As barren as the blackened lands around Kvatch, the plane of Oblivion that spreads out before me is dark, desolate, and burning. Lava flows beneath a bridge straight ahead, a molten ooze of heat that bakes the air. The ground crunches beneath my steps, brittle and cracking, a soft glow that promises more magma far beneath shining through the apprently thin layer of crust. Even what little grass growing is black and seems to blow away in the hot breeze, dust.
Stone and rocks and ruin are all around, making the landscape impossible to take in farther than feet in front of my face. It's a maze, twisting and littered with threats beneath a churning red sky—just like above Kvatch. Foreign stars, crimson lightening, a constant haze of heat. What look like black talons tipped in blood cut through the ground in places, along with thick vines and glowing stones marked with Daedric scripts.
The Deadlands.
Mehrunes Dagon's realm.
The Prince of Destruction.
"Born anew in blood and fire."
I don't question the knowledge, or the echo of Uriel's words. I don't have time.
A group of scamps are dead ahead, circling a lone guard as he bats at them wildly with his sword, skill and thought lost, desperation in his angry cries.
I jump over a burnt corpse as I rush forward to his aid. Raising my hand, I call on a spell I've only tested once, but was impressed by. A wave of nausea rolls through me, bile rising up my throat, and a small portal swirls into existance in the air, purple clouds around a black hole. A body drops out, landing unevenly on it's half-rotten feet, chunks of flesh missing from it's grey skin. With a wet, hissing groan, it lumbers forward with me, on the attack.
The guard rears back as my zombie tackles one of the scamps, and I come against another with a wave of sizzling red bubbles that eat away at it. The spell does little, however, and I fall back, annoyed. I can't summon my dagger without dispelling the zombie. I shouldn't have sold my physical one.
The heat is all around me, and it calls to the flames inside me. I hate it.
I also hate watching. Circling. Doing nothing.
The zombie fulfills its purpose, and soon enough the scamps are dead and the guard is approaching me, a look of relief on all his features.
"Thank the Nine! I never thought I'd see another friendly face . . . "
"Savlian Matius sent me. Are there any others?"
The man's face twists in hope and despair. "I had thought I was all that was left. I can't believe the Captain is still alive. The others . . . we were ambushed, swarmed, when we arrived. I escaped, but the others . . . they were picked off, some taken up to the tower. Menien was still alive. I wanted to save him, but . . . "
It's obvious he stands no chance. I don't even know if I stand a chance. But he doesn't need to know that.
"I'm here to close the gate. I'll rescue your friend if I can, but the priority is what it is. Go back and inform the Captain."
"Alright. Good luck to you."
We take off in seperate directions. The bridge, I find, is blocked off by large gates, and I have to turn back and take a side path. It circles around, leading to the tower he'd mentioned. It's one of many, interconnected by bridges high in the sky. My road is littered with more scamps, which I let my zombie dispatch more often than not. He's usefull, and lets me pay closer attention to the lay of the land as I travel rather than worrying about being attacked.
I run across a few more bodies as I go, burnt beyond recognition.
One of them has a dagger on it. Small, cheap, and iron, but in better condition than my rusted one had been. I'm thankful for it.
When the next group of scamps attacks, I fight with my zombie pet to take them down, and I'm pleased to feel useful again, rather than standing off to the side like when the guard was fighting.
The last wave blocks the door to the tower, crowding around the small staircase to the entrance, but they are easy enough to do away with. I push my way in.
Gods. This place.
A pit of lava bubbles in the center of the room, surrounded by spikes, flames shooting up in an impossible pillar, rising up to what looks like the very peak of the tower. Everything is made from that dark grey stone that littered outside, spikes tipped in red everywhere, intricate daedric carvings on the walls. And more scamps. I'm getting so sick of scamps.
Small fountains flank the entrance, though, a glowing stream of blue spitting up from the middle, and it calls to me. I drink one without really thinking about it, once again trusting the knowledge that comes with blank memories, and feel my magick expand inside of me, fill me, replenished. Oh, this I like.
The zombie is resummoned, my dagger is drawn, and we attack. Soon enough, we are choosing a door at random and venturing further in.
A tiny corridor leads up, and to another door. I wait with little patience as it pries apart, opening—and I see my foes.
Creatures, like people, one red faced and one blue, with dark hair and horns both, one in armor and one in robes. Their guttural voices roar as one begins a summon and the other charges me with a mace. I surprise him by rushing forward right back, dodging to the side, and then bringing back my zombie for the battle. I discover quickly he deals far more damage than I; I let him focus on the armored one as I take the mage.
It is not an easy fight.
I take hit after hit from the summoned scamp as I continue to ignore it in favor of slashing at its master, and the mage makes me chase him, dodging around the room to tire me. My dagger is doing next to nothing against him, and I am in all sorts of pain. The scamps cuts are large and close together, and I can feel flaps of skin hanging off, tugging as I move around, were his scratches have intersected. My robes are torn up and damp with blood and sweat, and all I can feel is heat and hurt.
Until the mace clocks me in the skull. I hit the ground and roll as the world blacks out for several seconds, the sounds of my enemies closing in making my heart race.
The other Dremora hit me, he's no longer occupied, my zombie must be gone—
I resummon the undead servant and scamper away on my hands and knees, relying on my ears until my vision, fuzzy, starts to return. I take shelter behind another of those strange fountains, this one spouting red. Pulling myself up and over the edge, I down the liquid.
It tastes like blood, coppery and thick. My stomach turns, and I can feel a buzzing shock race through my veins, running through every inch of me.
I blink, and I'm fine. My heart is still racing, blood pumping, but the wounds are gone and the pain has stopped and I don't even bother trying to fight the fire that bursts to the surface with the euphoric relief that envelops me. Just as my zombie delivers a killing blow to the mage, I launch myself in a flaming fury at the armored Dremora.
I'm a huffing mess when it finally falls, breathing heavy and doused in sweat. I stand there, trying to steady myself, staring at the body on the floor, and I can see the flashes again. Hear the voices, the yelling, the clash of swords. It's so hot.
My zombie flickers out of existance. Automatically, I lean down, remove the armor from the Dremora, pull my dagger out, and carefully slice open his chest. Why? I don't know why. But the blue skin parts, and I slip my fingers in, my whole hand, wringly it around in the slick, thick mass of flesh and blood and organs and bone, until I wrap around my prize. I yank my hand back out, along with it's heart. I stare at it, puzzled, before cutting it free and moving over to the other body.
Why am I doing this? Why do I need these? I don't know. Gods, I'm going to be sick.
Don't think. Don't think. Stop thinking.
It's so hot.
The next room leads up, wrapping around the pillar of fire from earlier. It just leads to another door, which leads up again, and there are more scamps. I ignore them, letting the zombie smack at them, while I check the doors. Two are locked. I take the open one. It leads outside—onto one of the long bridges in the sky, connecting the towers.
I wonder if heights are something that bothers me. I decide not to find out. Staring straight ahead at the next door, I walk carefully and purposefully across. It's hard, at times. I stop for almost every gust of wind, as they are like hands trying to shove me over the edge. My stomach is twisting again.
I'm relieved for all of two seconds when I step through the door—then a voice cries out: "Help, up here! In the cage!"
My head shoots up. There is indeed a cage dangling from the ceiling above, a stripped man trapped inside. Menien. The walkway circles the edge of the tower, leaving the center open for a deadly fall. I hug the walls as I rush to make my way up. A Dremora meets me at the top.
Oddly enough, he begins to speak—spouting something about "I shouldn't be here" and "my life is forfeit" or something, but instead of listening, I peer behind him and concentrate on summoning. With little noise, the zombie appears, glances around blankly for a moment, turns, and then as the Dremora raises his mace to me, the Zombie begins flailing on him from behind.
My creature is dim witted, certainly, but I am growing found of him.
The Dremora falls much more easily than the other two had under our combined assault. Then I rush to the cage.
"No, no!" The man yells. "Behind you, the body—the key! The Dremora has the key, get it!"
Nodding, I whirl back around and do as told. A short search, and a key is recovered, and I turn back to him, looking for a lock.
"No, that key isn't for my cage. It's for the tower. You must get to the very top! There's something there called a Sigil Stone—it's what's keeping the gate open. Remove it, and the gate will close!"
"What about you? How do I open this?"
"Forget about me, just hurry and get the stone!" He barks this, angry.
I'm growing angry in return, apprehensive. "No! I told your friend I'd get you out, I'm not leaving you here."
"You can't open this, there isn't a lock! The Dremora controlled it, and he's dead now! Just go!"
Ignoring him, I pull out my blade and slash at it. Immitating me, my zombie starts to smack at the bars, too. I try magic next, blasting sections away from the man with my fire, using my lock opening spell, trying everything.
I rear back in frustration.
"The bars don't meet at the top, can you climb over?"
The bars crissocross all over, easy footholds. But Menien glares at me, unmoving.
"Go!"
"No!"
"Alright, I'll climb out! But you are wasting time! You have to close the gate!"
"Fine, I'll go. But when you get out, just go across the bridge, climb down the tower, and make your way around the main bridge back to the gate, alright? I've killed most of the creatures on the path, so just follow the bodies."
He finally nods, and grasps onto the bars, lifting his first leg up. "Alright, now go!"
I skip back a few steps, watching him as I go. Certain he's climbing, I head down the ramp back to the door. Glancing back up, I watch as he puts a leg over the top bar, beginning his way down. He catches sight of me through the glass floor.
"Go!"
I go.
Keeping my center of gravity low, I make my way across the bridge again, back into the main tower. Unlocking a door, I find another corridoor, more ramps, more scamps, and another door.
And then that fiery pillar, flanked by yet more ramps, wrapping around, leading up. A Dremora ambushes me on my way, and I sidestep him and don't even bother to fight. Summoning the zombie, I continue away. At the top, I find nothing; a dead end—at first glance.
There's a circular elavation in the floor. I step on—
And am transported.
The pillar. More ramps. More Dremora.
I've stopped bothering to fight. Time ways heavy on my heart, urged on by the words of the trapped soldier. I race past, using my handy teleporting zombie whenever possible, and just keep on through door and up ramp, one after the other.
Until I reach the top.
The floor in this room looks like it's made of thin layers of meat, stretched out between metal bars. The pillar is shooting through a hole in the middle, and claws potrude from the walls climbing up, up, like twisted staircases on either side. The sky rumbles overhead, red storm raging.
I restore my magic at one of the handy fountains in the room, and then climb.
On the next level, I'm forced to walk on the fleshy floors as I keep moving up, using my zombie to deflect attention from the Dremora and scamps. The muscles under my feet are slick and rubbery despite the heat of this place, and I bounce with every step. My stomach jumps with me.
Finally, at the top, I turn to face the tip of the fiery pillar—and see the black stone floating in the fire, suspended by it, like a black hole in the center. I thrust my hand in and graps it.
I'm struck from behind. I strike out wildly, try to move away, and find my attackers have caught up to me.
The heat in the room is growing impossibly. The pillar is wobbling, unstable, and the very air trembles in a haze. The Dremora pursue me, and I try to run, am cut off by scamps, backed against a wall, the stone is vibrating violently in my hand, they are closing in my zombie is summoned but there is little he can do everything is so hot I can't breathe the fire is growing the pillar has exploded the room is envoloped in flames they rush at my face—
Black.
Tall gates climb high in front of me, set into large stone walls that are crumbling in some places. The dirt under my feet is charred and the plantlife is nonexistant. The sky is a swirl of blue and black and red and grey, all battling for dominance.
My heart is hammering. My whole body feels like it's shaking.
A breeze blows around me, hitting my skin, chilling me. Cold.
Relief.
I turn around, and find I'm standing between what's left of the pillars that had been the Oblivion Gate. It's gone now, in a whiff of dust and magic that's still left sizzling in the air.
I did it.
Blue and grey finally win over in the sky, and clouds overtake everything. Rain looks like it's threatening to pour down.
I trudge over the expanse back to the barricade. Savlian is there with his men, all staring ahead at me in some sort of wonderous stupor. It's unnerving. I ignore it.
"You . . . you did it! You closed the gate!" Savlian's face breaks out into a smile. "By the gods, we do stand a chance! This is it; we'll launch a counter attack before they can barricade the doors."
The other men cheer, readying their weapons. I pass over each of their faces, searching. The soldier from inside there gate is there. Menien is not.
He must not have gotten out after all.
Savlian looks to them, grinning, then face me again. "Will you fight with us?"
"At your command."
"Good. You obviously have far more experience than my men—they are only city watchmen, and our days have been mostly peacefull until now. You should lead with me."
I merely nod, not bothering to correct him. Experienced? I feel like I am only two days old. But those two days have been filled with battle and death, so . . . I suppose he isn't wrong.
With a collective cry of "For Kvatch!" we rush the city.
The plaza is filled with scamps and clanfears, reptillian beasts, with a Dremora appearing to lead the collective, blasting away at us from the back as his minions run at us.
The chapel looms behind them, cut off.
Martin.
I summon the zombie and surge forward. I don't bother with the dagger; flames blaze from my fingertips, launching across the plaza, scamps and clanfears igniting. Savlian and I make our way through and tagteam the Dremora mage, backing him into a corner.
All the soldiers seem surprised when the fight is over.
"Without reinforcements overwhelming us, these creatures are nothing!" Savlian smiles, elated, obviously riding the high of our successive victories. "Alright everyone, let's get those civilians out of the chapel and back to the camp. Then we'll see about a plan of attack!"
A cheer rings out, and well all march up the chapel steps, and Savlian knocks at the door, calling to those inside. After several seconds, there rustling and shuffling, obviously someone moving a barricade out of the way, and the doors are opened to us.
Other soldiers are waiting for us, and Savlian begins speaking to one at once. I pay attention long enough to catch the important part:
"We're all that's left."
That isn't much; a few more soldiers and a small group huddled over by the alter. One of them is going between people, apparently ministering to their needs, dressed in shabby robes.
Priest's robes.
Martin.
A hand claps me on the shoulder. "Ha! We've really done it! I hardly believed we could . . ."
It's Savlian. I don't care.
He's there. Right in front of me.
"But with the gate closed," Savlian continues, obvlious to my distraction, "we could even retake the entire city! The daedra have no more reinforcements, no retreat. We can kill them in waves, attack, rest, regroup if we have to. But the city could be ours again! We just have to get to the castle. If we can clear it out, we've all but won."
How do I approach him? What do I say? Jauffre said he doesn't know. How do you break this kind of news to someone?
Savlian is still talking. "You've come this far with us; will see this to the end? I don't know if we can do this without you."
I finally look away from Martin to Savlian. I have to take several glances between them, debating, and he notices.
"Oh, that's right. You were looking for the priest, weren't you? Do you know him?"
"No." I have a mission; I need to get Martin out of here and to the Priory. But these people . . . it's like they need me. Savlian certainly thinks they do. Savlian, captain of the guard, a real soldier. His men are gathered around him, readying to go. One is rallying up the civilians, including Martin.
When did I, a simple prisoner trapped in a stone cell, become someone that true warriors look to as their leader? When the blood of the Emporer was spilt before my eyes, what right do I have to claim to defend anyone, or to guide these men into battle—and to their deaths?
I know my mission is more important than the last few lives left in a lost city, but there is no way I can stand aside when people's lives are in the balance. The image of the Emporer's blood soaked body prostrate on the dirty stone floor is seered into my mind, and I will never allow another innocent to die when I can—should—be their defender.
These people are coming to depend on me too much, but I can't abandon them. It is an odd feeling, being looked up to. I feels like I just can't turn away.
"I'll go with you."
He claps me on the back again, and I stumble. "Ha ha, I knew you'd come! Our goal is the Castle gate."
He turns to all his men, the leader once more, as though he hadn't just been turned to me, begging help.
"We'll make our way through the city to the front of the gatehouse. Stick close, keep your eyes open, and be ready all. Tierra, come join us once the civillians are secure. Let's move out!"
A chorrus of "Sir!" rings out, and the soldiers begin marching out the far door while the woman who had briefed Savlian when we came in leads the crowd out the way we'd come. I hang back, watching, as Martin shuffles by and disappears out the door. I follow the soldiers the other way.
He'll be safe out there for a while longer.
Honestly, the immediate threat once we're outside isn't much compared to what we've faced before. We pick off a small group of scamps rather easily, and make for the gate. The feat is so underwhelming that I'm not surprised to find the gate barred from the other side; nothing has been easy so far, after all.
Savlian, of course, goes to me for assistance. "Head back and find Berich Inian, he ought to have the key to the North Guard House. There's a passage there that should lead you to the gatehouse where you can raise the gate."
I go, but my trip is much shorter than I expect; upon entering the chapel, I find it filled once more, with patrolmen and guards. I'm spotted and approached immediately.
"We were on patrol out on the Gold Road and saw the smoke. The other guards have already explained. How can we help?"
"I suppose you're with me, then." The female guard and a male have returned, and I call over to them. "Is one of you Berich Inian?"
The man raises and quickly steps over. "That's me. What is it?"
"We need the key to the guardhouse; the gate's locked."
"We'll have to go through the Undercroft below the chapel and through what's left of the city to get inside to unlock it, then."
"Then that's what we do. Lead the way."
He nods, determined, and motions for the others to follow as we head down the stairs and through the door to the Undercroft. The tomb is full of statues, the resting likenesses of those long past—and daedra. It's just scamps, though, and with a reluctant sigh I stow the nausea growing in my stomach and light my hands aflame, tossing balls of fire to roast the little beasts.
Once outside, we are in the city proper—or, as Berich said, what's left of it. The ruins are charred, broken, and still smoking in places. The rain has finally started pouring down, dousing the fires, but that hasn't stopped the spread yet.
It is a dreary sight, crawling with more scamps, bleak under a grey sky. But we shove on, killing.
I wonder why it's so easy to kill these things. They are live, aren't they? They have thoughts, don't they? I wonder what they think, what they feel. I wonder if they regret what they've done when they die.
Berich leads us to a storage area, where I hatch is all but hidden behind the stacks of crates and barrels. Removing the lids, we climb down the rusty ladder one by one, until we are all crammed into the narrow corridor to where ever this leads.
The halls are filled with more burning debris, making it hard to breathe through the smoke. We cover our faces, choking, as we make our way across to the next tower, where we climb up more hand rails—and finally find the gate.
Scrambling to the otherside and up the stairs, I grab hold of the wheel on the wall and twist, cranking the gate up. Savlian and the others come pouring through, running down the next courtyard filled with scamps.
Keeping to the edge of the fighting, I draw away scamp after scamp to set ablaze, careful to keep my fire away from the soldiers. One of the men gives a cry, and I circle around to where he lays, injured, and pump my healing energies into him. With a nod of thanks, he's back into the fight—which doesn't last much longer.
With a cheer, Savlian shoots me a grin and leads the group into the castle proper, out of the storm. The castle, of course, is in shables, just like the rest of the city. Pillars are down, broken to pieces in the floor, furniture is on fire, and scamps roam free, hissing and burning everything in they're path.
I do a lot more healing during this fight that I'm comfortable with. I want to be out there, chasing down the little monsters, burning them, but every time I hear a friend call out in need, my fire fades and I rush to them. It is never easy to turn from the battle; fighting is so natural, so easy to me, razing my enemies with heat like breething. But I joined these men to save lives, and that's what I make myself do; not just the easy way, but with restraint as well.
And as I watch the scamps cast their fire at my comrades, I see myself—not in the guards, but in the daedra.
Fire and death.
"All right, this is it!" Savlian calls out, rallying his guards to his side. I'm surprised, however, when the patrolmen come to me. Savlian, apparently, is not, and nods my way. "We'll hold this area. You head to the back of the castle, and find the Count. Don't come back here without him, do you understand?"
"Sir."
Heading up the stairs around the tarnished throne, we move out.
The next room is in just as much dissarray as the last, and we are fighting scamps almost without thinking. It is becoming a reflex. They are everywhere; an infestation. Like virmin.
We check all the branching halls. Most are blocked off, caved in or blocked with debris. The one at the end, however . . .
Just one little scamp. That's all. All that made it into the count's quarters. It's so easy for me to kill, it's almost laughable.
And yet . . .
And yet, there he is. On the floor, lying face down in a pool of his own blood, dressed resplendantly in fine purple velvet, grey hair pulled back neatly.
For a moment, Uriel Septim's body is there and not the Count's, and I am reliving my most hopeless moment once again. It shakes me to the bone, shakes my nerves so badly I simply turn around and leave.
I double over in the floor outside the door, arms across my knees, head tucked in the nook they create. A pile of flaming furniture casts flickering light over me, and all I can see is Uriel's face again. Everything burns inside me; my chest, my shoulders, my stomach, my eyes.
"Sir?" The lead patrolman has followed me out.
Closing my eyes, I bring a hand up to rub them.
"Apologies," I say stiffly, standing.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
I stare at him from beneath my hood, shocked. What does he know of my loss?
His face is sympathetic, almost worried.
"We should report this to the others."
What?
Oh.
The Count. He doesn't know I am not a citizen of Kvatch, and thinks I mourn the stranger in the other room.
It doesn't matter.
I step around him and back into the room, pausing to kneel beside the Count. "Savlian said not to return without him."
Gently, I roll the man over and scoop him up into my arms. People are heavy, and I think about throwing him over my shoulder. But I look down at his face and see his grey hair and for a moment his face isn't his face, and I can do nothing but hold him this way, carry him out.
Our trek is slow because of my burden, but my comrades are respectful and march slowly as well, standing around me like a guard detail, escorting the Count out to be recieved by his true mourners.
It is more than Uriel Septim had, and he deserved so much more. I feel tear trails burn hot on my skin, searing my face.
I am certain Savlian could see us coming, know our tidings, as soon as we entered, but he waited, a statue, at the entrance as we walked down the stairs around the throne and down the center of the room to stand before him. I knelt with reverence, my arms and back aching from the weight, and lay him as gently as I can at Savlian's feet.
"We . . . we were too late?" He stares down, as though unbelieving, wide eyed; he is suddenly darker, dressed in silver and gold armor, standing over Uriel. Then he drops to one knee, cringing. "If only we'd gotten here sooner! This is indeed a dark day for all of us left."
We all stand in silence, the guardsmen huddled close around their fallen leader, the patrolmen at my back. When Savlian looks up again, his face is weary, but composed. He lifts one of the Count's hands hand gently removes the large signet ring from his finger, and closes his fingers around it.
"What was his name?" I ask.
"Ormellius Goldwine." As he stands, so do I, and he grips my shoulder, squeezing. "I thank you for risking your own life to help us. The Count's Signet Ring is safe, at least, and I shall make sure it is protected, for the time when a new Count is crowned. Though, when that happens, I shall no longer be captain of the guard."
With that proclamation, Savlian unbelts, bends down and tugs his cuirass over his head, catching it's weight on one shaky arm.
"I'm tired of fighting." He smiles, though, sadly, and seems to remember I'm there. He holds up the cuirass to me. "Here. You don't seem have any armor. It's yours, if you'd like. It'll serve you well."
I don't need it. I know I don't. I didn't like the feel of my leather, don't really like armor at all. I'd rather just take my hits in a fight. I deserve to take my hits.
But I reach out and accept it, nodding.
"Thank you."
"You know, I never did get your name." This seems to amuse him.
"Erin."
"Well, thank you again, Erin. You saved our city. Without you, that gate never would have been closed, and we'd never have gotten back inside the walls. You are, truly, the hero of Kvatch."
Uncomfortable, I shift, rolling my shoulders. "I just came to help a friend, is all. I couldn't leave the rest of you."
"Well, Kvatch is lucky Brother Martin had such a dutiful friend as you, then."
Martin? It was Uriel who had me come. Martin's never met me. But, again—it doesn't matter. So little seems to, now that I think on it.
"What will you all do now?" I glance around, including the group of them in the conversation. They all look to Savlian, anyway, though, and he answers.
"Rebuild, of course. It's not the first time Kvatch has been in ruins, and she'll rise again all the same."
"We'll stay and assist all we can," the Patrolman behind me pipes in.
Savlian grins and shakes his hand, and I see Kvatch is well cared for, indeed.
"Good luck to you all, then. Blessings on the Nine upon you. I have a priest to check on."
The group nods, and I'm subjected to several pats on the back, thank yous, and reverent stares before I slip out of the castle and find myself back in the courtyard, littered with scamp bodies, the smell of ash not fading. Rain pounds me, raindrops thick and heavy, sky shaking and rumbling, deafening in my ears.
Gods, I'm tired.
It's over. So why does it only now feel like too much?
I trudge across the courtyard, the bridge, out into the open air, and I stare up into the sky, letting the water pelt my face with a violence that calls to me.
I have helped this city and it's people. But all I can see is the Count; the Count, and not the Count.
Uriel.
One I failed to save. Two I failed to save. How many more? Am I so useless, worthless.
No. I did good today. I accomplished so much. Kvatch can be rebuilt because of my aid. All those who had taken refuge in the chapel are safe because of my help. Martin is safe.
For how long? I failed Uriel. I have failed this Count. He is dead because I failed him, I should remember him for the rest of my days.
I glare around at the scamp bodies, I flashes of people, masked, dressed in red, are there instead.
Death shouldn't be so easy.
The flames still dance across the city beneath the stormy sky, impervious, almost, to the rain.
Fire and death.
Will those I fight to protect with fire always die? Is this what I am doing wrong? Were Uriel's words prophecy, a warning, like his dreams?
Glancing down at my palms, I clench my hands and swear.
No matter how easy it is, no matter how natural it comes, I will never again use fire to protect. It is what is failing them, not me. Fire is bedfellows with death, and can only end in death.
I must find a new weapon, a new way to protect those in need.
To protect Uriel's son.
But what? I close my eyes, letting the rain wash over me, feeling—for once—cold.
It's nice.
I slip inside the chapel, my robes dripping pink water onto the stone floors. I stand there, staring at the puddle forming. There isn't a reason that I can tell. I'm just so tired.
"Are you alright?"
I glance up, having expected the building to be empty—and freeze.
It's Martin.
"You were with the soldiers, weren't you? How goes the battle? Do you need rest?"
I had glimpsed him before, from far off, but now I approach him slowly, transfixed, and as his confused face comes into view, I drop to one knee, striken with grief.
It is a young Uriel Septim standing before me, and I feel the pressure of that precious life once again settling on my shoulders. I see my Emperor in his son's face, his eyes, his build, the very lines in his skin, even the way his thick hair falls, laying in almost the same style. How many times in this day must I see his face again, and lose it?
He drops down beside me, startled. "Are you injured? Here, let me have a look at you."
His hand reaches for me, and I brush is away with the back of my own, gently. It's hard to speak; I have to swallow roughly. "I am not injured."
"Tired, then? You must be weary from the battle. Here, there are bedrolls laid out—"
Taking hold of my arm, he pulls me up, his touch only light, guiding, and I go with as he leads me over to the walls where the mat is spread, pillow and blanket ready.
"Rest."
"I'm all wet," I comment; it's barely a protest.
"Do you need a change of clothes?"
I shake my head. "I just don't wish to dirty your bedroll."
He chuckles softly. "Do not worry over such a thing. You have fought well. You deserve a rest."
Obediently, I lay down. I am striken by wonder to finally be speaking with him. I can think of nothing to say.
"Are others coming?" He asks as he pulls the blanket up over me.
"Most likely, eventually. The count is dead, but the castle is retaken."
"That is both tragic and wonderful news, then." He smiles. "Are you certain you don't wish for dry clothes? It is no problem to get some from the storage room."
"Why did you return to the chapel?" I change the subject.
He settles by the alter beside me, leaning his arm against a propped up knee. "I have already had a look at most of the refugees, tended to their injuries. I felt I would be more needed here, for those fighting to reclaim our city."
"So you've just been waiting here, alone?"
"Well, with the wreckage about the city, I thought this would be the place you'd all most likely return to on your way out. And I'm closer this way. Why not?"
"The city was overrun with daedra, and you ask 'why not' be here?"
He only shrugs. We settle into silence, listening to the rain on the windows and the rumble of thunder, the occasionaly flash lighting up the chapel. He seems content to sit with me, waiting to be of use.
He is as selfless as his father; kind, reassuring, gentle.
Here is my second chance to protect the man who looked at me, a criminal, and saw only hope, and who had died knowing full well his death was coming for him and we wouldn't be able to protect him.
That old man, whom I'd known for only a short time, has and still is shaping my life. My past hadn't mattered to him, and he said he saw only a bright future for me, and somehow I want to prove him right, to make him proud. Maybe that is what made him a true king, that charisma, that instantaneous friendship I'd felt. In that dungeon, I had thought I would have died for that man.
Instead, I swear I will die for his son, rather than fail again.
I am so caught up in my thoughts I forget to worry about having nightmares like the night before. But in this chapel, beside the son of my only friend, my future Emperor, I am not beseiged with flashes of the lives I've taken, the lives I've failed to save, nor the crushing weight of the responsibility that has been dropped onto my shoulders.