Everything within Zudarra screamed at her to run. It was obvious that they could do nothing now. Saraven's sacrifice would delay the inevitable by a few seconds at most. She watched helplessly as a blur shot up onto the gigantic axe and then she could see Saraven climbing. Dagon's hideous face glared down at the thing hanging from his wrist. A mosquito could do more damage to a man than Saraven had done to the Prince of Destruction. He turned his wrist over to get a better look at the clinging mortal, and brought up another clawed hand. Zudarra bolted toward them without thinking. Dagon was going to squash him!
"Saraven!" she screamed as the black talons flicked the vampire away like a bug, shooting him against an upper floor of the half-ruined castle. He smacked against the tower with a sharp crack, plastered flat against the white stone for a horrible, gravity-defying second before his body tumbled into the debris several stories below. Zudarra could not stop, even as Dagon's red foot came sailing from the heavens to crash into the ground beside her with a hot wind, knocking her to her knees. She pushed herself up with her hands, leaving her sword forgotten on the ground as she raced to the pile of rubble at the base of White-Gold to find the broken body of the Dunmer. She was unable to think of the miracle that Mehrunes Dagon had not squished her like an ant. The world shook as Dagon smashed into the city wall behind her, stone crumbling in his hands as he tore at it to reach the Temple District.
She didn't care. Damn the Emperor and damn Cyrodiil! Saraven!
Got-No-Home had not really slept in two days. He was exhausted, dying for a drink, low on magicka and out of potions. Hallucinations flickered in the corners of his vision if he held still for too long, dancing spriggans, waving branches of the Hist now forever lost to him. Apotheosis had already failed him, the staff strapped across his back again as he plied the black blade against the feet of a god. It was an artifact blessed or cursed by a daedra itself, and perhaps that was why it had the power to make him notice it even if it seemed to do no real harm.
He gaped, the Cathay-raht's scream ringing in his ears, as Mehrunes Dagon flicked the figure of a living creature from his gauntlet. It was the Dunmer he had seen earlier, the pale one in the tarnished chainmail; he recognized the armor for the instant that it hung gleaming against White-Gold Tower before he plunged into the ruin below. The armored Khajiit ran past him toward the rubble, breaking his reverie.
There was no time to delay. Martin had gone to the Temple, and now Dagon was turning again toward that district, a horrible laugh rumbling in his giant throat like the sound of an avalanche as he reached out to break the wall between his four giant hands.
"He was a brave mer," he said hoarsely, and turned and ran.
Saraven was aware of the shadow of the other hand falling over him, and turned to beat at it with his sword to no effect. The daedric blade bent, then snapped, and then a giant finger was coming at him too fast and he was flying, soaring through the air. He had barely time to realize this before the crushing impact of body with stone. Chainmail could only protect him so far. He felt things break in his chest and legs and arms, dizzied by the blow to his head, the ruin of the Imperial City spread out and smoking before him.
And then he fell. He had no time to be afraid. He hardly knew what was happening until he looked down and saw a rapidly approaching bedstead, the canopy half-torn, and then he smashed down with a shattering force he had never felt or experienced. His legs snapped as they hit, first his calves, then his thighs, and then his back hit the mattress and he felt even more bones break, lungs pierced by the ruins of his ribcage. His head snapped back and forward, and he felt cracks and twists in his spine that should not be there.
He lay there in the ruins of the mattress looking up at the red sky. The pain was excruciating. How interesting. Apparently vampires did not go into shock. Without a living body there was no cushion of chemicals designed to ward off pain for one last hurrah, one last chance at escaping danger before the final collapse. Unbreathing, he would not suffocate from his ruined chest. He would remain animate until the last of the blood trickled out of his shriveling undead body.
Hopefully Zudarra would never know that. Hopefully she had already fled the city.
Someone was coming, he realized after a moment, through the fog of agony. Someone wearing heavy armor.
Stubborn, stubborn girl.
There was no one else it could possibly be. The thought did not even cross his mind.
Zudarra crawled over the slabs of rubble, eyes blurring when she saw the twisted form of the mer on the bed - it must have fallen from a bedroom in an upper level when Dagon smashed into the tower. The wooden legs had collapsed when Saraven hit. His eyes were open, but without any movement from his chest Zudarra could not tell immediately if he was alive or not. Why, you idiot? Why do you always have to be so selfless! She kneeled beside Saraven, smelling the bitter blood that leaked from his nose and a score of other places. Her hands flew up to brush carefully against his shoulder, magicka pouring from her palms and showering his body with a gentle blue light. The ample well that should have been at her disposal was drained in a second, and Zudarra realized another mortal weakness she had forgotten. She had never been much of a healer. The magicka she now commanded would not have been enough to heal such serious injuries. Saraven felt the power soak into his body, little clicks and clacks as his ribs tried to rebuild themselves, but it was over too fast.
Behind them the grating scrape of claw against stone continued as blocks crumbled in Dagon's monstrous hands. The ground trembled as huge chunks of wall fell and shattered in a cloud of dust. Dagon laughed, deep and dark as he stepped over the ruined wall.
"Saraven, are you alive?" she blurted, fingers fumbling with the straps of her bracer as her eyes darted fearfully from his face to his hands for any sign of movement. The horror that froze her heart was nothing Zudarra had ever experienced, a deep wrenching pain that hurt in places Zudarra did not know a person could be wounded.
He moved his eyes to look at her, and the sound as he tried to fill his punctured lungs to speak was horrid, a loud rattle. The ugly noise cut Zudarra deeper and filled her with joy all at once. He could not form words. He could, he realized, move his left hand now, only just. He squeezed his fist shut as he let go the last of his own magicka, adding his healing to hers. There were more squelching and clicking sounds, and the pain retreated a little more, but he still could not move anything below his waist. He felt utterly spent, flesh shriveling around his bones; all that he had drunk seemed gone, his body drying up. The face that he turned toward Zudarra was bloody and hollow, but there was a light of amusement in the red-on-red eyes.
"Told you to run," he said dryly.
Zudarra's chest deflated with sudden exhalation when Saraven spoke. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. She thoughtlessly shucked away her bracer and it clattered a few feet away, prevented from rolling by the broken shards of brick jutting up from the rubble.
"Run where?" she asked in a half-sob, half laugh at the absurdity of it. The world is ending. Where should I run to without you? Even if Nirn burned to ashes and the daedra marched freely on the blackened world, they would find some way to survive. There was no question. He has to survive.
Got-No-Home continued to attack the feet of the Daedra Prince, teeth bared as he struck again and again with the black sword, running between the giant crimson feet. He was ignored. Dagon now knew where to find his prey. The Argonian was forced to sprint aside again as the Daedra Prince swung his axe against the wall of the Temple of the One. He stepped over the crumbled masonry, pillars subsiding around him as though made of earth, raising clouds of dust, raining chips of stone. The Argonian collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath. It was not enough time. Surely it was not enough time -
Shafts of white light shot upward from inside, brilliant, blinding, shining in every direction. A sound pierced the tumult, a high keening vibration that was still somehow euphonious, a glorious bell-tone. And then the last of the stone roof exploded upward and outward as a dragon made of coherent fire unfurled wings that seemed to fill the sky. Chunks of stone rained down as far away as the harbor, creating tremendous waves, rocking the ships in their moorings, as what could only be the avatar of Akatosh roared a triumphant challenge. The dread of Dagon evaporated as every living soul yet surviving felt themselves filled with courage, with joy, with triumph, held aloft on the golden wings of the Divine. Men and women would tell their children and their grandchildren of this day, for today Akatosh had risen to save, fulfilling the promise made so many generations before to St. Alessia and all of her bloodline.
The world was bathed in a blinding light that burst from behind her with a shower of stones and Zudarra leaned forward to protect the vampire from being pelted. She was certain that the end of the ordeal had come and that it was happening behind her, but Zudarra did not turn to look as she thrust her naked wrist under Saraven's nose, gingerly lifting the back of his head with her other hand. Her artery throbbed warm and strong beneath the soft, creamy fur of her underarm.
"Drink. Hurry!" she commanded.
Light – gods, the light was blinding, he thought for a moment it would burn him to ashes. His skin stung as if in the bright sun, though the walls overshadowed them. He shut his eyes involuntarily. It seemed to shine even through his eyelids. Then blessed darkness fell as Zudarra's cuirass intervened between him and the light. He opened his eyes, nostrils flaring at the scent of living blood. Her hand was under his head – warm, she was so warm now, it was glorious and it was perfect and he was becoming deranged with thirst, that was what it was.
Even now he could choose otherwise. Even now he could take the gift of Sheogorath, and perish, and leave her strong in her last hours to survive as best she could in the ruin of all that had once been.
Or he could give in to his thirst, trust that he still had enough control to stop in time, and be there to defend her in her new mortal weakness for as long as possible.
Perhaps he was not as strong as all that. He raised a hand to press her wrist to his mouth, reaching out gently to her mind – let there be no pain – without trying to blot everything out, without trying to impose an altered consciousness. He would not press if she pushed him away; but he did not want her to suffer. Now he had the capacity he had lacked when they were together in a cell, and he showed her all that he had ever felt for her: exasperation and anger and pride and affection, wrapping her in love like a warm blanket as the first drops of blood trickled over his tongue.
Then blood flooded his throat, flooded his senses, and his eyes fluttered as pain drained away to be replaced by pleasure. He could feel her pulse against his teeth, her life animating his body as the tissues began to fill again with blood. The sound of his bones setting seemed soft and distant in his ears. It was not important. His world was made of Zudarra.
Behind them, giants fought. Akatosh and Dagon strove in the ruins of the Temple of the One, the daedra with his axe buried in the dragon's chest, the flaming beast with his teeth fixed in the throat of the Prince of Destruction. They swayed to and fro, Dagon roaring in fury, Akatosh giving forth the hiss and crackle of a fire as big as the Temple itself. At last the Daedra Prince sagged, his giant avatar no longer able to sustain life as his black blood flooded down over the broken stones. The body burst into crimson dust and vanished. Akatosh reared back, screaming his triumph to the sky as he spread his flaming wings.
But for Zudarra the roar of the raging gods behind her was a lifetime away, all sound and light muffled by the flood of emotions that poured into her being. With it came comprehension and Zudarra's mind opened to everything Saraven would show her. At first it was overwhelming - love was so much stronger than the rage and the self-serving pride that had dominated her life as she struggled to find meaning. She saw in his affection an echo of her own confusing emotions, things she could not understand on her own, but which all seemed to make sense as her strength seeped away with her blood.
Zudarra had been in Saraven's place long enough to know that he could sense her thoughts, that he could feel the affection and the respect that she held for him, that he could feel the profound grief she had experienced when he asked her to end his life in the cell. He could see her terror, her loneliness, her deep yearning for his companionship after a lifetime alone. Saraven was good in a way she could never be, strong in a way she would never be again, but in that moment Zudarra felt no jealousy. Only happiness that he was alive.
All over the city gates to Oblivion imploded, fell in on themselves, their crimson membranes popping like soap bubbles. All over the city the daedra suddenly milled in confusion, stunned by the sudden loss of their power as the connection to the Daedra Prince snapped like a length of rotten thread. The survivors fell on them with renewed fury, screaming the name of their savior.
There was a great cracking and shaking as the dragon's feet began to turn to stone. The transformation crept upward rapidly, quenching the flames, until at last there was stillness, there was silence, and there was a statue of a dragon looming above the ruined walls of what had once been a temple.
If Zudarra could see through the shining tears in her eyes she may have watched Saraven's frame fill out as color returned to his face, but Zudarra could only sense his strength return as hers fled. In the distance she could hear the chant of "Martin! Martin!" and cries of joy as the last of the invaders were sent to the wastes after their Prince, but it all seemed so far away and inconsequential. Her heart was beginning to slow. Saraven was aware of it even as he bathed in everything that she felt, in fear and isolation deeper than he had imagined, in desperation, in want. He detached himself gently as he sent back warmth and reassurance. She had survived, survived it all, come out of it stronger.
When Saraven's mouth lifted from her wrist the Cathay-raht threw off her helm and collapsed on top of him, scooping the Dunmer up in a tight hug. Delirious from blood loss or joy, she could not tell, but she clutched at him with her remaining strength, pressing her wet muzzle into the crook of his neck.
Saraven felt stronger now, arms reaching up around her to hold the hard heavy cuirass against himself as he felt a damp nose against his throat. Warm. He shook loose a gauntlet and reached up to stroke her hair carefully.
"There's my Zudarra," he said quietly. "Sh, sh. We're all right. We're all right now."
They were not empty words, he realized after a moment. He blinked as he saw the sky clearing overhead, blue shining through the black clouds as they started to fade away. He sat up slowly, cradling her with one arm, and groped backward for the water skin with his other hand. It was still there, but crushed by the first impact of his back with stone, half-empty.
Half-full.
"Ha," he said aloud, and worked it loose to drag it around in front of him. "Here. Drink." He held it to her muzzle and tilted it to pour water into her mouth. Zudarra closed her eyes in silent pleasure as the tepid water spilled across her tongue, the arm encircling her body and the replenishing liquid both a greater joy than blood had ever been. She reached up with a weak hand to take the water skin from him as she gulped it dry.
People were moving around out beyond this pile of rubble. A familiar Argonian was walking toward them, surrounded by guards, a priest in white robes at his elbow. His nostrils flared as he moved closer, and he turned unerringly to move toward them, gray robes dusty and torn around his ankles. His staff was on his back, black sword at his side.
"So you have survived after all," he said. His accent was thick enough to suggest he had not been born in the province; but then, Argonians generally were not.
"She needs healing," Saraven said. Got-No-Home gestured the priest forward. He hurried up to kneel beside them, reaching out hands that were already glowing.
Zudarra's limbs felt impossibly light, her mind foggy from blood loss rather than enthrallment. The people that surrounded them seemed figments in a dream as healing magicka washed over her, mending the bruises of battle.
"You're Got-No-Home," Zudarra said distantly. Then her face grew hot and she extracted herself from the Dunmer's arm, turning her gaze to the statue that towered over the ruined wall. It was clearly Akatosh, his head thrown back and wings outstretched as if frozen in a roar of triumph.
"And you are Zudarra the Bloody," said Got-No-Home, turning to look back toward the Temple District through the great rift in the wall. "I have often heard of your deeds as I traveled."
"What happened? Where is the Emperor?"
The crests on his head furled gently, flat along his skull as he bowed his head toward the distant statue. "The Amulet of Kings is broken, and Martin Septim has gone to be with his fathers. A human body can only sustain the power of Akatosh for a very brief while."
Zudarra felt unable to fully comprehend the gravity of the Argonian's words. Akatosh himself had come forth to banish Mehrunes Dagon. It had been his holy light that spilled across the world in those last moments, she realized, and now a stone husk that had once been his living avatar remained behind as proof of the Emperor's sacrifice. You gaze upon a Divine. Zudarra had never been religious, but it was deeply humbling in a way that she could best appreciate in this foggy, prideless state.
"Akatosh," whispered the priest as he rose to his feet. The men around them, four Legionnaires and one Blade with dark chocolate-brown skin, echoed the whisper of that name.
Saraven rose to his feet, an arm unobtrusively under Zudarra's to raise her with him. The adamantium must be heavy as the weight of guilt after blood loss. She did not push him away.
"They saved us after all," Saraven said quietly.
"Yes," said Got-No-Home, raising his crests again slowly, with an effort. "Yes, they did. I must go and find the Chancellor, see that all things go on in their proper places. Vordarius?"
"Yes, Sir," said one of the Legionnaires, detaching himself from the group and moving forward to stand on Zudarra's other side. "If you would come with me, Ma'am."
Zudarra nodded to the Legionnaire and bent to pick up her helm and bracer as she followed him away from the ruin. She was very tired and longed to shed her heavy armor. It was a labor to simply hold herself up, her legs threatening to give out with every step.
Got-No-Home was already moving away, speaking to the others wearily. Saraven lifted a hand in farewell as he turned to follow.
The Legionnaire called Vordarius led them to the wall between Green Emperor Way and the Arboretum, to a door in a corner tower. It was a short climb up a winding stair, the torches placidly lit against the advancing night as though nothing had happened. Saraven went behind Zudarra in case she should falter on the stairs, ready to unobtrusively support her in a way that the other man would not see.
It opened onto a deceptively large barracks room lined with beds, each one with a chest at the end. There was a cupboard and a table in front of it, a plate on the table with a potato and half a pork chop sitting there cold, one of the four chairs pushed back. There was no one inside. Some of the beds were disarranged. The Imperial's face crumpled for a second as he stood there in the empty room, but he breathed deeply and quickly regained control.
"There's a wash bucket behind the divider," he nodded to a rough wooden screen in the corner. "Food and water in the cupboard, hammers and tongs in the barrel. Help yourselves to what you need. The unit that bunks here was – they won't be here to interrupt." He turned his face away again for a moment, shoulders heaving. Saraven rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "We'll be fine."
The man nodded quickly and retreated back down the stairs.
"All right, off with the armor and into bed," Saraven said, turning to Zudarra. "I'll bring you food." He reached for her helmet.
Zudarra was not keen to have Saraven or anyone else doting on her, but she was too exhausted to argue, too shocked that they were both alive to believe that any of this was real, so she handed her helm to the Dunmer and sank onto a bed. Her hands slowly worked at unstrapping her armor, moving on their own with little conscious input from the Khajiit. She laid the pieces against the wall, so light and free with the burden off her shoulders and the soft mattress sinking under her weight.
He was surprised and relieved that she didn't actually argue with him for once, and then mildly alarmed. Had he taken more than he'd thought? He moved to collect food – it was not remotely attractive to him now, little lumps of colored sod, strange unappealing smells – and stacked it on a plate, then sniffed at a couple of clay jugs until he found the one that smelled like water. Water had a scent. He'd never noticed that.
As she watched Saraven collecting food from the cupboard the memory of the connection they had shared came flooding back. Her soul had been laid bare not only to him, but to herself as well. I have a friend. There is a person in this world whom I love more than myself. She was too weak to feel the embarrassment she might have otherwise. Mostly she was filled with a comfortable warmth.
"Thank you, Saraven," she said quietly. She did not mean for the food or the help getting upstairs.
He paused as she spoke, hand on a cupboard door. Then he shut it, hooked a clay cup, and came to set cup and jug on a chair beside the bed, handing her the plate. He did not let go until he was sure she could hold it. Then he sat on the edge of the bed beside her, reaching out to smooth her hair down against the short headboard.
His hand was unnaturally cool, but Zudarra did not recoil from it or feel sadness as she had days before. This was Saraven now. He would never have a living body, but the cold touch was no less of a comfort. It was awkward to be touched, it was something she was not accustom to, but she was glad to have him near.
"You saved me," he said softly. "More than one time and in more than one way. Don't thank me. You all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she said, laying the plate across her lap and tearing into a piece of salted pork. Zudarra wondered if the joy of eating would ever diminish - probably it would, she didn't remember every little thing being so delicious in her earlier life - but for now she would savor the novelty. She slowed in her chewing as his words sank in. In more than one way.
"Well," she sputtered. "I hope it's finally got through to you that I'm not just going to leave you to die, even if that's what you tell me to do. You can't ask that of a person."
Saraven relaxed slightly as he saw her eating. Having an appetite was a good sign.
"I'll try not to do it again," he said. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you, and I'm not sure anyone else would be able to keep up."
It wouldn't last forever. Probably. But a Cathay-raht's remaining life expectancy would give them plenty of time to think and talk it over, if he could prevent anything killing her in the meantime. And if, there at the end, she decided she wanted to stay, forever was only three days away.
Saraven Gol felt something he had not felt in decades, in all the long years of his vengeance and labor. He felt peace. The anger and exhaustion had fallen away, and he felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.
No, the closing of the gates would not be the end.
...
The End