BATTLEHORN CASTLE, THE COLOVIAN HIGHLANDS
19th of Last Seed, 4E 168

The nine o'clock morning sun had just risen above the canopy of the Great Forest as a hot-blooded Colovian youth of twenty-five galloped at breakneck speed down the Black Road from Chorrol. His golden hair, usually brushed, was now blowing wildly in the breeze, his crimson velvet doublet hastily tied together, and as for his fine leather riding gloves, there was no accounting for those any more.

Shit. Shit. Shit, he cursed to himself, I've overslept! His steed snorted and whinnied as they rode on past the edge of the Great Forest. The imposing stone battlements of his family's ancestral home, Battlehorn Castle, gradually came into view, rising from beyond the rolling hills of the Imperial Reserve. It was a fierce and wildly beautiful sight, typical of old Colovia, but there was no time for admiring the view this time. With a yelp, the young man spurred his horse onwards.

Fortunately, he reached the castle gatehouse only less than twenty minutes later. Luck seemed to be running his way– the portcullis had been left open. He gave a sigh of relief, and slowed down to a trot to enter the courtyard. But that luck was soon to run out. Without warning, a man-at-arms suddenly called out from the battlements:

"Master Octavian!"

Octavian cringed. Blow a bloody fanfare, why don't you? He had hoped to just slip in quietly without anyone noticing. Cursing under his breath, he quickly dismounted, and immediately made for the back doors of the castle. However, before he could enter, he heard a bright voice suddenly call out from behind him:

"Brother!"

In a flurry of champagne-coloured curls and Breton silk, his young sister, Julia, bounded through the courtyard with her skirts in her hands. Not even stopping to let him a word, she threw her hands around him and held him tight.

"I was so worried when Mother told me that the servants found your bed empty this morning!" she laughed, feigning a swoon. She snatched up Octavian's hand and pressed it to one of her cheeks. "See, my face has gone all hot from worry, and I will look old and wrinkly soon if you keep disappearing like this!"

Octavian sighed and gazed down at Julia. Her bright blue eyes stared right back at him. He chuckled to himself. When his sister was just a little girl, the puppy eyes she made could have melted even the sternest of hearts– she could have even charmed a Daedra, if she tried. If he had not lived with her all her life and learnt her ways, they might just have had the same effect on him now that she was eighteen. By Tiber Septim, his little sister was almost all grown up. Octavian's jaw tightened. It wouldn't be long before she'd be married off to some fat lordling twit for a slice of the family fortune. But he quickly put the repulsive thought out of his mind.

"I'm sorry I worried you, little sis," he said, managing a smile, "I won't do it again if I can help it." Julia smoothed over her flaxen hair, trying to make it catch in the sunlight.

"Well, I'm glad, brother," she chirped. Then, noticing the morning sun beating down on her, she shielded her face with her hands. "Now, I must get out of this sun!" she laughed playfully. As if on cue, one of the maidservants quickly appeared by her side with a lacy parasol. Julia took it, and twirled it in her small hands. "It wouldn't do for me to look like a Redguard, now, would it?" she said teasingly, turning to meet her brother's gaze. Octavian frowned slightly. Did she just…?

"Octavian."

A cool voice from behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned around.

"Good morning, Mother," he greeted politely, walking towards the pavilion she was resting in, seated on her favourite garden chair with her pocket Anuad. Octavian's mother, Pavia Quintillius, was an elegant, dark-haired Nibenean of forty-three, and had once even been a renowned beauty in her youth, with her high forehead and straight, sharp nose. Her features now had thinned somewhat with age, adding a slight haughtiness to her expression however, the upper-class life she led as a respected Legion Commander's daughter and later, as a Colovian nobleman's wife, meant that the years barely showed.

"I don't know where you have been, but you missed breakfast with us, my dear son," she said, holding out her slender hands. Octavian took them, and kissed his mother on both cheeks. She was always a stickler for manners and protocol."Your father was looking for you this morning. He said it was important."

Uh oh. Octavian's brow furrowed.

"Why?"

"He would not tell me yet. He wanted to tell you first– you know how he is."

"And where is he, Mother?"

"In his study, with your brother. You should hurry, and– my goodness, Octavian – make yourself presentable! You look like a mess."

Octavian quickly thanked his mother, and turned, pushing open the large castle doors before the guards could open them for him, and leaping up the grand stone staircase two steps at a time. He tried flattening his hair and straightening his doublet as best he could while striding briskly down the hallway. It was one thing that he had kept his father waiting, but the fact that his mischievous younger brother hadn't was another– no doubt he'd brag about it until the next Era.

As Octavian quickly turned the corner leading to his father's study, he almost bumped head-first into his brother, who was lurking just outside the door. Well, speak of Mehrunes Dagon…

"Well, that took you long enough! Father's getting impatient, but he just insisted you were there. He made me wait out here to see if you were home already."

"Obviously I am, Marcus," Octavian replied briskly, "Let's not keep him waiting any longer." Marcus stared at Octavian incredulously.

"Ha. That's rich, coming from you," he quipped. Octavian rolled his eyes, and tried to push past his brother to open the door. To his surprise, Marcus stepped in to block his way. Octavian glared at him.

"You're looking smug. Are you trying to keep me here to make Father angry at me?" he breathed impatiently.

"Oh, please," Marcus scoffed. He waved his hand dismissively. "He's always angry, there's nothing we can really do about it. I just love seeing the look on your face when you're annoyed– "

"Nothing you try to do about it," Octavian replied quickly, turning to his brother, "It's as if you don't even care if you disappoint him." Marcus simply shrugged, and lazily flipped a stray strand of dark hair out of his face.

"Well, perks of being the second son, I guess…"

"But you're still his son."

"Yes, but he cares a lot less about what I get up to." Octavian ignored him, and tried to push through the door again but Marcus blocked his path once more. His usually-bored expression suddenly turned into a wry grin, and his voice dropped down to a low, mischievous whisper.

"You, my dear brother, weren't in this morning. I figured you'd spent the night with that Redguard of yours." Octavian froze at the doorway. Then, slowly, he turned, looking his younger brother directly in the eyes.

"I have no clue what you're talking about." he said flatly, trying not to let any hint of emotion show in his voice. Infuriatingly, Marcus simply shook his head, and snorted.

"Pfft. come off it. You can't hide something like that from me." Octavian could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Was that a threat? His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, how so?"

"Hmm? Oh, some of the other girls told me about it last week," Marcus replied nonchalantly, "Like I said, you can't hide something like that from me."

If he wasn't in the precarious position of possibly being blackmailed by his younger brother, Octavian could have laughed out loud. Shameless!

"Well," he breathed, straightening his collar, "I suppose you've already told Father all about it, then. Even our little sister seems to know." To his surprise, Marcus shook his head.

"I wouldn't know how she'd know, seeing as I haven't told anyone this time– oh, you owe me for this one," he smirked. Octavian rolled his eyes. Typical.

"I told him you were out because you'd gone for an early morning ride, and," Marcus smirked, "Once you think about it, that's not entirely untrue either…"

"Shut it."

Marcus threw back his head and laughed, only to be cut short as Octavian pushed his irritating brother aside to finally open the door to their father's study.

For a private room that rarely anyone but the family and a few servants saw, the study was possibly the most well-furnished room in the entire castle. The walls were draped floor-to-ceiling with fine tapestries, and the hardwood floors were dressed with antique carpets, imported from every corner of Tamriel. Curiously for a study, the room was noticeably not lined bookshelves, but with glass display cases and weapon racks, all filled with family heirlooms, ancestral weapons, and old war medals from over a century of family Legion service. But by far, the most impressive was the roaring fireplace in the centre of the room, and perched above it, the pride of the castle – the original coat of arms of the family's legendary founder, the Champion of Cyrodiil.

Octavian and his brother walked into their father's study to find their father standing in front of the fire: Sir Augustus Antonius – a proud, strong-jawed Colovian nobleman. The flames seemed to illuminate his hard features; a spitting image of Octavian, but older and sterner, with fifty years of experience furrowed into his brow.

"Finally!" he breathed impatiently, "Where in Oblivion were you?" Octavian could almost feel his brother side-eyeing him mischievously.

"Um, out, Father," he replied. His father raised a thick eyebrow. "Out riding in the Reserve. It is not as hot in the early morning, and– "

"I know. I've been informed," Sir Augustus spoke brusquely, "I wanted to hear what you would tell me." His steely blue gaze fixed itself on his eldest son. It was the kind of gaze that Octavian saw his father use on the men-at-arms when they had been drinking too much on duty. In his younger years, Octavian remembered being terrified of that gaze, but now, it seemed more disciplinary– something he could draw strength from.

"Never mind," his father said at length, "Now, to what I called you both here for…" He pulled out a letter with large wax seal stamped with the Imperial dragon insignia. "This was just delivered after breakfast." Octavian took the letter from him, and unfolded it. Marcus peered over his brother's shoulder.

"An Elder Council summons?" Marcus quipped, "Ha. The Emperor's been dead for over two weeks. I'm surprised the Council even took this long to send them off."

"With that soft idiot Dorian acting as Chancellor, what do you expect?" Augustus snapped. Marcus gave out a loud snort but shrank back at one look from his father.

"You'll be leaving for the Imperial City soon then, Father?" Octavian asked.

"Immediately after supper," Augustus replied, "The Chancellor is pushing Titus to replace the membership of the Inner and Elder Councils after the coronation– I will not be late. I refuse to be thrown out like some… stray animal!" Octavian cringed. He couldn't help but feel the relevance of the last comment on himself. But his father was a very transparent man; something was clearly wrong.

"Replace the membership?" he inquired, "Does Titus even have the power to do such a thing?"

"Yes," Augustus answered gruffly, "But I suspect it is not the Emperor, but the Chancellor who is truly behind this. Dorian is no leader. He never once held a sword in his hand, he never donned armour in his life. He spent all his time with books and scrolls, and now that Attrebus' death has weakened his position further, he is turning to his books and scrolls again. He thinks to use Council procedure to expel his opponents before they can expel him!"

"Exploiting the laws of the Empire," mused Marcus, "Shrewd."

"It is not," Octavian shot quickly, "It's dishonourable." He looked up worriedly at his father. "Would… would he try to expel you, Father?" Sir Augustus' gaze turned hard, and he breathed out in frustration.

"I have heard... I am not certain, but I have heard that there is a faction that may move against me..."

Octavian was taken aback; even Marcus, who rarely let any vulnerabilities show, looked surprised.

"Heard from whom?" Marcus asked.

"How…? But you have done nothing but serve the Empire all your life!" Octavian interjected. He threw the summons to the floor roughly. "How did you find out?"

Oddly, their father did not answer either of them, but simply turned slowly to face the fireplace. He seemed to look wistfully up to the Champion's arms above the mantelpiece.

"When the gates of Oblivion opened, our ancestor, the Champion, the Hero of Kvatch, nobly took up the call to serve the last Septim Emperor, to serve the whole of Tamriel. When the first Titus Mede took the throne with only a thousand men at his back, our family was the first to swear his allegiance and support. When the Empire split province by province and petty squabbling in Hammerfell threatened to split it further," he ran his fingers over a small bronze medal hanging from the mantelpiece, "I led an army into Hammerfell to teach those damned Redguards the meaning of order and solidarity. We worked tirelessly to keep this Empire in order, and what do we have to show for it? An Elder Council seat less stable than the damned Empire itself." He suddenly slammed his fist into the mantelpiece in frustration, making Octavian and Marcus jolt.

"We have shown our family's loyalty to the Emperor and the Empire," he slowly continued, "We have shown it time and time again, and yet– "

"You never received recognition," Octavian spoke, realising the implication of his father's response, "The honour of High Chancellor." He looked forward as his father's steely eyes slowly met his own.

"The service, son," Augustus replied carefully, "Is just as important as the honour."

"And you deserve them both, Father!" Octavian replied, "We can take them for you. We have enough wealth and men-at-arms– "

"Men-at-arms?" Marcus blurted from his side, "We can't just pick a fight with the Council. You're mad, brother."

"So I am," Octavian snapped, "Do you even believe in anything, Marcus?"

Marcus stuttered and gaped. A nerve had been struck. Octavian could almost hear the satisfactory sound of his younger brother's jaw hitting the floor, completely lost for words. He walked up closer to his father now, his small victory having given him some confidence. "If the Chancellor expels you, I'll fight. I'll march on the Imperial City myself in protest." He looked into his father's eyes desperately, hoping to find some form of approval. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he had found it– Augustus simply eyed his eldest son, his hard gaze scrutinising every part of him. Finally, Octavian felt his father's strong hand on his back.

"And you, Marcus?" their father spoke sternly. There was a flustered pause from behind them before Marcus replied:

"If you want me to fight as well," he took step forward, "I... I won't stay back..." Augustus slowly brought in his second son with his arm then gripped them both firmly by the shoulder.

"Listen," he said, looking from one son to the other, "There may be no need for any fighting. I am still well respected in the Councils, but I cannot depend on their help. But you are my sons; I must depend on you, and you must be there."

"We will," Octavian agreed. Marcus echoed his older brother.

"Good," Sir Augustus said, standing to his full height, the light from the fireplace giving him a fierce glow. "I know you both will not fail me. Now," he bent over to pick up the summons on the floor, "We cannot delay. I must make preparations for my departure tonight."

"You mean you are still travelling alone?" Octavian asked. Now that he had pledged to stand by his father, he expected that he would at least make the three-day ride out with him to the Imperial City.

"Yes," his father replied, "I must leave quickly. Marcus– " Augustus turned to his second son. "Go down to the stables and tell the men to prepare my horse, and arrange an escort. Send a courier to our servants in the Imperial City to prepare for my arrival." Marcus looked from his father to Octavian then quickly left the room, closing the heavy door behind him. Octavian stood up straight as his father turned to face him.

"Octavian," he said, taking his eldest by the shoulder, "I am entrusting you to take charge of Battlehorn in my absence. Listen to your mother, and look after your brother and sister. Make sure everyone is ready follow as soon as I send word." Octavian nodded.

"Of course, Father. I won't disappoint you."

"Don't. You kept me waiting today, and I want you to promise me that will not happen again."

"It won't. I promise."

"Good. I raised you to be a fine Colovian man. You must be. Everything," his father gestured around the room, "Everything I own will be yours one day, son. Everything I gain, you will gain, and everything I lose, you will lose."

"Then I will make sure you will gain it all," Octavian answered. He hoped he sounded confident, that his father hadn't noticed the slight wavering in his voice. Instead, there was a silence. His father eyed him up and down, his expression indiscernible. Minutes seemed to pass between them. Then, uncharacteristically for a heavy-handed Colovian warlord, Sir Augustus Antonius leant forward and placed a light kiss on his son's brow. Octavian felt his father's spiky grey stubble brush coldly on his forehead. He pulled away and smiled, then opened the study door and took one step out.

"And one more thing, Octavian."

"Yes, Father?"

"If you intend to make good on that noble promise, I would not lie to your father and fool around with village whores if I were you. Good day."

The door quickly closed, leaving Octavian standing stunned in the empty hallway. He stuttered, his mouth left gawking like a fish. Confusion clouded his mind then, a red mist descended. He felt a sudden surge of anger and embarrassment overwhelm him, and his fists clenched. That little–

"MARCUS!"

A/N: I hope you guys liked that chapter. By the way, I've gone over the whole story and now it is *NEW AND IMPROVED* with non-messed up paragraphs. Thanks to the reviewer who pointed that out. (See? Leaving a review gets things done).

LEAVE A REVIEW. MAKE NICE THINGS HAPPEN.