Author's note:

Many apologies AGAIN for the formatting issues, and for the reupload. Now I've tried triple spacing between paragraphs, with a short line in the middle. Preview would seem to indicate that this has worked, in which case I will go and reupload the other chapters with this fix applied.

Island of Patch

Saturday, August 17th

Taiyang couldn't decide if he wanted to go to bed, or try and stay up through the day. He had planned on making a quiet entrance due to it not even being 7 o'clock yet. The girls were still teenagers, and it was Saturday, after all. He had allowed Zwei to come outside to greet him, so as not to wake them. He ultimately decided that a long nap around midday wouldn't hurt. It was then that he heard a rustling from upstairs, and the sound of a door opening. Was that from the guest room? He poked his head around the corner, and looked up the stairs to see a man, late middle-aged and easily six inches taller than him descending the stairs. His feet instinctively went to a fighting stance, and he was about to demonstrate to this intruder what a mistake he had made when he noticed Zwei bounding up the stairs, tail stump wagging. He met the stranger on the landing, and rolled onto his back. The stranger looked at Taiyang, then back at the dog, and knelt down to give the demanded pets, smiling warmly as he did so. He looked back at Taiyang and held up a finger to his lips, and mouthed something to the effect of "Still asleep," and gestured towards the girls' rooms. Taiyang nodded, the wary expression not leaving his face. Finally, he snapped out of his confusion and cocked his head towards the breakfast bar at the counter.

"Let's talk."

—

For his part, Lorasson had been anticipating something of an awkward meeting. Unannounced houseguests were cause for trepidation anywhere, it seemed. Still, Taiyang proved to be a gracious host, offering his guest "coffee." Lorasson had tasted the bitter drink cold during his travels to Elsweyr, though he didn't know it by that name, and he hadn't particularly cared for it. Served hot, on the other hand, it made for a wonderful beverage. Procuring it in Skyrim would likely prove to be prohibitively expensive, he thought with some dismay. While he had acquired no small sum of coin, and his various investments provided him a steady income, he still found himself leaning towards a soldier's victuals when hunger took root. Bread, ale, and occasionally bacon in the morning was still his custom, though he was no stranger to cracking a few eggs and searing a bit of ham and minced venison on the rare occasions that he had guests. Being a landed Thane of Skyrim had its privileges, after all. Now, however, his mind was elsewhere, as his conversation with Taiyang carried on until the sun had crested well above the horizon. Lorasson's summary of events had just reached its close when the two men heard the sound of footsteps bounding down the stairs.

"DAD!" Ruby squealed, and she all but leaped towards her father. Yang wasn't far behind, and he pulled both of them into a long embrace. He sighed deeply, clearly glad to be back home. Lorasson smiled at the joy radiating from the reunion, and cast his eyes downward, out of respect. Ruby started, "OH!" She gestured towards the towering Nord, "This is Harald, he's-"

Taiyang held up a hand, "I know, he told me everything. He and I have been up talking for almost two hours now." He looked at Ruby, then at Yang, "How does breakfast sound?"

"Well, Mr. Lorasson made dinner last night, and Yang said he'd be making breakfast today, depending on what we have to cook with."

Taiyang looked at him and raised an eyebrow, "Guess two cooks in the kitchen never hurt. How about it? Care to be my sous-chef?"

Ruby started, about to explain the meaning of the term when Lorasson cut her off, "Actually, I know what that one means. My father made me spend some time in our family's kitchen when I was a boy. And yes," he said, turning back to Taiyang, "that would be splendid."

—

Breakfast having concluded by nearly midday, Taiyang had eventually retired to his room to catch up on lost sleep. Yang had headed outside to do some work on her "motorcycle," a sort of mechanized horse on wheels, as she had explained it. This left Ruby and Lorasson alone in the house to pester each other with unanswered questions. Given the looks that Ruby had given his arms and armor, he could guess what the first one would be.

"Can I see your weapons?"

He nodded, "If you'll let me see yours," as he bent down to grab his sword harness and belt. He could hear a whoosh outside the guest room door, and when he looked back up, Ruby was standing there, a small cascade of Rose petals in her wake. She held a familiar-looking weapon. Indeed, "Crescent Rose" was no stranger to him, as many of the images on Ruby's Scroll had depicted it, including one of the moving "videos." An unnecessary bit of verbiage in his opinion, as one could simply call them "pictures" or "moving pictures." The "High Velocity Sniper Scythe" was an odd-looking thing, though no more odd, he supposed, than any number of artifacts he had come across, be they Aedric, Daedric, or of any of the races of Nirn.

"Crescent Rose, impressive. Those pictures on your Scroll don't do it justice."

"You know her?"

He was taken slightly aback, "Her?"

She replied as if it were obvious, "Um, yeah."

He shrugged his shoulders, "Very well," and handed over the seax first, "Careful, it's sharp enough to shave with."

"It's beautiful. Is this copper?"

He nodded, "And the black is Skyforge steel. You might call it a 'crucible steel.' Something about the Skyforge itself. It's thousands of years old, but makes steel purer than anything else you'll find in Tamriel. Look closely," He pointed at one of the larger sections of acid-etched steel, "you can just barely make out the pattern on this one. You can see it more clearly on this," he took the seax and handed her his grandmother's war axe.

Her eyes studied the weapon closely, "It's…like a woodgrain, it's beautiful! Do they have names?"

He shook his head, "Only my sword has a name, and not by my doing. Ritevice is over a century old, forged for someone else who gave it that name."

"But why? I think all weapons should have names."

"Likely from what my father taught me. A warrior shouldn't have a favored weapon. And my grandmother didn't give that axe a name, so why should I do any different?"

"But those weapons are a part of you! We were taught that our weapon is an extension of ourselves. Part of your identity. It only makes sense to give it a name."

There was truth to her words, he knew. And, Nord by his mother's side though he was, he wasn't quite stubborn enough to say "no" to the silver eyes that implored him now.

"Very well," he considered, searching through his knowledge of the Dragon language. It seemed somehow appropriate given the innumerable times he had taken these weapons into battle against Alduin and his ilk, and he imagined Paarthurnax would somehow approve as well. The words came to him quickly. He held up the short blade, "Kinzon," then, the war axe, "and Deinmaar."

Her eyes widened, "Ooh…cool!" She paused, "I don't know what those words mean."

He smiled, "They're words in the Dragon language."

"Like your shouts?"

"Aye. Kinzon means 'sharp.' Eorlund had this honed to a frightfully keen edge, and the copper in the blade means that it holds that edge better than an ordinary one forged of steel or iron. Deinmaar is a keeper, or guardian. This axe has been used to defend hearth and home on my mother's side of the family for two generations. I am the third to wield it."

—

She gave him a long look, "Your mother, is she still…?"

He shook his head, "Died at sea, when I was twelve. My father met his end during the war, a few years later."

Her eyes were downcast, "I know how that feels. My mother went missing while she was away on a mission. She never came back."

"I'm sorry." He wanted to say more, but held his tongue. Would she understand Sovngarde? At that thought, his mind went back to his own parents. At Tsun's warning, he had not looked for them when he had journeyed to Sovngarde in pursuit of Alduin. He knew his own soul was bound for the Hall of Valor, and that his mother's was likely there as well, but his father had been an Imperial. One who was a devoted follower of Kynareth, and who had died in battle, but neither of those made him a Nord. Would he see his father again, or was his father to forever remain in Kyne's Forest of Dreams?

Ruby abruptly pulled him into a hug, snapping him out of his reverie. He hugged her back, and reminded himself that such things were not for him to decide, and the questions posed were not ones he could answer.

"I really miss her," her voice cracked, near tears.

He gave her a squeeze, and recalled one of the first pictures he had seen of her. She was holding a plaque inscribed with her name, and the words "Beacon Scholar's Award for Exemplary Performance." He had learned later that she had graduated from her school on the island a full two years ahead of the rest of her class, and would be attending a school on the mainland with her older sister. All of this, in the pursuit of protecting others.

"She would be very proud of you," he whispered. Memories flooded back, unbidden. Laying the carved stone on the empty grave, the prayers to Arkay, Shor, and Kyne.

"Don't let them see your tears," his father had said then. This order he followed, until they reached the threshold of the humble manor house, to the northeast of Anvil, where they called home. "You can cry now, son," he said when they arrived, and the mask of stone he had worn crumbled, for this was also the first and only time he had seen his father cry.

Eventually, she stood up and dried her eyes, "Thank you. I think your parents would be proud of you, too."

He nodded and smiled warmly, "I'll be by the pond if you need me."

—

Being sure to bring along his weapons this time, he ventured back to the pond where he had caught last night's supper. He had a bit of verse which he'd been working on, and he figured that the noonday sun in the clearing would be as good a setting as any to finish it. He sat down on a rock facing the pond, holding a sheaf of parchment, and the "pen" that Ruby had given him. Of all the things to leave behind, he'd forgotten his quill and ink. The verse was a lament, though for what he had not decided. What was there to lament? The Dominion had been driven completely out of Skyrim. The World-Eater was no more. Molag Bal himself had been given a taste of defeat in his own realm. Peace, or perhaps the seeds of it, was being sown in Tamriel. And yet, he could not altogether cast off the anguish that his life had known. Indeed, it seemed to him that even the Divines could not ease him of this burden. Since his mother had died, pain had been a constant companion of his. The only reprieve he'd had all that time had been a mission, something to seek. During the War against the Dominion, he sought to kill the enemy and defend his homeland from invasion. After the war, he had plied his trade as a mercenary in Hammerfell, seeking once more to bring death to the Thalmor. For a time, he had even sought his own death. When he had arrived in Skyrim, he had sought yet more work as a sellsword. The civil war and threat of Dragons in his ancestral homeland had steered him along a different path. Throughout all of his adventures, all of the war and death he had borne witness to, he'd been able to find some purpose. What will you do, he wondered, when all is said and done, and there's no more purpose to be had? Will you finally lay down and die in your own bed? Or will you seek a different end? Thousands had tried, and indeed he had come to believe that there was no living creature in all of Mundus that could kill him. Whether it was the will of the Divines, or by his own inherent unwillingness to die, he knew not. His pen lay motionless against the parchment. The words would not come. He sat there, for what felt like hours, when a voice behind him shattered the silence.

"Harald?"

He turned. Taiyang was a few paces behind him. "Yes?"

"I spoke with Professor Ozpin."

He raised an eyebrow, "And?"

"He's agreed to see you." His brow was knit with worry, and he was avoiding meeting the Nord's gaze.

"This is good news, yet you seem troubled. What is it?"

Taiyang sighed heavily, hands at his hips, looking off into the distance, "Just a reminder of how soon the girls are leaving. You're going with them, on the flight to Vale, day after tomorrow."

"You're worried about them being out of your reach, where you can't shield them from harm. I understand."

"Do you?" the Huntsman shot back. "How, exactly? Are you a father?"

Damnit. He knew only the truth would put him at ease. "There was a time when I was, yes." He let his expression say the rest.

Taiyang's eyes widened, his demeanor shifted in an instant, "Oh. Oh. I had no idea. I'm sorry. If there's-"

"Stop. Don't give me your pity, I have no need of it. That was some time ago, I've made some measure of peace with it. Even so, it's something I'd have rather kept to myself."

Taiyang nodded, "I understand. I won't pry," and left it at that.

—

Patch Regional Airport

Monday, August 19th

The drive to the airport had been a quiet one. They had all piled into the small, horseless carriage before dawn, and once the luggage was loaded, the girls had dozed off in the back seat within a few moments of the doors closing. Taiyang roused them once they had arrived, and Lorasson helped with the baggage. The mood was bittersweet, excitement tinged with sadness for one's children leaving home. Lorasson listened as Taiyang once again explained to his oldest daughter how to navigate the process of renting the rooms in the "hotel." Why they felt the need to come up with a longer word for "inn," Lorasson wasn't quite sure. The goodbyes began once all of the girl's luggage was loaded onto the small tender cart that whisked the items to the large airship. Taiyang hugged his girls tightly, as if he couldn't let go, and bade them to look after one another and stay out of trouble. As Lorasson walked with them to the waiting airship, Taiyang called after him.

"Wait."

Lorasson looked at him expectantly. He had a feeling as to what the Huntsman was about to ask him.

"I know that you have a job to do, to find out what happened here. But would you…keep an eye on them? Make sure they're safe, keep their noses clean?"

"Two eyes, as often as I can spare them," he gave a half smile. The two men shook hands, and the old Nord clapped the younger man on the shoulder. Farewells said, Lorasson turned on his heel and started towards the airship. Yang turned to him as he took his seat. The three of them were mostly alone on the flight, and the few other passengers were out of earshot.

"First time flying?"

He shook his head. At the confused look on her face, he clarified, "I once flew on a Dragon. Nay, I've flown on two different Dragons."

Their eyes widened in unison, Yang shook her head, "You are not just leaving us with that."

And so, Lorasson regaled them with the tale of how he had captured the Dragon Odahving, and what had transpired after he had brought him to the ancient fane of Skuldafn. He never felt that he'd had any talent for telling stories, and yet the two youngsters leaned in as if he were telling them the secret to immortality. Telling of his fight alongside the ancient Tongues of legend against Alduin had them on the edge of their seats, eyes wide in wonderment.

"Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Yeah, who names their kid Felldir the Old?" Yang chuckled.

"That was four-and-a-half thousand years ago." He considered telling them about Argonian naming conventions, particularly one that he'd read of, but thought better of it. Such things were not for children's ears.

The next question steered the conversation on a more serious heading, "Harald, what are you going to do when you find out what it was that brought my Scroll to your world?" Ruby asked.

He considered the question. It seemed rather obvious. He knew the words of power that could bring him back to Nirn, and he had a number of friends awaiting his return. Would these girls really miss him that dearly? He answered honestly, "That depends on the nature of the event. It had to have been something of great magical power. If I can surmise what it is, and ensure that it will not repeat itself, then I would return home."

"Would…we ever see you again?"

He nodded, "If that's your wish, then I would see it done. Truth be told, it would actually be easier the second time. I know what your world is called now, and I can picture in my mind everything I have seen of it."

Yang leaned forward in her seat, "You would do that? Just hop back and forth between dimensions because someone asked you nicely?"

He shrugged, "I've ventured to many of the realms of Mundus and Aetherius. And this, I must say, is one of the nicer ones. Especially compared to some of the planes of Oblivion I've entered."

"And how many of those have you been to?"

He briefly had to search his memory for an answer to that one. "Four," he said.

Yang leaned back and threw her hands up, "So, you just casually went to FOUR different types of what you've pretty much described as HELL. Why?"

"I had reasons, you could even say they were good ones. I went to the Soul Cairn to recover an Elder Scroll, the key to defeating an ancient vampire lord. The Deadlands, to stop a cult from summoning their Daedric lord to Nirn. The first time I went to Apocrypha was by accident, I read one of Hermaeus Mora's Black Books and was transported there. I had to venture back there a number of times to finally defeat Miraak, the first Dragonborn."

"Let me guess, he wanted to take over the world, too?"

"A small part of it, to start with, but I wager he wouldn't have been satisfied with that. Mora was the one who finally killed him."

Ruby chimed in, "And the last one? You called 'Coldharbour,' right?"

He paused, and stayed silent for a few moments. His experience with the Vigilants of Stendarr was far from something he enjoyed reliving. Before he could answer, an announcement chimed throughout the airship's passenger hold.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent into Vale International, please begin securing any carry-on items or large electronics. Thank you."

He sighed, no small relief in his mind, "A story for another time, I should think."

—

Arro Regency Suites, City of Vale

Monday, August 19th

As he sat at the room's small desk, waiting for his meeting, Lorasson wondered what someone like Ozpin might be able to tell him. He passed the time by organizing the diagrams and maps detailing his own world, as well as reviewing the notes he had taken of Ruby and Yang's explanation of theirs. Given that magic was such a rarity here, would someone as knowledgeable as Ozpin even have much information to go on? Further complicating this was that the event that had sent the Scroll through the Time Wound was likely yet to happen. He doubted that any useful predictions would come of this conversation. Yet you've been surprised before, he thought, though he wouldn't trust to hope. His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door.

"Mister…Lorasson?" the muffled voice called. A woman's voice, soft but stern.

He narrowed his eyes and stood, left hand grasping the Kinzon's handle. An abundance of caution taking over, he uttered a whisper, "Laas." The distinct auras of two humanoids could be clearly seen, one directly in front of the door, the other slightly offset, the latter taller than the former. This had to be Ozpin. He walked slowly and silently, heel-to-toe, towards the door. He opened it slightly, enough to see the woman's face. She was blonde, with fair skin and almost glowing green eyes. He looked past her at Ozpin, an exact match of the picture that Taiyang had shown him.

"Please, come in." He opened the door and ushered them in, his hand not coming off of the short blade's handle. He got right to it, "Forgive me for being blunt, but I was only expecting you, Professor," he looked directly at Ozpin.

He had to be in his sixties, but his voice sounded young, "My apologies for the confusion, Mister Lorasson, but given the seemingly extraordinary circumstances of your arrival here, I figured that two sets of eyes and ears were better than one," his eyes briefly flicked down to the Nord's waistline where his left hand still grasped the ornate seax. The implication in his tone was fairly obvious. They had wanted to ensure he wasn't a threat. Hearing this, he altered his posture, pulling his left foot back to a normal, passive stance, and taking his hand off of his weapon.

"Most just call me Harald," he stepped forward and shook Ozpin's hand. The older man's grip was surprisingly strong.

Ozpin gestured to his companion, who finally spoke, "Professor Glynda Goodwitch."

He bowed his head slightly, "Well met."

"Now," Ozpin spoke, "Perhaps you could walk us through recent events, and where exactly it is you come from."

—

Over the course of an hour, he did so. Using his Scroll, Ozpin had coffee brought up to the room, and as the three sipped at the steaming brews, they discussed the possibilities of what might transpire to cause the events that would lead him to Remnant.

"Are you familiar with the history of magic in our world?"

Lorasson shook his head, "All I know is that it's a rarity here. Not so, where I come from."

Ozpin raised his mug to his lips, "Indeed." And so told Lorasson the story of how Remnant had come into being, how the two brothers had stitched the world together, and how they had conspired against each other. It was upon hearing this that Lorasson was struck with a realization.

"That story is more familiar to me than you might think." And so, Ozpin was told the tale of Anu and Padomay, and the interplay of light and darkness which birthed the Twelve Worlds of Creation. The creation of Nirn, of Aedra and Daedra, had all arisen from their fatal duel. Ozpin was silent for a long while.

"Well," he finally said, "That would stand to change things. The possibility that our world was created by the same entities that created yours is…fascinating. It would certainly confirm a number of theories regarding what some in the scientific community call 'parallel universes.'"

"Where I come from, such things are more than theory. All accept the existence of Oblivion, and Aetherius, and many accept the possibility of worlds not dissimilar from our own. The vastness of the Aurbis is believed to contain an untold number of secrets. It would seem now that I have uncovered one of them."

Ozpin gestured to Glynda, who handed him her Scroll. She had been taking notes throughout their conversation, and he now thumbed through them. "Tell me again what this 'Akatosh' said when you prayed to him."

He recited it from memory, the prophecy having seemingly been burned into his mind, "The World Eater lies slain, and yet the wheel turns on. Know this: the Spider seeks to ensnare this realm in her web. Should this come to pass, her hunger shall only grow. You know of whom I speak. And you shall see soon enough those who weave this plot on her behalf. By Un-Time's end shall it be seen to succeed or fail. For a simple soul will be seen to shape the fates of many."

Ozpin's eyes widened ever so slightly at the mention of "a simple soul."

He pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose, "Who is 'The Spider?' Someone from your world?"

The Nord shook his head, "She, or rather 'it,' goes by many names. She is one of the Daedric princes. 'Webspinner,' 'Plot-weaver,' and many other titles for the one who has been called the Queen of Oblivion itself. Her most common name is also her oldest, the one she introduced herself as when I spoke to her, years ago. I've prayed ever since to never again have another dealing with the Lady of Whispers."

Ozpin leaned in, concern etched on his face, "The name. What is it?"

Lorasson took a deep, trembling breath. "Mephala."