Chapter 1

The Shadow

Present Day: 205 4E

Salazar watched another fight between bedraggled Nords and well-trained Imperials. This time, however, the Nords didn't have an imposing leader to organize them. In fact, this time he was quite short for a Nord. Glavor the Stonewall was his name. Some old minor noble who still held onto the Stormcloak Rebellion as though Salazar himself hadn't put that bastard's head on a pike five years ago. The battle wasn't going well for that poor old man. His men were in poorly formed ranks and seemed to know only how to properly hold a spear. This Glavor, evidently, was not much of a military man. No, Salazar had killed all the military men a long time ago.

This battle, though it was more of a skirmish, would have been unremarkable in any other circumstance. However, this was the last known holdout of the Stormcloaks. He could have left this task to a centurion and been done with it had he not wished to see the last embers of the Stormcloak Rebellion finally flicker into nothingness. So he watched. He had long passed the days when he needed to lead his troops into battle himself. Sometimes he wished for those times. The dual ebony axes that had earned him the nickname "General Blackaxes" amongst his men lay sheathed and unused. Talos help those men if they found out who he really was. One of these days they would find out he was the one who killed the very Emperor they had sworn fealty to. On that day it would be too late for them to worry about it. For, by then, his plan would have finally come to fruition.

A young boy in loose-fitting uniform was waving a stick with a white kerchief around and running toward Salazar. Finally, Salazar thought. The boy approached and knelt in deference to Salazar. Needless procedure. "Stand and give your message, boy," Salazar said. The boy rose. Now that he was closer, Salazar could see just how nervous he was. "General Salazar-Jiin of Black Marsh. General Glavor humbly requests the ability to parley with you considering our surrender." The messenger said at a pace so rapid that Salazar almost lost track of what he was saying. It was good that the boy was so out of breath that he could consider the jumbled mess of words between the boy's gasps for air. Salazar let him catch his breath before replying, "I will cease my attack and we will speak in my command tent at sundown."

He shouted for his own messenger boy and gave his orders. Soon enough, both sides retreated to their respective camps and Salazar went to walk the battlefield. When he wasn't fighting, he would always walk the battlefield afterward to remind himself of the power he had over the lives of Men, Mer, and Beastfolk. The Stormcloak losses were staggering. Blue and brown bodies cluttered the battlefield like thrown dice in a game of Emperor's Gambit. The bodies stank of more than just death. They hadn't bathed in weeks. Indeed there may not have been time to. Salazar's force had chased them across the Rift from Ivarstead to the Velothi Mountains. When the Stormcloak remnants hit the mountains, they were finally backed into a corner. There was a wide age range among the soldiers. From boys who looked barely into their fifteenth year to old men cresting their sixtieth. All of this death. All of these lives taken from their families because of a cause just as dead.

Always spare a thought for those left behind.

How many of these boys had a sweetheart in their little village? How many children and grandchildren did these old men leave behind? Were they loved? Were they hated? Were they the town drunkard? Would people even remember their names?

He felt that familiar pain in his chest at these thoughts. His instructors had always drilled in his head that he should be dispassionate in his killings. He could never fully detach himself from his killings. He saw what it did to the older students. The things they became.

It is only business, child. Only business.

He stopped and looked at the broken body of a boy that couldn't have been older than fourteen. He'd been slightly pudgy and Salazar suspected his pallid face would have once been rosy. He'd been killed with mace to the ribs and a magical spike of ice to the shoulder. That spike hadn't completely melted yet. The area around his lips were stained red with drying blood. What complete shit all of that dispassion was. Salazar fought because of the passion he felt for it. He fought to make the world better. At least, that what he told himself so he wouldn't be plagued by the rotation of faces that were now rotting in some forgotten barrow because of him.

He raised his head to the sky and noted the position of the sun. It was setting in the western horizon. He could barely see a sliver of the sun over the Throat of the World. The sky was a brilliant combination of orange, red, sapphire, and violet. He may not like much about Skyrim, but he had to admit that the sunsets were striking. He gained control of his rouge thoughts and made his way back to camp.

Salazar could tell immediately that this Glavor was going to be the obstinate type as soon as he entered his command tent. Glavor was old, but not ancient, and very fat. His massive frame was covered in fine clothing that would have most likely cost a fortune if the tailor had charged per yard of fabric. He also seemed to have a permanent scowl on his lips. It didn't help that he was currently in a heated argument with Legate Rikke. Oh, poor Rikke. She was a very good soldier, but negotiations were not her strong suit. The infamous Nord pride played a role in that. When he entered there was finally silence.

"Ah, the supposed 'Dragonborn' finally graces us with his presence," said Glavor, incredulously. Rikke had stood and saluted stiffly, but gave Glavor a quick menacing look. Glavor sat and sipped at a goblet of wine that looked humorously small in his fingers, seemingly unconcerned with the events that had just occurred. Salazar turned to Rikke and said, "Thank you for holding him down for me," which prompted an aghast look from Glavor, "I'll take it from here, Legate." Rikke saluted again and left the tent in a way that said, Shor's bones, please do!

Salazar sat at the opposite side of the table from Glavor. "I'd apologize for the lack of hospitality under different circumstances," He said, "But, unfortunately, I don't really give a skeever's ass about the propriety of meeting with someone who uses children and the elderly as stock for his continuation of a lost cause."

Glavor started, "How dare you! I am an enemy combatant who has come to negotiate in good faith!"

"Negotiate?" Salazar chucked, "Oh, please. I don't think you understand the position you're in, here, Glavor." He leaned in and could almost smell the wine on Glavor's breath. "I am going to haul you to Solitude in chains, parade you in front of the Blue Palace, and then watch with glee as they take of your head in front of a cheering crowd."

Glavor paled, "I-" He swallowed, his jowls quivering as he did so. "I-I accepted my fate w-when you started to chase me from Ivarstead!"

Bravado? Really? Gods help me.

"No you haven't. You thought you were going to get away. Maybe you could have set up camp on he other side of the mountains. You thought you could escape the Legion. The very same one that killed Ulfric himself. You're a damn fool, Glavor, and a shit general. I could have asked my maid to decimate your forces and she would have gladly obliged. I'm granting you a great honor by even meeting with you in the first place. If I were on the battlefield, I would have just stuck my axe in your chest and been done with it. However, the new emperor likes his spectacle, so you'll be taken to Solitude to be beheaded in the presence of his majesty himself."

Reality finally seemed to hit Glavor and he began quivering like a child. Salazar leaned back into his chair and sighed. "Your unconditional surrender is accepted. You and your men will become prisoners of war and your officers will be executed along with you for high treason against the Empire. Guards!" Two legionaries came into the tent and, struggling greatly, carried Glavor out of the tent.

So that was it. The focus of the last three years of his life was finally complete. He'd heard the statistics of this year's Imperial Census. Nord men of fighting age were down to one-half of their former population and Nord women of fighting age were down to two-thirds. Orphanages are All for nothing. All so the Aldmeri Dominion could get a more firm grip on the people here. Idiocy. An idiocy that he would put an end to. He had to. For the good of the Empire, it must die, and he must be the man to kill it. Not those High Elves in their towers on the Summerset Isle.

He went to his personal cabinet and pulled out his crystal decanter of whiskey. He poured an amount that was probably too big for a shot and downed it in one go, shivering as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. It wasn't really that good, but it was expensive enough to warrant a decanter. He sank into his chair and put a hand to his forehead. He was exhausted. He had been chasing these "Stormcloaks" for over a month. They had zigzagged sporadically from one end of the Rift to the other in an attempt to lose the Legion forces in the forest. It made for a very taxing campaign.

Rikke entered the tent, her eyes flicking toward the decanter on the table. "Sit, Legate," Salazar sighed, pouring himself another small portion of whiskey. Rikke sat on the opposite side of the table, took off her helmet, and let her brown hair down. "By the Nine, that man." She said, rubbing her temples, "Delusions of grandeur doesn't even begin to describe it."

Salazar grinned. He liked her when she wasn't all stiff and military. "I'm sure. Most of these rebels seem to think they have the mandate of Talos himself. What was his specific brand of narcissism?"

Rikke went to her own personal cabinet and took out a bottle of Black-Briar mead. She loved the stuff. "He believed was tangentially related to Ulfric and therefore had a claim to the Jarldom of Windhelm." She pulled the cork on the bottle and took a swig, "Except, of course, he was actually a beggar on the streets of Riften until about a year ago."

Salazar raised an eyebrow. Rikke shrugged. "That's what the records say. Only conveying intelligence, sir," She said.

"So that's it, isn't it?" Salazar said.

Rikke sat back down. She looked about as tired as Salazar felt. She'd gone through a lot these past few years. She loved Skyrim, but she had eliminated most of its fighting population to save it. "Yes, sir. I think this is it. Every last holdout has been destroyed. Skyrim is ours again. Finally."

"Yes, praise Akatosh. Finally." Salazar said.

They shared a knowing silence. The unsaid question of whether all of this was worth it in the end hung in the air like a corpse at the gallows. He heard the rest of the men in camp laughing and singing in celebration. He wished he shared their optimism. He wanted to be singing and laughing, but he couldn't. No, his business was unfinished. Rest was the only luxury great men could not afford. Being the man who slew Alduin the Worldeater and stopped the apocalypse came with perks, to be sure, but it also, unfortunately, made him a "great man". A title he never wanted, and did not deserve. He was Salazar-Jiin, killer for hire and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. The title of "Dragonborn" didn't seem to fit into all of that very well.

In the middle of he and Rikke's mutual brooding, one of the tent guards opened the flap a bit. "General, there's a messenger here for you with a sealed letter. Says it's top priority."