Epilogue: The Ones We Choose
Heljarchen Hall was empty.
Desmond turned the key in the lock, hearing the familiar click in the silence of the night and pushing the door open. It was empty inside—the fire was out, none of the sconces were lit, no one was inside. His torch filled the entryway with light, casting brightness and warmth down the hall and stretching the shadows of the table and chairs. Otherwise, Heljarchen Hall was oppressively dark.
He dropped his crossbow and his bag by the door, lighting sconces as he went with his torch. Most of Heljarchen Hall looked much the same. Here were the marks on the door frame leading into the dining room where they had measured Bjanca and Vilmar—and there was the dent in the floorboards from the ensuing kerfuffle when Bjanca had accused Vilmar of cheating by standing on his toes.
The east wing library was largely untouched, filled with books and spell tomes and a pair of comfortable, well-worn chairs. A sheaf of blank papers in a lopsided pile sat on one of the small tables, a wilting flower in a vase askew behind the pile.
The Elder Scroll still hung over the fire by the dining table. The pot over the dead coals that normally held that bitter-tasting tea Martin had been bizarrely fond of had been emptied and cleaned, a small bowl full of spoons set neatly to the side. The little kitchen and oven were similarly tidied, with empty pots that had once held flour and dried herbs lining the windowsills.
A sort of storage area in the back had been divided in half. One half held a makeshift enchanting table and alchemy laboratory, with chests of ingredients set haphazardly into alcoves near the door. Amelie's shelves of bottles and disorganized bundles of recipes covered one wall from floor to ceiling. Along the other half's wall were a few of Martin's random trinkets Desmond supposed he hadn't seen fit to get rid of: a dragon skull, a pile of taproots, some assorted gears and workings of what appeared to be a dwarven sphere. There were more papers on Martin's table, full of scribbles and instructions to possibly repair or redesign the thing. It seemed they hadn't gotten very far.
The upstairs was considerably emptier, holding only a bed, the rest of the library, and an upstairs greenhouse. The greenhouse contained the only signs of life in the entire hall, Amelie's plants still flourishing even without help.
Down below was a cellar with an archery range and an altar, set with nine shrines and lit by sconces. There weren't enough sconces in the room, and Desmond made a mental note to add more when he could. There was a note on the archery target, pinned with an arrow in the dead center of the target.
Hit first. Don't miss.
Desmond pulled the note off the target, carefully folding and pocketing it as he returned upstairs. The house was empty, but there were bits of their presence in what was left behind.
Desmond sat down at his usual place at the dinner table and tossed the torch into the fire, banishing the cold and lighting up the whole room. The dining table was bare but for a book left in Martin's usual place at the head of the table, nearest the fire. Desmond reached over and picked it up, unable to read the faded title on the spine. The cover had been blacked out and replaced, titling it A Book of Days.
Desmond flipped it open. The first page was a handwritten note, stitched into the binding.
When we first met, you asked me for my story. I have told you bits and pieces, both truths and lies, but never the whole truth of it because parts of it are not mine to tell. So, my boy: here it is. Ours is not the kind of story other people would write about, so we wrote it down ourselves.
All my love,
—Martin
For the first time since reading his letter of inheritance, Desmond felt it. Losing Martin—completely, certainly, losing him, losing him and all the family he had come to know and love—hit him with the weight of a mountain. He broke, dissolving into tears at the table.
The next morning was quiet. The sunrise over the mountains was peaceful and beautiful, and the world was silent this far from the hustle and bustle of the city. Desmond spent the morning stoking the fire and considering making that bitter tea even though he'd never really cared for it.
He headed outside, watching the morning mist begin to dissipate. From the steps, he could see the Throat of the World. Would it be worth it to make a trip up to speak with whatever might be left of the Greybeards? Or Paarthurnax? Would they even deign to acknowledge him, what was the point?
"Papa, look!"
Desmond looked around. Vilmar was holding a wriggling skeever as he and Bjanca raced up the hill.
"What in Oblivion is that thing? No, I said no pets!" Desmond snapped, glaring at Stenvar. "No skeevers, no mudcrabs, none of that in your granddad's house!"
"But Papa—"
"No pets!"
Vilmar grumbled, putting the skeever down. It ran off down the hill and out of sight as he and Bjanca entered the house. Stenvar stayed outside on the steps with Desmond, looking up at the Throat of the World.
"What're you thinking?" Stenvar asked softly.
Desmond breathed in and out, slow and deliberate. "We'll need to make beds for the kids, and quickly. I got started earlier, but I didn't get very far."
"Leave it to me. What about—"
"I want to go to the City."
Stenvar paused, letting the silence build for a moment. "The Imperial City?"
Desmond nodded. He mentally mapped out the route, what he would need and how he would get there. The border to Cyrodiil was (technically) open, so his chances of getting arrested were slim to none this time around.
"Ok." Stenvar leaned back against the door frame, thinking. "I'll run back to Whiterun and grab Lydia, she can watch the kids and—"
"No." He swallowed hard. "I want... This is something I have to do myself."
"Des, I know that's not a short trip, but we can make it work," Stenvar said, crossing his arms. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this alone."
"No, I know, I..." He turned his gaze to the sky, looking for stars or a dragon or something, anything. "It's just... I have to. Please just understand, ok?"
Desmond got the feeling that Stenvar didn't completely understand, even as Stenvar pulled him into a tight hug and planted a kiss on his forehead. "I know how much he meant to you."
They stood on the steps for what felt like a long time, until they heard a crash from inside the house. Stenvar pushed open the door—Vilmar appeared to have tipped too far backward in his chair.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.
Desmond and Stenvar came into the house, Desmond placing his hands on the table to talk to the kids. Bjanca and Vilmar sat and listened, perceiving that this was serious. There had been a lot of serious talk since Martin had died.
"I'm going to head out for a bit, all right?" Desmond said. "I may not be back for a while. Stay here and be good for your dad."
"Where are you going?" Bjanca asked.
"I'm going to the Imperial City, in Cyrodiil."
"I want to go to Cyrodiil!" Vilmar bounced on the balls of his feet, excited. "Please, can I come?"
"Can I come too, Papa?" Bjanca chimed in. "I'll be your bodyguard!"
"No, starlights. You have to stay here and guide me home," Desmond said, reaching out and ruffling Vilmar's hair. "Be good and do not break any of your granddad's stuff, all right?"
"Ok," the two of them said in unison.
After a series of hugs and kisses goodbye, Desmond picked his bag up from the corner by the door. Heljarchen Hall was big and imposing, but safe and warm. Stenvar, the kids—the family he had chosen would be safe there. Besides, it wasn't as if Stenvar was completely incapable without Desmond around. Desmond set off back to Whiterun, to catch a carriage to Riften.
"How are you?" Sorine asked. "Kids doing all right?"
"They're great, but I wish you hadn't sent up crossbows for them," Desmond said.
Sorine raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really."
"...Sten wishes you hadn't sent up crossbows for them," Desmond corrected. "I built an archery target for them, but sometimes I think they forget it's there."
"So where're you headed now?" Sorine walked with him through the fort. It was cleaner and brighter than it had been back in the day, possibly due to Gunmar and Sorine taking over the place after Isran's death. The members that still hung around were friendly and spoke happily, a few wandering around with maps and recruits, discussing future raids and targets and strategy. "We haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm heading down to the Imperial City," Desmond told her. "Got an errand to run."
"An errand? People still run errands nowadays?" Serana shook her head, grinning as she approached them. Her hair was beginning to lose its luster as mortal aging started to affect her, fine lines beginning to show around her eyes and mouth.
Desmond laughed, relieved to see her. "How're you?"
"Good. Thought I heard you blundering around in here, what's up?"
"Going down to Cyrodiil," Desmond said again.
"Without Sten?" Serana's smile dimmed a bit, suspicion creeping into her eyes. "What's going on?"
Desmond's shoulders drooped. He looked helplessly to Sorine, who politely backed out of the conversation to track down some other task that needed doing. Serana started towards the stairs that led up to the top of the fort, overlooking Isran's rickety old fences and giving a phenomenal view of the stars. She closed the door behind him, watching him sit on the stone floor, his back against the ramparts as he looked up at the stars.
"It's Martin," he said quietly.
"What about him? What happened?" She leaned forward against the stone, brow furrowed.
"Well, he's... he's gone and died."
Serana's mouth fell open. "Oh, godssakes. I'm sorry. Was it—"
"I wasn't there, I don't actually know or anything. I mean, gods, I just saw him last week, but..."
They fell silent.
Desmond cleared his throat, blinking rapidly as Serana pushed herself off the wall and came to sit next to him. "I... I don't know, I always kind of figured he'd just be immortal forever or something," he said, his throat dry. "It was dumb—"
"It's not dumb."
"—but, you know. I guess it was about time, huh?"
Serana smiled faintly, and nodded. "You think he's happy?"
"Oh, yeah." Desmond stared up at the stars again, trying and failing to identify any of the major constellations. They were all just stars to him, little pinpricks of light and former life that leaked down from Aetherius and Sovngarde and everything else. "He's probably having a grand old time. Up there with all of them, dancing with Ami and smiling again."
"Rubbing it in her husband's face, more like."
Desmond laughed, tears springing to his eyes. Joy and sorrow came together with every happy memory of the lost Dragonborn. Laughter turned to gasping sobs, Desmond dissolving into grief on the top of the tower. Serana reached out and grasped his shoulder, quiet and comforting.
He struggled to calm himself down, choking back tears and pain and grief to be able to speak again. "What do I do now?" he asked finally. He looked up at Serana, barely able to see for the tears still in his eyes. "Sera, I don't know what... I mean, I don't... how do I—"
"It's ok," Serana said shakily, and Desmond saw a sympathetic tear on her face as well.
"He was family."
She nodded, a sad smile on her face. "I know."
Desmond wiped his sleeve across his face, drying tears and trying to speak. "I wanted to go down to Cyrodiil to... I mean, it's dumb, but—"
"It's not dumb," she repeated.
"I want to go see that statue of his," he said, his breath beginning to steady. "You know. The one from the end of Third Era."
She nodded. "Are you gonna be all right? That's a bit of a trip."
Desmond shook his head. "No. No, I know, I'll be fine." He forced a smile. "I just, I have to do this. He came here alone, and... and I want to see where he came from."
"Ok. Yeah, I get it." Serana rubbed his arm sympathetically. "Just send the word and I'll bring in the troops."
He nodded, sniffling. "Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything stupid."
"Hey." Serana pushed herself back to her feet, looking down at him. "I'd love to see the kids, when you get back. Stop by and we'll go back together, all right?"
"Sure. They'd love that," Desmond agreed, shoving himself up as well. "It's a plan."
Desmond closed the door behind him, alone with the statue in the Temple. The skies were bright and blue overhead, shadows from the statue cooling the Temple. He looked up at the great stone statue of the dragon.
"And Delphine said riding off with Odahviing was showy." He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Gods be. A god you were, I guess."
It was silent. Desmond sat down at the foot of the stone dragon.
"I don't know why I came here." He tapped the binding of the book on his lap. "No, that's a lie, I do, but... I don't. I wish you were... I don't know." Desmond shook his head, looking down at the book.
A Book of Days: Mine, Ours, and Yours.
Desmond smiled faintly, and flipped it open. Martin's narrow, measured handwriting, and Amelie's light, graceful letters spelled out a story from centuries before he had been born. Every so often, another hand would scribble in the margins: one heavy-handed and untidy, the other quickly dashed out and concise. Desmond skipped pages and pages, looking for the end. To his surprise, the latter half of the thick book was blank. He skimmed backwards, seeing words from Apocrypha, from Morrowind, from Sovngarde and the Dreamsleeve and everywhere Martin had traveled in between the two.
On the very first page, all four of them had signed it.
Martin Lorelius Septim. Amelie Rose Lex. Anna Marie the Iron Maiden. Jean Christophe Azarath.
Desmond dug up a quill and ink he had brought with him, and scribbled in his own.
Desmond Martinsson.
He flipped the page, and began to read.
It had come in the night, rising out of stone and earth, spewing fire and demons...