CHAPTER 80 - THE UNKILLABLE SOLDIER

The dawn was breaking, despite everything.

Gildarts watched the sunrise from the rooftop of the old bandit hideout, north of Whiterun, smoking a bunch of sweetleaf he had found from the chests. When everything is burned, will the sun still rise? He'd been wondering that every morning since Alduin declared the war. In the distant tundra fields, the light of dawn revealed a green-scaled dragon attacking a horde of mammoths. The giants herding them bellowed in terror as their livestock turned into walking funeral pyres, until they walked no more, and the dragon began its breakfast feast.

From the south, another dragon came, red-skinned and larger than the other. It circled above the pillars of smoke rising skywards from the burning mammoths, inhaling the delicious scent of fatty flesh. The dragon roared, a warning, and the green one stopped eating just to roar back. As the warning hadn't worked, the red dragon landed beside the dead mammoth and let its Thu'um echo in the tundra. Gildarts wasn't an expert in the dragon language, but knew it meant: "This feast is mine. Begone, brat, let the elder eat first."

Submissively, the green dragon moved aside and watched from the other side of the creek as the elder dragon feasted. The giants were still mourning their mammoths, wailing loudly behind the large erratic boulders that surrounded their camp. As they saw the green one retreating, they gathered up their courage and began their act of vengeance. With their clubs and spears, the group of giants attacked the green dragon, shouting curses in their old tongue, and the dragon answered by breathing out a pillar of flame. It caught their skins and fur belts, and their great clubs and spears fell to the ground, burning.

And soon, the green dragon broke his fast on a grilled giant. They were skinny, nowhere near as meaty and delicious as the fat mammoths, but as long as the red dragon was on the territory, this had to suffice. Only one of the giants had survived the attack, and he was running away with fire on his tail, wailing.

Gildarts inhaled the smoking joint and wondered now where the army of dragons had gone. Each day, he saw a couple of them flying through the skies, but the great horde that had arrived from the North had dispersed now. Dragons were solitary creatures by nature, and commanding a crowd of them was only possible for Alduin. But Alduin had left the scene after he recovered from his wounds – and that, that exactly, must've sent shockwaves across the dragonkind. They all knew Alduin was their divine forefather, their only god, but mere mortals had wounded him, again. First, the Tongues banished him aeons ago, and now, the Dragonborn shot a spear through his shoulder. Even if it wasn't a fatal wound, it was fatal to his pride. Due to that, they had a fleeting chance of winning this war.

He sighed, and prayed that Natsu and Lucy were alright, and on their way to Blackreach. If they were dead, all hope was gone.

After he had thumped out the joint, he stood, ache scorching through his broken body like wildfire. The sweetleaf helped some, but to this pain, he'd rather have sleeping tree sap, or even skooma. Unfortunately, the bandits hadn't had any sap in stock, so leaf had to suffice. He descended from the roof, cursing each step. The battle had taken its toll on his body, his magicka drained out once again, but today, he had to be strong enough to keep going, as did someone else in the hideout.

He stepped into the rickety building. The hideout wasn't a house or a cave, but a shelter dug on the ground and covered with logs. The stony firepit in the middle offered light and warmth at the price of smoke that barely escaped through the chimney hole on the roof. In the dark corner, a man coughed, rough and bloody. A girl spoke to him softly, and cast a healing spell on the man's chest that blood-stained and torn robes covered. He was barely breathing, but at least his state had improved compared to four days ago, when they had dragged him away from death's gate.

Gildarts crouched beside the girl and glanced at the man who lay on the muddy ground. He hadn't opened his eyes since Numinex caught him between his jaws and threw him out like a ragdoll. His right arm was gone. The thump right below his shoulder was festering and smelled foul. Now and then, he had muttered only one word. 'Erza,' he said, again, in feverish delusion, 'Erza, Erza, Erza.'

"Do you think he'll make it?" Gildarts asked quietly, turning his gaze to the girl.

Wendy was the girl's name. Her long blue hair was unkempt, falling on her back in thick, messy lumps. The sleeves of her priestess's robes had once been yellow, now they were red, stained in blood that wasn't her own. Gildarts had found her in the courtyard of the Temple of Kynareth, trying to save the life of this maimed assassin. She claimed 'Mystogan' was the friend of Erza, and visited the temple often with her to bring herbs and potions to the wounded soldiers. But Gildarts knew his name wasn't Mystogan, and he wasn't kind of heart.

"The wounds would have killed him already if he was about to die," Wendy whispered. Her voice was so soft, like a flap of a butterfly's wing, yet her words so dark and devoid of light. Gildarts didn't know how old she was, but she had seen so much death during the war that it had ground her innocence to dust. "He's going to survive."

A row of bleeding holes went across his belly, making Gildarts wonder how the dragon's razor-sharp teeth hadn't cut him in half. Perhaps he had cast an Oakflesh or other magical armour on himself before facing Numinex, otherwise he would've lost his lower body below the waist. Gildarts sighed. Lucy had commanded him to take Jellal into the lines of his renewed Blades. Here lay the first member of his mighty Blades then, in ruin.

"I hope he's good at Alteration, then, because he's going to need a new arm if he wishes to keep fighting," Gildarts said. "But what about you, girl? My Blades are heading to Labyrinthian next, to stop whatever the cultists are trying to do. It's a dangerous place for such a young –"

"Your Blades, sir," Wendy whispered, as if starting a polite insult, "consist of you and an unconscious man. This is all the Blades, really? Two people?"

"The Thalmor hunted us down, remember? It wasn't exactly great for recruitment. Until we're rebuilt, I am more than enough."

"And the last I knew, Mystogan worked for the Jarl, investigating the return of the dragons."

"The Jarl is no more. I am his new boss," Gildarts answered, raising his bow. The girl's got some wits about herself, he thought. "Once wakes up first, that is."

Wendy remained silent then and cast another healing spell on Jellal's wounds. Saving them both amongst the destruction of Whiterun had been only half a conscious choice. By the time Gildarts found them, his magicka had already depleted, and the rain of meteors was bombarding the city from above. Perhaps it had been an instinct to protect life as he dragged both the girl and the wounded man to the shelter of the city wall, and through the hole the meteors made on it. From there on, Gildarts had only faint memories.

After all my sins, why am I bothering to save anyone? The loss of his daughter was still an open wound in his chest, throbbing, bleeding with every beat of his heart, but somehow, he kept living. The gods refused to take him in after all the battles he'd withstood, and forced him to get back for more, never dying, never letting him go. At this point, even Shor had to be laughing at him, wherever the missing god currently was.

"Why are you so hellbent about saving him, though? Hundreds were dying in the city, with less fatal wounds than his," Gildarts wondered. Sweat glimmered on Wendy's forehead. She barely had any magicka left, but she was still pouring it all to save the wretched assassin. If I told her the truth about him, would that change? This man had killed hundreds, if not thousands. If the gods want to take him for punishment, you should let them. "You're exhausting yourself, girl. Go get some rest."

"He's the friend of my friend. Erza was always so kind to me. I can't bear to see her tears if she learns that he died, and I could have saved him." She was almost angry now, hissing those words between her teeth. "I could ask the same from you, sir. Why are you letting me save him?"

Gildarts glanced at her quizzically. "The Dragonborn ordered me to employ him. Her word is my law."

"Then, you must take me with you. He won't survive without my healing spells."

"I'm a master wizard, you know. I can also make sure that he recovers. It isn't my first time sewing torn-up boys back together."

"This is different. He, too, is blessed by Kynareth. It's the azure of our hair. Only someone with the same blessing can save him now. And I must."

Gildarts wasn't sure if he believed her. Perhaps Wendy didn't trust him, and thought he'd cut his throat the moment she'd turn her eyes away. She was loyal to a fault, which wasn't a bad thing, but still, Gildarts had no idea what to do with her. Wendy was an exceedingly skilled healer, yes, but could she defend herself?

"How old are you, Wendy?" Gildarts asked.

She folded her arms onto her chest. "I'm twelve, sir."

Gildarts let out a heavy sigh. "Once again, Labyrinthian is not a place for a twelve-year-old girl. By now it must be swarming with dragon cultists who'd gladly sacrifice you to their dragon overlords. I could take you somewhere safe. At the College of Winterhold, you could learn much about –"

"I might look weak and small, but I can defend myself, good sir. I'm great at supportive spells, too. I promise you I won't get in your way. If I do, then you can send me to the College, but not until Mystogan is safe."

Gildarts nodded then, and patted Wendy's shoulder. If she said so, then he took her word. The days of doubting the abilities of young girls were behind him now. If his own daughter had set her mind to do something like this, he'd support her, and protect her at the same.

On the verge of sleep, Wendy's head leaned to Gildarts's arm. He took off his cloak and spread it to the ground for her to sleep on, and soon she was almost as unconscious as Jellal. While they slumbered, Gildarts sat by the fire and began to form his battle plan.

He didn't know how many had survived the onslaught of Whiterun. He had seen some soldiers crawl through the fire, but the rain of meteors had finished them sooner than the flames. Gildarts hoped at least one of the commanders had survived. If both Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius were dead, almost the entire civil war could end. Without Ulfric, the Stormcloaks didn't have anyone to follow, and the rebellion would be over. Perhaps the only one with some sense in their head had been Irene, the leader of the Spectres. Gildarts hoped at least she had survived and would gather the remaining forces, to organize the defence of Tamriel.

His job would be more discreet. From now on, Gildarts was dead to the world.

With the crime he had committed, his new Blades must act as subtly as the Dark Brotherhood. Therefore, Jellal's new occupation didn't make much difference. They would work from the shadows and assassinate the dragon priests as they'd awaken from their slumber, one by one, to support the Dragonborn. He needed more men, though. Specialists. Some who were strong. The vampire he'd met in Riften came to his mind, but unfortunately, he was otherwise occupied, at least for now.

Gildarts lay on his arching back and sighed from relief as the pain began to ease. The College of Winterhold didn't have any candidates either. Being a Blade was a lifelong commitment – their loyalty had to be with him once they were in. A new Blade must abandon their previous life, and he knew the students at the College were dedicated to their study of magic. He had to look elsewhere, but the chances were thin. Maybe he'd make Wendy a new Blade, if she really wanted to stick along, and if she proved to be strong.

Soon, Gildarts drifted back to sleep too, his plans left unfinished, and unresolved by the dreamless slumber. Outside the hideout, the roars of the dragons echoed on the snowy tundra.

He didn't know how long he slept, but he woke to the sound of Wendy speaking, softly at first, then trying to raise her meek voice as loud she could. With closed eyes, Gildarts listened to the voices, as if trying to determine if he was finally having a dream.

"You must lie down, sir! You're still bleeding. Let me change the bandages, first, but please, don't attempt to walk –"

"Erza." The other voice was coarse, like saw on dry wood. "Erza."

"I'm sorry, but she is not here. You can't go look for her yet. You're grievously wounded, and –"

"Erza."

"Sit down, please." She shrieked, and then Gildarts heard her thump to the ground. "Oh!"

Gildarts opened his eyes and knew it wasn't a dream. Jellal stood in the corner of the room like a draugr, looking just as undead as he swayed to keep his balance. He held his face in his remaining hand, his fingers raking through his tangled blue hair. Gildarts got up and moved Wendy away, then he caught Jellal by the shoulders. He flinched upon a reflex.

"You do not hurt her, understand?" Gildarts warned. He was taller than Jellal, and had to look down at him. The stench of death was heavy on him, making Gildarts scrunch his nose. "Do you know where you are and what happened?"

"Erza."

"You're not Erza, boy. She's pretty, you are not." Then Gildarts thought for a moment. Jellal had chanted her name like a delirious drunkard, but it seemed he didn't even know what the word meant. As if it was the only word he could recall. "Do you know who Erza is?"

Jellal shook his head. Dry blood stained his temples. When Numinex had thrown him away, he must've fallen headfirst – even if his skull hadn't fractured, only gods knew what damage his brain had taken. From the side of the chamber, Wendy analysed the symptoms as well, looking worried to the bone.

"Do you know who you are?"

He shook his head again, grimacing from pain.

He's lost his memory, Gildarts realised. Jellal stood there silent then, pulling his hair out of his head. He had squeezed his eyes shut, the red tattoo around his eye visible. I can't tell if it's permanent, but it might be a good thing. I can forge him into something new, from an assassin into a Blade.

"You're Mystogan, a scholar investigating the return of the dragons," Gildarts told him with a tone of perfect deceiving. From now on, at least. Just like Gildarts Clive, Jellal of Rorikstead is now dead to the world. "The Dragonborn wishes to give you a chance to join the lost guardians of Tamriel. The dragon slayers, the Blades. Do you wish to become a Blade?"

Jellal nodded, trembling. In this state, he had no idea what he was agreeing to, but Gildarts didn't care. He'd given him an illusion of free choice. I have permission to kill him if he refuses.

"Are you willing to trade away all claims and titles of your former life, and devote yourself to protecting Tamriel from danger?"

He nodded again. For long, he searched for words. "I… do."

"Then by my right as Grandmaster, I name you a Blade, with all the privileges, rights, and burden that brings." Without further ceremony, Gildarts let go of him. "Godspeed."

So, that's all my mighty Blades, the defenders of Tamriel, Gildarts thought at evenfall, when he poured a healing potion down his new companion's throat, hoping he'd get strong enough to set forth at first light. At Wendy's repeated request, he had given him one more night to regain his strength. Two cripples and a little girl.

For days, Zeref of Dragonbridge, the Dread Lord and the commander of the Order, had journeyed towards the depths of Bromjunaar.

Right before the dawn on the 25th of Evening Star he had arrived here, flying on Odahviing's back. Amongst the ruins of Labyrinthian, he had encountered those who called themselves the dragon cultists, but their power was pitiful compared to their predecessors. After inheriting the essence of Rahgot, Zeref had also regained memories – most were still a blur, glimpses of the past long gone, but the glory of the ancient Order was clear like a northern star.

And his first step was to find Morokei, Glory, from the inner sanctum of Bromjunaar, and awaken him from his slumber.

The cultists had claimed they could do it. In Forelhost, Rahgot had trained his men to resurrect sleeping dragon priests, but they utterly lacked the power it required. A tremendous amount of magicka needed to be released, and even if they combined their souls, they couldn't fulfil half of it. Zeref had simply cocked his head, opened the sacred seals in the main gates, and stepped in alone. Odahviing stayed behind to make sure no one unworthy soul tried to follow him.

We need a stronger army.

The long corridors were silent as he walked there, his steps making no sound – like a shadow he moved from chamber to chamber, endlessly. Labyrinthian had once been the capital of the dragon cult, and so the main crypt was the largest of them all. From old habit, he had been expecting some Draugr trouble, but the guardians of the crypt let him pass without notice. To them, he was familiar. They knew him as Rahgot, and he, too, was slowly beginning to forget his true self below this corrupt power.

Rage burned inside of him, pushing him forward on that path, rage that never belonged to him before, but he embraced it with all his being. Perhaps rage this deep, as Rahgot was the word the gods breathed rage into existence with, was the missing culprit in bringing Mavis back, one way or another. He couldn't forget that. Everything else he could abandon and leave behind, but not her.

But as he went on in the darkness, his thoughts had sometimes circled back to his brother. The memory of Natsu's face tore his mind in two. First, he could remember him as a child, sleeping comfortably in his arms, and then, through Rahgot's eyes, his fists beating into his chest with an iron force until his bones cracked aloud. He could remember lifting him from the collar of his robes, grabbing his head, beginning to squeeze – it was then when all was filled with fire. Natsu's fire, his yol.

And that flame frightened him.

In the end, if he strays from the path of light, he'll set the whole world on fire and live amongst the raging flames, Zeref thought as the memory of incineration flooded over him again. The fire of Agnoslok will be so strong in him it will be impossible to separate him from that dragon… and Agnoslok was the lord of Rahgot. He would be my lord.

Before becoming Rahgot, he hadn't known that. Hadn't known the true power that reigned in the fire of his brother, and he feared he hadn't even tasted all of it. Natsu would grow stronger, he'd learn to channel his flame better, and if he'd only joined his side, Zeref wouldn't have to be afraid of him. He could've told him the truth of where his flame came from, and how it came to be, but not as long as they stood on different sides of the gulf of war between them.

The only one who could stop him now was his beloved little brother.

When he finally arrived in the inner sanctum, a large and dark stone hall where was a moss-covered sarcophagus in the middle, Zeref cast those thoughts away and regained his focus on his mission.

Once in the past, the Arch-Mage of the College had made an excavation here, but it had ended catastrophically, as Zeref could see from the corpses that lay on the edge of the sanctum. Legends said that a very powerful staff had been buried with the dragon priest, but there was no opening the coffin without magical strength equal to the priests. In spirit alone, Morokei had blasted the trespassers into pieces with his spells, but Zeref he welcomed with a beckoning call.

"Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?" the spirit whispered in the air as Zeref stepped closer. Who comes to my dark kingdom, Morokei asked across the spaces between them, he knew. Before, he hadn't been fluent in the language of the dragons, but the essence of Rahgot had changed that.

"Zeref, the Priest of Rage," he answered and walked to the sarcophagus. Ominous light gleamed around the stone seal, gathering magic. "I have come to awaken you, and join the Order once more."

Then, Zeref lifted his right arm, and drew a sigil in the air. Morokei had belonged to Odahviing, his power drawn from the dragon's essence. Before Zeref arrived here, Odahviing had gifted him with a droplet of his blood to aid in the summoning. As the Dragon War had ended, the dragon priests had sealed themselves tight with magic to await the return of Alduin, lingering on the edge of death. After thousands of years, he would finally awaken.

The droplet began to shine in bright red light as Zeref crushed it inside of his fist. He channelled magicka through him, through the blood, perfecting the spell until the air was swirling and the old stones crumbling. The lid on the sarcophagus opened, light flooding from its depths as Morokei rose again.

When the spell was done, Zeref watched what he had done. Aeons in the coffin had gnawed away Morokei's flesh, but the mask sustained his life, his magic. Ancient robes hung loosely on his body, but with no muscles left to move him, he floated around surrounded in a spell of levitation. In his hands, he held a staff, just as legends had foretold.

"So, the time has come," Morokei said and lifted the staff, the blue sphere on its end beginning to glow. "Now, I will summon my men."

One by one, graves began to open through the floor. Zeref had barely noticed them when he stepped into the inner sanctum, but now, called upon Morokei's spell, they rose from the pits of the ground. Zeref took a step back. The soldiers of the dragon cult, hundreds of them, still fully armed and armoured, awakened again as revenants, their eyes gleaming with bright blue light.

And they were ready for war.

A/N: Hi guys! I posted these two chapters here on one chunk. I've been more active in AO3 instead of this archaid site. If you use AO3, I highly recommend that you switch reading this fic to that site. I will keep posting this fic here too, though, but it might take a bit longer due to the tehcnical issues.