important," and they both knew it was a lie.
"You don't have your greatsword anymore," the heir noticed.
"I suppose I don't," he agreed. Martin turned on the Imperial roads, following the signs. He had to marvel at how good the former priest steered his horse, having much more control than he had in his short time of riding. It was interesting, to say the least, and did enough to distract him for the time being.
"You know," the Imperial said. "There was once a time when you would only take that cursed weapon off to sleep. It was the first trophy you ever had to prove of your hardships, the sword you grabbed from the corpse of a beast who killed your comrade." He let that sink in, just for a mere moment. "But now, you aren't even fazed that it is lost forever."
It stung, sure, but Akatosh kind of deserved it. "It served a purpose."
"Akatosh," he scolded, and the shorter narrowed his eyes.
"Martin!" He snapped, and the heir stopped. He let the fire fall away, already feeling the guilt as it pounded against his heart. "Sorry."
Martin was quiet. "We're about to go to war," he muttered, voice hushed, just above a whisper. "If I must fight the beasts of the Deadlands, so be it, but I will not fight with you. After this... it may be over, for either one of us."
"Don't say that," he demanded. "We stick together."
"But if you die-"
"I won't," he swore.
"Then, then what if I do?" Martin asked. "What then?"
"If you die," he faltered, and then he was speaking in the tongue of the daedra. "Then I kill myself along with you." And Martin didn't dare to ask what he had said.
They strode up along the walkway to the Imperial City's main gate, the sun starting to crawl up into the sky's depths. It blinked at them through the gaps of leaves in the trees, sunlight making the marble of the city shine.
Martin got off his horse swiftly, helping the brunet down. Akatosh let one of the stable workers take their steed, following his soon-to-be emperor.
The knights at the gate let them pass, throwing a few curious glances at the armor Martin wore. Any marks of battle it had before had been cleaned off, golden metal shining beautifully on his chest. Akatosh smiled at Martin when the former priest caught his gaze, leading them through the city.
"Okay," he said. "Ocato should be in the White-Gold tower. We need to get you crowned, first."
Martin blinked. "I suppose," he said. "But shouldn't we light the Dragonfires before the whole ceremony?"
"It's not a ceremony yet," he promised. "We don't have time for that." He considered. "Uh, before the battle for Bruma, Jauffre told me what we were supposed to do if and when we got to this point. I didn't think I would have to take charge," Akatosh admitted. "My memory isn't that good, really, but I do remember that he said we had to get you crowned first."
"Why?" Martin asked. "Mehrunes Dagon could be coming at anytime."
"A minute or two won't change anything," he promised. "And if anything, it's what Uriel would have wanted."
Martin seemed to understand. "For my father, then," he said. The hero ignored all the mysterious glances being set their way, keeping one hand on the hilt of Baurus' katana as they went through another section of the city.
The Talos Plaza was magnificent, and he had to bet it was the most well-kept area in the entire hold. It almost appeared empty, not many people up this early, but it didn't mar the elegance of its tall buildings and polished statues. They went through one more gate, entering the Palace district, and it seemed too familiar for an area he had only entered twice before.
The Elven gardens gave off the scent off sweet-smelling flowers, the White-Gold tower stretching to the heavens where it could be seen from even the mountains of Skyrim. Akatosh's iron boots thudded on the stone grounds, leading Martin up the stairs.
They walked through the doors, the inside of the Palace dark and silent. It was out of respect, he knew, glancing at the guards standing by the door and waiting for the warning. It didn't come, but instead sounded a quiet gasp of surprise.
"Emperor Septim?" One murmured, as to not break the everlasting peacefulness of the building, and Martin smiled.
"Not yet," he answered. "Could you tell me where Chancellor Ocato is?" The guard nodded.
"Just the door ahead," he answered, and Martin thanked him. Akatosh opened the door for his friend, now unlocked unlike how it had been the last time he had visited, and the taller sent him a nod as he entered.
Ocato was dressed in silk velvet robes, head held high as he stood in wait. He greeted them with a large smile, addressing Akatosh.
"I have been expecting you," he said, Martin watching the exchange. "The full Council has already considered the matter of Martin's claim to the Imperial Throne in detail."
The hero nodded, tattered Kvatch cuirass displayed on his torso. "Okay," he responded. "And?"
He stared as the Chancellor kneeled down, facing his best friend. His mouth opened, words on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't get a letter out as the doors stormed open.
"Chancellor Ocato!" The guard from outside interrupted, and Akatosh looked over with a painful weight settling in his gut. "We're under attack!"
"What?" He asked, and the warrior looked at him.
"Oblivion gates have opened all around the city," he told them. "You have to help!"
"C'mon," he grunted out. "Lead me there." He glanced behind. "Martin, you should stay here."
"It's Dagon, Akatosh!" He urged. "You can't light the Dragonfires without the Amulet of Kings," he reminded, said necklace strung across his neck. "And you can't use the Amulet without me."
The Breton made a strange noise in his throat even he couldn't explain. "How many?" He asked. "On the way to the Temple District, that is."
"The Temple District?" The guard asked, and he nodded anxiously. "Two, I think, on either side. Maybe more." He inhaled deeply.
"Fine, Septim," he consented. "Just stick by me, okay? Don't leave my side."
"Of course," he swore, and the Breton barely had time to appreciate the promise. "Let's go."
"After you," he told the warrior, and he lead them out of the tower. Sure enough, the morning skies had been taken by fire, blood red lightning streaking across its length. He could hear the screams of citizens and snarling of monsters, the very essence of the Deadlands pushing itself to his home.
"Watch out!" One of the guard's called, readying an arrow at an approaching Clannfear. Akatosh kicked it away swiftly, crushing its fragile skull with the heel of his iron boot. He wasn't about to let anything touch Martin.
There was a small group of soldiers waiting for them by the base of the structure, ready for orders, and Akatosh stepped aside as Martin took charge. "Let's get on with it!" He shouted out, and the mere sentence was enough to get them cheering.
He let wave after wave of lightning fall out from his fingertips as they walked along the gardens, too many monsters on the main path. Akatosh considered it for a moment, finding Martin beside him.
"Come on," he muttered, grabbing the taller's hand. Martin said something but he didn't hear it, leading them through a small trail in the gardens. They stepped over graves and little clumps of mushrooms, but the not nearly as much daedra rushed over there to meet them.
He didn't let go of the hand gripping his own as Akatosh pushed his way through the doors, their small army following quickly. More guards awaited them at the battle outside, two large gates to Oblivion blocking off the path to the Temple's entrance. Group after group of nasty beasts came out of the twin portals, all heading for the heir.
"We need to get to the Temple, and fast," he told his best friend. Martin murmured something in agreement, exact words lost in the screeching of the gates. "Listen, can you hear me?"
Martin nodded, diverting his attention from the chaos to the hero, and Akatosh continued. "I'm going to go scout out the area near the gates. I need you to stay right here." He didn't let go of the Imperial's hand until its owner agreed, running from the door and towards the Temple.
Akatosh dove through the few enemies that approached, unsheathing his katana. He held it in one hand, taking out his ebony dagger in the other. He only made it a few paces past the right gate before stopping, jaw dropping at the sight that awaited him.
Mehrunes was a being unbelievably terrifying, skin a dark red that burned the air around it. He wore no clothes, naked form taller than the Temple itself, four arms wielding a single gigantic axe. He couldn't see the Prince's face but the Lord could apparently see him, stepping forward to crush the hero underneath a huge, clawed foot.
Akatosh scrambled away before he could get caught, running back. One of his iron boots got caught on the ground and he fell forward, face planting onto the floor. The hero gasped, struggling back to his feet, racing faster than he ever had before in an attempt to make it back to Martin.
He raced up the steps to where the Imperial had waited, his face clammy and pale, and Martin managed to catch him before he could fall once more. "He's here," Akatosh whispered, shaking against Martin's chest, and the world seemed to fall apart at that moment. "It was all for nothing. Lord Dagon is /here."
He felt Martin stiffen, closing his eyes and waiting for the heir to give up. He certainly had. All the long months spent in preparation for this moment, all the people who had died just so Tamriel would live- it was all for nothing.
Surprisingly, Martin gently pushed him away, and his eyes weren't on the daedric Prince. They were on him.
"He is not your Lord," Martin promised. "Do not insult yourself with such a claim."
"Martin-" he was swiftly cut off.
"No!" He urged, and his voice was strong, even as their comrades fought to protect the two with the last of their lives. "He has not won yet."
"Then what are we going to do?" Akatosh asked. He hadn't felt this small and helpless for what seemed like millennia, back in the Imperial Prison when Uriel Septim had died in front of his face. "He's here. Lighting the Dragonfires won't help us anymore."
Martin fingered his Amulet, thinking deeply. He grasped it tightly in his hold as a spark of determination flickered in his irises, and for that, it was enough to convince the hero they were going to be saved.
"I have an idea," he said. "Follow me. I need you to be my guard."
Adrenaline rushed into his veins, confidence finding its way back into his heart. "I think I'm a bit more than that by now, Septim," he quipped in a voice only slightly shaky, holding his katana in both hands. His dagger had been lost but somehow, he knew he would find it again. Martin Septim had given it to him, after all.
"I agree," Martin replied, and the look in his eyes couldn't be anything other than love. "Come on."
He lead him down the stairs once more, diving past the still grouping monsters. Akatosh managed to slay several measly scamps along the way, but he didn't know if his luck would last against just as many Dremora. "Ocato!" He called out, sending up a flare of fire and ice, and the Chancellor looked their way from where he was healing his soldiers.
The mage seemed to understand, racing over, and it was one more warrior to stick by Martin's side as he saved the world. The Imperial didn't dare look at Dagon as they passed the gate, and he was the first one to enter the Temple.
"Don't let anyone come in here," he told Ocato, only slightly squeamish at the fact that he was bossing around the head of the Imperial Council. The Altmer didn't even blink, nodding in promise, and he pushed away the bit of wonder to deal with bigger problems.
Akatosh closed the door to the Temple of the One, breathing in heavily with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Martin was standing in the center of the building, waiting, head hung and eyes closed.
The hero of Kvatch stepped closer, boots sounding loud against the sudden silence. The sounds of battle outside were muted by the strong walls around them, and he knew that for this moment, they were protected by the Divines.
"What are you thinking?" He murmured, stopping in front of his best friend. It was hard to think back to when they first met, when he had been prepared to leave Kvatch to its fate just to snag Martin from the chapel. He was thankful, now, that the heir had refused to leave until the gate had been sealed.
Martin smiled gently, cupping his face, thumb tracing over the faint scar on his cheek. "I've made decision," he admitted. "It might be the only one I'll ever make as emperor, if I even am just that. But it'll be the most important decision I've ever made, too."
"I know," he whispered. "And I know you're making the right one."
"How?"
"Because it's you," Akatosh answered simply. "And I trust you." Martin looked at him, carefully.
"I'm not doing this for Tamriel," he admitted. "Or for the Divines. Not really." He pressed their foreheads together. "When I'm gone, I want you to know why."
"Gone?"
Martin closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "I'm doing this for you." He pushed their lips together, and it may as well had been his first kiss. It was over in a span of seconds, and then Martin was pushing him away, regret shining in his eyes like a beacon to lead the hopes of his people to victory.
The heir tore the Amulet of Kings from his neck, dropping it in front of his feet and crushing it with the underside of his boot. Akatosh screamed out as his closest friend was swallowed in a burst of golden light, falling to the ground a mere few feet away from the scene as Dagon smashed open the roof of the Temple. The skies opened up to them all, the golden light rising up, and he watched as it took the form of a great dragon.
Mehrunes Dagon roared, lashing out at the Avatar of Akatosh. He raked the being with his claws, only to be blasted back by a world-ripping roar. The hero found himself unable to move from the spot, caught in the middle of a fight between gods.
Dagon raced forward, ready to smash him to bits, but Martin lashed out with a tail of purest light. It hit the Prince square in the chest, and the dragon lunged forward, enveloping Mehrunes in the same golden light. The Prince disappeared in his hold, taking Oblivion with Him.
Akatosh stared up at the emperor turned god, and Martin turned his dragon head to face his line of sight. The hero of Kvatch was the last person Martin Septim ever saw before his form hardened into unyielding stone, and even as the fight for Tamriel was won by the Divines he couldn't bring himself to care when the man he loved left him forever.