A/N: Just in case you don't know, the events take place between when Titus Mede II becomes the Emperor in 4E 168 and may go just past the end of the Great War ends and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat in 4E 175. This story also has mostly OCs in it, but because minor characters don't get enough love, I've included a lot of familiar references to NPCs, places, and events from previous games.

PROLOGUE:

IMPERIAL PALACE
2nd of Last Seed, 4E 168

The distant bells from the Temple of the One had just begun to toll midnight. Inside the confines of the Imperial Palace, a thick atmosphere of uncertainty descended upon the group of councillors anxiously waiting outside the doors to the Emperor's chambers— their low, hushed whispers echoing eerily through the dim marble halls. A bell tolled, and a patrolling guard's armoured footsteps could be heard clamping down a hallway somewhere in the Palace. However, the Emperor's chamber itself remained deathly silent. The councillors began to increasingly worry and huddle together, waiting with baited breath. Another bell tolled. The ornate wooden doors creaked open, and the councillors bolted upright. A stately Redguard dressed in the official robes of the High Chancellor stepped out from the light.

"Inner Council," he spoke, "Emperor Attrebus Mede II is dead."

There was a sharp exhale of breath. Everyone bowed their heads solemnly. The twelfth bell sounded and stopped, leaving behind a long, tense silence. A few people mumbled quiet prayers to the gods for the late Emperor's soul, and, perhaps, for the Empire itself— the death of an emperor never boded well. Unexpectedly, the silence was soon broken by a quiet but authoritative voice from the back:

"Well, then. I suppose we had better get the funeral plans underway."

The rest of the group turned around to see who had just interrupted the solemn moment. The Chancellor's gaze sought its way through the councillors and settled on a middle-aged Breton statesman, dressed in fine and costly black velvet.

Ah.

"Have you no shame, Mottiere?" a Dunmer battlemage suddenly exclaimed, "The Emperor's body is barely cold, and here you are already planning his funeral!" There was some foreboding mild argument from within the group.

Mottiere smiled. If he felt any irritation, he did not show it. "I am not 'planning' anything, Councillor Salas," he replied smoothly, "I am simply suggesting that we act swiftly and decisively."

The Dunmer scoffed. "Oh, please. Do you seriously expect anyone to believe—"

"Victor, Athis– peace!" the Chancellor cried out. He looked desperately from one man to the other, holding out his hands in supplication. Then, he straightened up and managed a diplomatic smile. "The Emperor's body is still inside. The Council must not fight within itself, especially now." There was a cry of "Hear, hear!" from the group.

"Apologies, Chancellor Dorian," Salas acquiesced humbly, "I'm afraid I let my temper get the best of me." The Dark Elf still did not face Mottiere. Chancellor Dorian sighed then turned towards the Breton.

"Councillor Motierre?" he asked. Mottiere was still standing impassively, but the Chancellor could just see the beginnings of red-hot embarrassment forming on the Breton's pale cheeks.

"Hmm, yes. Of course," Mottiere finally said at length, smoothing out his robes, "Likewise, Chancellor. I apologise. It is very late." Chancellor Dorian sighed and relaxed. Well, for as much as he could.

"Well then," he continued, turning to address the rest of the Inner Council, "Yes, Councillor Mottiere, you are right to... suggest that Emperor Attrebus' body be laid to rest soon. However, it is imperative that we ensure a smooth succession. Crown Prince Titus, as you all know, is training with Imperial troops near the Skyrim border. He must be informed immediately of his father's death and escorted safely to the Imperial Palace. In the meantime, planning for the coronation is to take place as soon as possible—"

"And the Emperor's will?" a voice from the back cried out. There was more murmuring, this time, louder. Voices were beginning to be raised. Chancellor Dorian steadied himself.

"Please! Please! Our late Emperor has informed me..." his voice trailed off as he became aware of an uncomfortable change of atmosphere at these last few words. "He has informed me of his intentions specifically regarding matters of state," he continued, "And the full Elder and Inner Councils are to be convened so that our new Emperor may be able to reaffirm the Council positions." A wave of anxiety suddenly rippled throughout the group. The councillors looked desperately from one to another. Cries of confusion sounded. "In accordance with his last wishes!" the Chancellor asserted, "In accordance with his last wishes!"

"Reaffirm our positions?" a matronly Imperial woman questioned worriedly, "Chancellor, surely in light of the instability of the Empire, we must ensure stability by maintaining the current membership of the Councils!"

"But it is the Emperor's right!" someone shouted. There were more cries of argument. Then, the deep and gravelly voice of an Orc councillor, Boghra gra-Malog, resounated loudly through the hall:

"We will not ignore the Emperor's will, Sybilla," she spoke threateningly, her yellow eyes narrowing, "It is the Emperor's will. We will respect the Emperor's will." Soon, more voices began to pile on top of each other, threatening a fever pitch. Dorian took a deep breaths to calm himself. He had to salvage the situation, and fast.

"Councillors, councillors! Please! If you have performed your duties faithfully, then there is noth—" But he was interrupted by a brusque Nord named Hrafnar Axe-Shield– as it turned out, the one who had cried out earlier.

"Hear, hear!" he bellowed again, "It's not right otherwise!"

"Ugh. Is your kind even capable of prattling on about more than just honour, you stupid Nord?" a haughty and elegantly-dressed High Elf spat, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Auri-El preserve us if our Empire continues to be run by your kind!"

"Damn elf! Better than being run by your kind, Volamil, you, you… snowbacked Thalmor traitor!"

"HOW DARE YOU! I HAVE SERVED THIS EMPIRE LOYALLY FOR MANY YEARS—"

Chancellor Dorian watched helplessly as the Inner Council now erupted into full, volatile argument. Every councillor, left, right, and centre, was now shouting at the top of their lungs, determining to be heard, pointing accusatory fingers at each other, at Dorian. Here he was, awake at some ungodly hour, the Emperor lay dead and his heir uninformed, civil unrest boiled in the few provinces still remaining in the Empire, Cyrodiil itself had not fully recovered from the damage of the Oblivion Crisis, and the sleeping beast, the Aldmeri Dominion, lay dormant, lurking across the Valenwood border, threatening to pounce at any time. And now this… senseless squabbling. It was all too much.

"SILENCE!" the High Chancellor bellowed. The councillors suddenly fell silent and turned wide-eyed to face him. Dorian fumed, his sleep-deprived eyes boiling with anger and frustration. "Now, I want you all to listen very carefully," he breathed, throwing his robes back over himself. He paced up and down the closed doorway, stopping to stare each and every councillor directly in the eyes. "Summon the Moth Priests to prepare the Emperor's body for burial. Inform Prince Titus immediately of his father's death and arrange his escort back to the Imperial Palace. Make arrangements for the funeral and following coronation." He shuddered with frustration. "And please, for the Emperor's sake, for the Gods' sakes, and for goodness sake, my sake," he breathed, his voice deathly low, "Serve this Empire as is your duty, instead of bickering like a rabble of Waterfront fishwives!" And with that, the Chancellor turned his back to the stunned Council, and marched to his quarters.

Striding through the hallways away from the Council had some effect in helping Dorian to calm down. He tried to feel some relief in at least halting the inevitable argument within the Inner Council, if only for a night. And yet, a million worries still managed to worm their way into his mind. Emperor Attrebus had died so suddenly of the fever, thrusting most of his unfinished affairs onto his son and the Councils instead. As for Prince Titus, Dorian thought, he had always struck him as a soldier at heart, preferring to follow his father's orders rather than give his own out himself— something which people suspected had suited Attrebus just fine. Dorian doubted if Titus even wanted to be an Emperor. The poor man did not even know yet that his father was dead and now, every minor noble and their mother from High Rock to Hammerfell would set their sights on the Ruby Throne. If the factions forming within the Inner and Elder Councils didn't tear the Empire apart, then the Aldmeri Dominion surely would.

When Dorian reached the door to his quarters, he hurriedly entered and shut the door behind him. Perhaps, if the Councils would not uphold order within the Empire, he thought, disrobing, he hoped they would at least try to uphold the Empire itself— he could at least console himself with that. He stumbled towards his bed fell into the silken sheets. But who could he, the High Chancellor, trust? His eyelids felt heavy and began to droop. Human races, elf races, beast races... The Empire was fracturing. The Councils were fracturing. Athis Salas, Sybilla, Boghra gra-Malog... Names and faces swam through his mind, mingling with all the other thoughts. Hrafnar Axe-Shield, the Nord, Volamil, he recounted; then a Breton, Victor, Victor Motierre... A sudden anxiety forced Dorian's eyes open again: he had not seen Motierre since the beginning of the night. Where was he? He groaned, and buried his face in his pillow, finally allowing himself to sink deeper into the soft fabric. The High Chancellor's body soon overcame him, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

There would be a reckoning to deal with in the future. But for now, rest.

A/N: So guys, I hope you like my first attempt at an actual story that isn't a parody. Up until now, I've been solely a humour/parody author so this type of thing, while being really fun and challenging to write, is totally out of my comfort zone. Naturally, constructive reviews are highly appreciated, and I hope that you enjoy this story (and that it actually makes some kind of sense in someone else's head other than mine).

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