"Arkay The God

by Mymophonus the Scribe

How Ark'ay was transformed from a shopkeeper into the God of Birth and Death

So be it known that the gods were once as we. Ark'ay, the god of death and birth, was an ordinary shopkeeper whose only unusual characteristic was a passion for knowledge. To indulge his hobby he became an avid collector of books on almost any subject he could find in print.

One day he stumbled across a tome which purported to tell the secrets of life, death, and the purpose of existence. After months of studying the convoluted logic, written in opaque language, he thought that he was finally beginning to understand what the author was saying.

During this time he became so intent on understanding the book that he ignored everything else: his business started to slide towards bankruptcy, his few friends stopped visiting him, he ignored the plague which was ravaging the town, and his family were ready to leave him.

Just as he felt that the book was opening visions of new worlds, the plague brought him low. His family tended his illness out of a sense of duty, but he slowly sank towards death. So, as a last resort, he prayed to Mara the mother-goddess to allow him enough time to complete his studies of the book.

"Why should I make an exception for you, Ark'ay?" asked Mara.

"Mother Mara, I am finally beginning to understand this book and the meaning of life and death" he answered, "and with a little more time to study and think, I should be able to teach others".

"Hmmm, it sounds to me like that 'teaching others' is an afterthought to appeal to me", she replied. "What is the reason for death and birth?"

"There are far more souls in the Universe than there is room for in the physical world. But it is in the physical world that a soul has an opportunity to learn and progress. Without birth, souls would not be able to acquire that experience, and without death there would be no room for birth."

"Not a very good explanation, but it does have elements of truth. Maybe with more study you could improve it," she mused. "I cannot give you 'a little more time'. I can only condemn you to Eternal labor in the field you have chosen. How say you to that?"

"I do not understand, mother," said Ark'ay.

"Your choice is to either accept the death that is so close or to become a god with us. But a god is not an easy nor pleasant thing to be. As the god of death and birth you will spend eternity making sure that deaths and births stay in proper balance in the physical world. And, in spite of what you believe you understand, you will always agonize over whether your decisions are truly correct. How do you decide?"

Ark'ay spent what seemed to him as an eternity in thought before answering. "Mother, if my studies are not completely wrong, my only choice is to accept the burden and try to transmit the reasons for death and birth to humanity."

"So be it, Arkay, God of Birth and Death.""

Reaching the northernmost edge of the cliff beneath the city's rear, Cura and her companions searched for the rock crevice that Sir Ralvas had detailed. It wasn't long before Cura spotted it, a deliberate cut into the cliff face. Taking the lead, she entered the crevice, with her allies close behind.

Inside, they discovered a vast sepulchre, its expanse marked by rows of tombstones and crosses. Scattered bones covered the floor, with some areas having piles of skeletal remains. A series of gilded marble dolmens beckoned them forward through a passage that bore the hallmarks of Elven architecture. This subterranean realm suggested to Cura that they were directly beneath the Imperial City, which she surmised was perched atop the very mountain they delved into.

"The Chapel of Arkay's cemetery..." Sir Amiel mused as he followed Cura's lead into the grotesque sepulcher. "it is quite sad to find yet another of the Nine blasphemed in this realm." Mara, and now Arkay, it seemed. Molag Bal truly hated the Divines, and it showed. Very much.

Carcette shook her head. "What more would you expect?"

Sabrina tread lightly near the middle of the group, next to Sir Amiel. She was visibly anxious being here, and kept repeatedly glancing over her shoulder and up into the air. Though at the same time she attempted to conceal her concern so as not to alarm the others.

Gloriel looked around her, taking in the depressing view of possibly millions of bodies. She walked in the back of the group near Varla. "I really hope that when Mackamentain fell the people were given a proper burial..." she mused upon the past, and Varla walked parallel to her.

He shook his head in response. "No; Emperor Belharza said that the elves were better left for the worms. But, if it offers you some solace, my old Giant friend Ritho dug a large grave and buried them regardless. He had a big heart like that."

Gloriel's face clouded with disappointment, yet she chose to release the matter. It belonged to the past, after all. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to ask, "What about you, Varla? How did you feel at that time? During our duel, I sensed your reluctance."

Varla scoffed and swept a stray skull out of his path using the flat end of his foot. "I wasn't always a monster, you know. I had a conscience, once. Belharza saw to it that I gave that up first."

Gloriel treaded upon a cleared section of the dusty path. "Well... what about now? How do you feel?" she asked, attempting to gauge his present state of mind.

Varla sighed and walked around a large bone pile. "Now? Do you really want to know?"

"I do." Gloriel answered firmly.

Varla exhaled deeply, choosing transparency over a sharp retort. "Honestly, I'm grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. I feel a profound sense of betrayal, not just by the teachings of the Alessian Order, but also by Molag Bal. The revelation that I was borne from Mara's mortal form and Umaril the Unfeathered leaves me both perplexed and repulsed. Despite my hatred for all of you, I harbor no malice. The Dragonborn is a particular case; her relentless cheerfulness is irritating, yet somehow, it also lifts my spirit."

Gloriel's chuckle escalated into hearty laughter, puzzling the Man-Hunter. "What?" he inquired, his expression revealing his bewilderment.

"Haha, I'm sorry, Varla." Gloriel apologized. "I understand what you mean about Meridia's Chosen One. Her kindness and charity can be quite infectious... and perhaps a tad awkward to those who are not accustomed to that sort of thing. But perhaps that is for the best; Lady Meridia would never choose someone dull and uncaring."

"Except for the time she chose my bastard father." Varla sneered, his contempt palpable as he spat out the word 'bastard' with unmistakable disdain.

Gloriel exhaled deeply, her gaze drifting away in a silent show of empathy for his anguish. As the seconds ticked by, she turned back to him, her voice steady and clear. "The actions of others are beyond our control, yet they do not shape our identity. It's crucial to let go of that burden, or it will drive you to madness."

Varla let out a derisive snort. "Believe me, my friend, I'm already mad."

Gloriel stepped closer and firmly grasped the Amulet of Mara that dangled from his neck, halting him. "This is not the mark of insanity; it's the mark of a man in despair, searching for hope." she reprimanded the knight, displaying the amulet. "And I think that there is more to you than you show. You might be the son of Umaril, but you are the son of Mara, as well; no doubt you feel the call to compassion in you. You must."

Temporarily at a loss for words, Varla quickly regained his composure, clutching the object to his chest. His demeanor turned hostile in an instant. "You don't know me. You'll never understand. If you're wise, you'll keep your mouth shut."

Gloriel reached out to him. "Varla..."

"We're done talking." Varla cut ahead of her and walked towards the front of the group in a stern huff.

Sir Ralvas, who was being led through the cemetery yard by Korn, spoke up from behind Sir Amiel, who was looking at the rows and rows of discarded bones. "Oh, Molag Bal has done more than just blaspheme the gods, I'm afraid. He holds Arkay's body itself here in this realm."

Cura spun around and stopped, perplexed when she'd heard this. "Arkay's body? What?"

Carcette too was surprised, but she tapped Cura on the shoulder. "Didn't you tell me you saw Stendarr's old body in Sovngarde?"

"Yes - the Whalebone Bridge... why...?" Cura raised her eyebrow.

"It's possible that when Arkay ascended, his body was left behind, just as when the gods change themselves, they leave a piece behind. As Stuhn had when he became Stendarr." Carcette was willing to entertain the idea.

"I wonder what Sir Torolf would think of this." Sir Amiel postulated as he recalled his Nord friend and Knight of Arkay.

Sabrina cleared her throat. "I'm sure you're all gonna look at me cross-eyed for this, but I don't know all that much about the Nine. What's so special about Arkay?"

"Depends on who you ask," Mirabelle began to explain to the plague doctor. "the most commonly accepted answer is that he was made a Divine by Mara in his pursuit of knowledge on the nature of life and death."

Bourlor nodded. "Indeed; it is the story I'd heard growing up. Though, I was always patroned by Kynareth. I know not much about the others."

Carcette followed Bourlor's train of thought. "Same here. Growing up, my family focused on Stendarr and his teachings. Admittedly, the most I know of Arkay was from being under the same roof as Florentius for extended periods of time."

Cura thought about him immediately, as well. "If he were here I think he would faint, seeing what Molag Bal has done against Arkay down here."

Carcette even muttered aside, "And I can't imagine Erandur would be too thrilled to learn of what happened to Mara."

Savos Aren turned to Mary, pointing towards her. "As for the truth concerning Arkay and Mara, I would suggest we ask her."

Mary gazed at Savos, her expression solemn, while Maram and Aria positioned themselves on either side of her. "Truly, I wish I could share more. The memories that linger with me are from my days on Nirn. I embody Mara, yet I am only a part; a fragment of her being, vested in mortal form. All I can see from her eyes is a profound sense of sorrow - a sorrow for the world and for all those who suffer within it. The vile Daedric rituals, the tales of Pelinal and Morihaus, the grief of Kyne - there's so much anguish." As she rotated the ring on her finger, her mind reached for memories beyond her current existence, but only indistinct visions of realms beyond their own, beyond even Coldharbour, emerged. Turning to Cura, she spoke, "Cura, it seems to me that you grasp the Divines' viewpoint to some extent as well. You share a deep connection with them. You are indeed the Dragonborn, and possibly something more - perhaps also a Prisoner of Eternity."

Cura scratched her chin. "I don't know where I really stand in terms of eternity, honestly. But what I do know is that it's true that lots of terrible things happen in our world. Especially because of the influence of Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon, and the other Daedric Princes." she turned to Carcette. "The Vigil is not wrong about that."

Varla looked around at the world surrounding them and sneered. "I've never come here before, but I would normally think at a cemetery the bodies would be beneath the earth."

Sabrina crossed her arms. "Really, Mama's-Boy? You've been in Coldharbour this long and you haven't figured out that the realm is just one big open-air cemetery?"

Varla growled furiously. "If you call me that again, I promise you are going to become a wall decoration!"

Sabrina backed off at his sudden threat. "Whoa, okay. Calm down."

Mary confronted Varla, her gaze filled with wary anticipation of his response, as she tried to calm his restlessness. "Please, let's not bicker among ourselves. There's already enough chaos around us."

Aria agreed. She spoke lowly, "Mary is right. We are all on the same side; we would do well to remember that."

Maram clutched his maul with a firm grip. "And if you don't calm down, I'll be forced to step in," he declared, a prospect he appeared all too eager to embrace.

Mary scorned him as well. "You will do no such thing!"

Varla inhaled and exhaled. He looked at Sabrina scornfully, and then his eyes softened at his mother. "Fine. Only because you request it of me."

Before Sabrina could make another smart remark, Cura called the group's attention to something else. She walked ahead, turning the corner. "Well, I wasn't expecting to find this here."

A skeleton clad in odd, dark robes and a tricorn hat lay lifeless on a bench, with an undead dog sitting next to it, barking and panting. Korn rushed over to the doomed hound and started sniffing around it. Varla noticed the dog and approached, beginning to pet its head. "Hello, little guy... what brings you here?" he inquired gently, scratching beneath the dog's chin. The dog recoiled with a nervous demeanor upon seeing the group and started growling anxiously.

"Shh, shh, it's okay; you're safe here." Mary approached her son and the apprehensive dog, crouching before the animal. She offered her hand gently, and as the dog sniffed it, a sense of calm seemed to wash over the creature.

"It has no flesh, the poor thing. Does the cruelty of this realm know no bounds? To do such a hideous thing to one of Kynareth's creatures... despicable." Bourlor remarked with disgust as he looked at the rancid state of the animal, which appeared to have been flayed. The huntsman too began to caress the suffering animal. "We must find it new flesh."

"Disgusting bastards. Just who would do such a thing to a dog?" Varla asked as he continued to stroke its head.

"Someone who is probably here for a reason." Carcette agreed with his disgust over the matter as she observed the damage done to the animal.

Cura knelt in front of the animal and observed the collar it wore around its neck. "Al." she read aloud. "That's a cute name. "Al." Poor thing - you don't belong here. Was that your master?" She gestured towards the dead man laying on the bench.

Al barked at Cura, but not aggressively. He looked at her with a tilted head and made a silent squeak in his throat. She had to wonder how the poor animal wound up here. What did an animal possibly do to deserve eternity in this hell? Especially an animal as loyal as a dog?

On that, she could agree with Varla; Dogs are among the most affectionate animals out there; when properly trained and cared for, of course.

"You are definitely not staying here." Cura promised the friendly dog with a reassuring touch on his snout. "We can bring you to the Mathmalatu Priory - and then you can come home with us. Would you like that?"

Al barked happily in response and began to pant. Varla watched Cura interact with the hound with an expression of fascination. "Good." he expressed his approval towards Cura's kindness directed at the dog.

"For now, we'll leave him here; but we'll be back for him." Cura stated.

"Ew, but it's so creepy, though!" Sabrina shuddered, taking in its macabre appearance. Its flesh was stripped from its body and every muscle and sinew was visible. Varla wanted to kill whoever did this to the hound. Korn licked the dog's cheek sympathetically.

Mirabelle nodded in agreement. "Indeed; it looks like something Phinis would have conjured up."

Cura chuckled lightly. "You haven't met Arvak yet then." She walked away from the group for a moment once something else had caught her eye.

Near an archway stood three wooden crosses, beside which lay an empty wine bottle on the ground. Behind these grave markers towered a statue of an immense skeleton clutching a long pole that was driven into the earth.

"Johan, Simon, Tlass." Cura read the names scribed on the wooden crosses. She paused for a minute in thought. Those names sounded oddly familiar. Where had she heard them before?

Three graves.

Simon, Johan, and Tlass.

She reached out to touch the middle cross, which read "Johan," and she was overcome by a vision.

The vision unfolded from her perspective. She found herself standing at the entrance of a cemetery, its walls made of slatestone with sharp rails atop them. It was a sight she had never encountered before.

The ground was moist and a heavy mist filled the air. It looked to be at autumn's edge; perhaps the end of summer?

As Cura entered the cemetery, she could see tombstones flanking her on either side in the haze. Ahead, she saw a group of nine people. Eight wearing wealthy garb; Fine Clothes, and a Priest of Arkay. There were Imperials, Bosmer, and even a Khajiit in attendance.

The people looked at her with a sympathetic gaze before turning to the priest, who began the ceremony. "Arkay, God of Life and Death, we entrust to you Martha who has finished her life's journey much too soon. Please take away her burdens, lead her to the great Aetherius and let her into the circle of saints. Grant eternal happiness to us, who grieve here, as well as to Martha who has now passed through the cycle of life and death. Arkay, in your name..."

The man on the left, clad in blue Fine Clothes repeated after him. "Arkay, in your name..." He walked up beside the priest and began his eulogy. "Dear friends, thank you for gathering today to remember Martha. I am sure she is watching us from Aetherius." He was trembling as he spoke, fighting back his tears. "I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your sympathy. You help me bear this day."

Cura frowned as the memory came back to her: Martha. She was not in Aetherius at all. She was one of the first people she encountered here in Coldharbour. That was where she'd heard those names: Simon, Johan and Tlass. Those were the graves she was looking for.

After everything that's been going on, Cura was surprised that she remembered that small interaction. A profound sorrow set in as she realized the implication of it all.

And then, the man in the blue clothes approached her directly, seeing her for someone else. "Johan, are you alright?" he inquired of her.

A man's voice spoke in Cura's stead. "Brother..."

"Come, let's get back home. It's going to rain." the man insisted as he looked up to the cloudy gray sky.

"S-Simon..." Johan's voice spoke again, choppy and breaking. He was reticent, turning away from his brother. "Leave me alone for a while."

The man sighed with resignation. He was clearly in no mood to argue the matter. "Please, don't stay too long. Martha wouldn't want you to get sick." He patted Cura on the right shoulder and proceeded towards the cemetery gate.

Cura surveyed the graves encircling her, and the stone pillars crowned with tombstones, when suddenly, the sound of magic crackling behind her made her jump. Turning around, she laid eyes on the familiar Altmer Bard, clad in his blue robes, plucking at his lute with a self-satisfied smirk.

"You again!" Cura roared angrily after having been startled. "Bal. You bastard!"

The Bard seemed to ignore her words, or perhaps, as a memory, he could not hear them. He kept strumming nonchalantly while seated atop Martha's tombstone. "Death of a loved one is always a dreadful affair. How cruel Arkay is..." he sang a tune of venom as he cursed the deity.

Johan's voice took the reins over Cura. "Who are you?"

"Just a travelling Bard. My name is Bal. Would you like to hear a song? Perhaps the story of Polydor and Eloisa?" Bal posed his question, only half attentive to the grieving man that Cura personified. Had she not been constrained by the design of the memory, she would have already claimed his head.

"No thank you; I'm not in the mood." Cura spat defiantly.

Bal ceased his lute playing and let it dangle at his side, held in his left hand. He rose gradually from the headstone, standing tall and still. "Ah, a pity. Well, it can't be helped if you're not in the mood."

Cura grunted, "Why are you here?"

With a smile, Bal extended his arm behind him and pulled out a weapon that was all too familiar, one that would forever linger in her nightmares. He presented it to her, arms outstretched, as if offering a macabre gift. "Because of this mace. My lord has ordered me to deliver it to you."

Undoubtedly, it was the Mace of Molag Bal. The mere sight of its barbed appearance made Cura shiver. She remembered all too well how it felt in her hands. The maness it had brought her to. Tyrannus; Markarth.

"And what am I supposed to do with it?" Johan asked through Cura, his voice sounding a mix of exhaustion and frustration.

The Bard narrowed his eyes and his face darkened. "Collect the souls of sinners. As many as you can... a thousand or so would do. Will you do it?"

"No!" Cura snapped without hesitation.

Johan looked at the mace, realizing that it held mystic power. He looked up at the Bard. "If I do that... will my sister return to me?"

Cura shook her head, now apart from Johan. She could see him there, clad in brown fine robes, conversing with the Bard. "No! Don't be deceived! He's lying to you! Lying is all he ever does!"

The Bard's smile gleamed with the eagerness of a crocodile spotting a deer by the riverbank. "Yes, of course. My lord is above Arkay's laws."

Yes, his lord; the one who no doubt orchestrated all this misery to begin with. Cura was certain that Molag Bal was involved in Martha's death in some way.

"Filthy, pig-faced LIAR!" Cura barked at Bal from her corner.

After a few moments passed of silent contemplation, unable to hear Cura's warnings, Johan nodded. "Fine. Give me the mace." he took it from the Bard's hands. In his heart, he spoke: I shall smash the face of Bravil with this, and beyond.

"Gladly. It was yours from the very beginning, Master Johan." Bal snorted with amusement at the haste with which he grabbed the cudgel from his hands. Another thousand-and-one souls to the void.

In Bravil? Cura clicked her tongue sadly. Poor Mara, yet again under attack. This man had to do that in her city, of all places. It was no coincidence. It really began to seem that Molag Bal had a special bone to pick with the goddess of Love. Perhaps because it was something he could never understand, the wicked swine.

The world faded to darkness around Cura, and when it came to, Johan stood amidst bones and blood in what looked to be a dungeon. Before his very eyes, Martha seemed to stand up before him. She was covered in blood and her eyes glowed with the fires of Coldharbour.

After a few moments of silence, she knelt back down and continued feasting on a bloodied corpse on the ground.

Cura identified her as the blind woman she had encountered in Coldharbour, and her heart sank. Molag Bal had transformed her into a vampire. The funeral had been in vain; she was destined to rise again. It was a ploy to lure this Johan fellow into his clutches; nothing more, nothing less. And she would expect nothing less. It was exactly as she knew; Molag Bal deceived Johann with a false promise into slaughtering people with his mace. It hit her all too well, herself, having been in a similar boat.

The vampiric Martha continued to gorge on the blood like a skooma addict with a bottle of the stuff, and Johan stood there before her, registering what was before his very eyes. Something in him snapped at that instant.

"MONSTER! YOU ARE NOT MY SISTER!" Johan exclaimed, plunging the blade into his vampiric sister's heart. Her piercing scream reverberated through the narrow cavern as the weapon struck her heart. She disintegrated into dust, and Johan fell to his knees, weeping.

Suddenly, a jolt struck him from within, causing his heart to race. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he collapsed to the ground. He had been hit from behind, leaving him paralyzed and unable to move from the neck down, unable to gasp or speak.

Cura began to see from Johan's eyes again as she lay on the floor. She saw the man in the blue fine clothes and one of the others from the funeral - who she could only presume must have been Simon and Tlass - approach.

The man in blue clothes spoke first. He looked down at Johan. "It's done, we did it!" He quickly began to look through Johan's belongings. "The mace... where is the mace?" then he located it in his carrying bag. "There. There it is!"

The younger one in green leapt excitedly. "We did it, brother! We can get whatever we want now!"

The elder looked upon the Daedric artifact in his hands with a sinister glare. "Oh, yes. With this mace, all our dreams can come true. Come on, let's go." He walked ahead, mace in hand, leaving his dead brother and live brother behind.

The younger grew anxious and waved at him. "Brother, wait for me!"

As the two betrayers vanished into the darkness, Johan was left paralyzed on the ground, and the room surrounding him was engulfed with a ring of fire.

The familiar figure of Molag Bal emerged from the flame and walked towards the paralyzed man. When he came close, Cura feared for Johan's predicament.

The Daedric Prince smiled cruelly. "Johan, you have served me well. Let's hear your final wish." the Dominator spoke so sweetly, yet with such malice upon his tongue.

Johan was rendered speechless, yet the loathing in his heart was evident. The treachery of his two brothers shattered him, leaving his heart fractured and contorted under the sway of Molag Bal. He told the Daedra what he wanted without uttering a single word.

Molag Bal seemed to read his desires and nodded. "You want me to burn everything...? Good. As you wish. Everything you have built in your life, everyone you have ever called family, all will be burned to ashes." He went down on one knee and slowly closed Johan's eyes with his clawed hands. "Now sleep. You shall have your eternal rest in my realm."

The world slowly faded into darkness as Johan's soul was dragged from his body by the Lord of Domination. Cura stood back and watched the scene with immense disgust, shaking her head.

"Why do you care, Dragonborn?" Molag Bal spoke directly to her. His voice seemed more exasperated for her sake than anything else. The condescension in his tongue shamed her for caring about their souls. "They were not good people to begin with. They were Slave Traders in Bravil - they indulged in sexual acts that would make Dibella herself recoil in shame. I found it quite amusing, personally."

"How much of that was their doing, and not yours?" Cura retorted, confronting the malevolent prince in the void. Her armor gleamed, making her a luminous presence in the darkness, resembling an angelic being as she indicted Molag Bal.

Molag Bal narrowed his cold blue eyes at her. "Why don't you just give up? Submit to me, and I will make you the head of my own personal guard." He tried to extend and offer her way. "In spite of Harkon's simmering hatred against you, this is my realm, and I have the final say. Kneel before me, and I will make your stay here much more pleasant."

Cura sneered and waved off the Daedra. "Begone, liar. I have no desire to fall prey to your schemes."

"Then you will fall prey to my realm." Molag Bal sneered.

"Your realm? If it were your realm, why can you never leave it?" Cura called him out, causing the Prince to stiffen. Molag Bal simply glared at her and slowly backed into the darkness. The darkness faded to white.

Cura awoke from the vision with a gasp, and Carcette joined her. "Cura, are you all right?" her mentor inquired.

Cura nodded and slowly rose from her knees. "I'll be fine. Let's continue on our way." Once her business in dealing with this was over, she would Fast Travel to the Waterfront District, she figured. Martha deserved to know the fate of her brothers, and where their graves were.

For the moment, however, they had other concerns to address. They opened a vast gate and made their way through the garden strewn with corpses. A Skeleton Demon brandishing dual swords sprang at them, only to be swiftly defeated by Cura's mace and Maram's hefty maul. They moved beyond several grim skeletal statues and arrived at the junction of converging paths.

There stood the large chapel, and before its doors stood a hooded skeleton in gray Alessian-styled robes, accompanied by two Skeleton Demons.

The battle was swift; the mages in Cura's service bombarded them, and she and Varla clashed with the fiends, tearing them asunder in one fell swoop.

Cura and Varla looked at one another, and nodded. Sir Amiel rejoined her side.

Sabrina shivered as she stood outside the chapel. "I... it might sound crazy, but I could swear I feel... the presence of..." she whispered to Sir Amiel. "Sithis."

Sir Amiel turned to her and nodded. Respecting her personal matters, he whispered back to her. "If the Black Hand lurks behind those doors, there is a distinct possibility that he might be."

Sabrina tapped her index fingers together. "Oh, well. I've got all of you here with me, right? You'll help if something goes wrong?" she asked for reassurance.

Sir Amiel gently touched her hand. "Yes."

This small gesture relieved much of the stress Sabrina was swamped with, and she exhaled. "Right, right. Okay. Thanks."

Immediately inside the chapel, Cura's eyes were drawn in many directions; straight ahead, a red and gold carpet leading up to a small flight of stairs where a knight figure in dark armour knelt, prostrating before a large skeleton surrounded by hundreds of other skeletons. On either side of the room there were thousands of bones piled up and even riding up the walls. Hooded skeleton statues held crooks on either wall, looking towards the praying man.

As soon as Sir Amiel saw the figure, he gasped with a sense of surprise. "Sir Torolf?!"

"A god is the pain of death and fear. But he who overcomes the pain and fear, becomes himself a god." Sir Torolf proclaimed as he lauded the large corpse in the doorway. "Arkay himself did it. This is the evidence, the lingering remains of the miracle."

Sir Torolf's visor showed darkness where his face ought to be; a reflection of death, it seemed. His armour was charcoal black, and plated, closer to the Blades' Akaviri style than what Cura would expect from Skyrim.

He slowly stood up, and turned to face his old ally and the Dragonborn and the others with a menacing stance. "I have sacrificed a lot of blood and flesh, spared not even my own body... but my lord still says: 'Not enough.'" He grunted each word like a deranged madman. He extended a hand, pointing at Sir Amiel. "You should offer your flesh and blood, too. Let us both walk along the path to divinity."

Author's Note: "Vigilant OST - Sir Torolf Battle" for this fight. Thanks for reading :)

Sir Amiel drew his one-handed sword and got in front of Cura. "I shall fight him, my lady. He was once my subordinate." He narrowed his eye at the madman looming ahead of them. "If anyone is to defeat him, it shall be me."

Cura understood. She took a step back, yet offered a word of caution. "Be careful, Sir Amiel." She could tell that Sir Torolf was a Nord merely by his name. Hailing from Skyrim herself, and carrying that Atmoran ice in her own veins, she understood how deadly the Nords were in battle. She waved to her other companions, signaling them to stand down.

Sabrina's face was obscured behind her birdlike mask, but if one could see it, her expression was one of dread when she gazed upon the large skeleton and the menace in black armour.

Sir Amiel, knight of considerable repute, moved with a precision that belied the weight of his rusted armor. He and Torolf were locked, circling each other above the mosaic of bones. His sword, an extension of his will, danced in the flickering torchlight, casting long shadows that intertwined with those of his deranged opponent. Sir Torolf, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of rage and steel. His movements were unpredictable, and his attacks, though seemingly wild, were the product of a cunning mind that knows no fear. He clashed and slashed and dashed around Sir Amiel with the fury of the North.

"Sir Torolf! This isn't who you are!" Sir Amiel appealed to his old friend. "Come to your senses! Don't allow Coldharbour to take you!"

"Coldharbour already has me!" Sir Torolf barked back, pushing down on Amiel's sword with his own. His greatsword, however, was odd. Different from a natural blade. Its blade was spiraled at its base, and it bore a long, sharp edge, and shone with a red glow. Its crossguard was like an "x" which curved downwards towards the hand of the one who held it.

The duel had begun at the tolling of the vespers bell from the cemetery chape. The knights were not alone, for the spirits of the departed, whose remains rested in this formerly sacred ground, were silent observers to this display of martial prowess, as well as Cura and her allies.

"Get him, Sir Amiel!" Sabrina cheered from the sidelines, throwing up an enthusiastic fist.

Sir Amiel kicked Sir Torolf backwards and returned to a defensive stance. "It needn't be this way, Torolf!" Sir Amiel shouted to his former ally. "The realm may have taken hold of you, but the man I know is still in there!"

Sir Ralvas was terrified, himself, hearing this. "Sir Torolf, snap out of it, friend! Madness has taken hold of you!"

Sir Torolf wasted no time. "HNGRAAAAAAAHHHR!" He let loose his Battle Cry, which shook Sir Amiel to his core. He began to tremble and back away as the menace rushed at him with arms guided by blind fury. "Give your flesh and blood to me!"

His sword caught Sir Amiel in the shoulder, and then in the side, and the thigh, before he parried the fourth strike. Sir Amiel's left leg began to slump from the shock of the blow.

As the duel unfolded, it became clear that this was more than a mere contest of strength. It was a narrative being written with each movement, a story of life and death, of legacy and oblivion. The knights fought not just for themselves, but for the ideals they embodied in life, and the memories they have left behind.

The fight was intense, and the outcome uncertain, for both Sir Amiel and Sir Torolf were warriors of the highest caliber. On Nirn, where the echoes of their duels lingered long after they departed, they found a strong kinship in combat, a respect forged in the fires of their shared warrior spirit.

Even now, in his madness, Sir Torolf respected Sir Amiel's prowess; even barely lucid, he recognized his band leader. Not by his face, but by his might. The might of Akatosh, they said. The maddened Nord held nothing back. Each strike was a calculated burst; each thrust a mighty pike. He knew his foe, and he knew him well. He was, after all, his brother-in-arms.

Sir Amiel's blood began to drip onto the red carpet and he struggled to keep his posture. After a moment, he realized he had to resort to his racial power: the Voice of the Emperor. An air of serenity emerged from his form, and Sir Torolf was stopped in his tracks from his berserker's rage.

As the duel reached its sudden end, it was clear that victory was not claimed by the swing of the sword alone, but by the heart and soul of the knight wielding it. In this hallowed place of death, they found a profound understanding of life, and the realization that their duel, witnessed by the silent skulls and bones, was a reminder of the fleeting nature of glory.

Sir Torolf paused, and dropped his sword. "Sir Amiel! Wh-what have I done?" he hurried to his former leader's side and witnessed the various cuts he'd inflicted upon him. "Gods... my apologies."

Sir Amiel placed a firm hand on his shoulder, using it to support his standing. "Well struck, my friend. I see that centuries have not worn down your skills."

Sir Torolf began to weep. "My lord Arkay's body is there... what does this mean, Amiel? Are the Nine truly dead as the naysayers claimed? Have we been following dead gods for true all this time? Is Apotheosis truly possible? Is our first Emperor truly just a dead man? Have we dedicated our lives and our eternity for a lie?"

Sir Amiel shook his head and comforted his friend. "No, Sir Torolf. The gods are not dead, and they have done more than simply prove themselves. With us we have irrefutable evidence of their intervention." he gestured towards Carcette. "She has witnessed Stendarr himself." he gestured towards Bourlor. "His bow is blessed by Kynareth, even now." he gestured towards Mary and Korn. "She is an aspect of Mother Mara herself, she and the wolf together." and finally, he settled upon Cura. "And this is the Dragonborn. The chosen of Akatosh. The one many would call Shezzar."

Hearing this caused Sir Torolf to still himself as he looked upon the party.

"Lady Mara, and the chosen of Akatosh? Truly?" Sir Torolf looked at Cura up and down. "Then... they have come for us? Then... then I do not need to become a god to flee this realm. I... am so weary, Amiel. In my desperation I have sacrificed so much to try and achieve Apotheosis."

Mary faced Sir Torolf. "You have skinned yourself," she observed, a wave of sadness washing over her features. Korn, her companion, started barking at the Knight of Arkay. In response, Sir Torolf lifted his helmet, exposing the skull beneath. Cura's eyes widened, as did Carcette's while she focused on healing Sir Amiel's wounds. The sight was alarming, to say the least.

"By the eight!" Mirabelle Ervine gasped, taking a step back. She'd seen odd things during her tenure as Master Wizard, up to and including the peeling of her own flesh due to the Eye of Magnus' energy, but to see a walking skeleton with his wherewithal, knowing that it was self-inflicted, was a level of untapped disturbia for her.

Savos was shocked, as well, even considering his longevity on Nirn and all the oddities he'd been exposed to. "Talk about going far for your devotion!" the former Arch-Mage exclaimed.

Sir Torolf looked at Mary. "It was during my bouts of madness... I am uncertain to what it was exactly... but it began with feeling as though my flesh were wearing me down; causing me to grow weak. It is difficult to explain, like the reason behind birth and death."

Mary inquired, "And What is the reason for death and birth?"

Sir Torolf paused as he tried to consider her question. "I... do not know. All I do know is that I am past either stage, now. I am neither born, nor dead. Though, to the world I am dead. Now I exist in spirit form. And yet, I can feel my body as though I were living. What does this mean? It defies Arkay's cycle!"

Mary shook her head. "No, dear Torolf; it is the culmination of the cycle. Spirits come and go in the world. Nirn is temporary, but spirits are eternal."

Sir Torolf paused. "So I essentially have reached my final destination, then. There is nothing I can do to change the matters."

Mary shook her head, speaking no longer as a Priestess, but with authority beyond her seeming station. "This is not true; there is something that can be done." she gestured towards Cura. "Join the Chosen of Akatosh. Join our cause, and we shall take to Aetherius, and leave this dreadful realm behind." She took Sir Torolf's hands into her own. "If you agree, I will restore your life to you; and I will recreate the flesh you foolishly stripped from yourself."

Sir Torolf fell silent and he stared at the Priestess, and then at Cura and her group. "T-to leave this realm behind..." he looked at Sir Amiel, who gave him a reassuring nod, and to Sir Ralvas, who gave him a thumbs up in place of a nod. He acquiesced. "Yes. I will join your cause. As the Knight of Arkay, I give you my word, that I will happily aid you in your war against Molag Bal."

Cura approached him and stood ready to bestow her blessing upon him, as the Last Dragonborn. As he knelt before her with his head down, she drew Dawnbreaker and placed it upon both of his shoulders. "Sir Torolf, I, Vigilant Cura Stormcloak, the Dragonborn, accept your sword in my ranks. Rise, my Knight, Defender of Skyrim, Defender of Tamriel. I anoint you in the names of Akatosh, Stendarr, Arkay, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Zenithar, Julianos, and Talos."

Sir Torolf slowly rose again, and removed his helm once more. "I will do my best, Dragonborn." he turned to Mary. "And you, my lady, you... can truly restore flesh to the dead?"

Maram nodded in agreement. "Her abilities extend beyond that. Together with Korn, she resurrected me from mere bones back to life. Take solace, my friend; you are not alone. This realm has pushed many to madness and despair."

"Then please, restore me. I wish to live again." Sir Torolf requested softly, gazing into Mary's eyes.

Mary called Korn over to her side and signaled for Torolf to stay still. She laid both of her hands on the temples of his skull and a golden light began to coil around him.

"I now understand where the moniker, 'The Wolf Mother' came from." Sir Torolf declared as he witnessed the bond between the white wolf and the priestess.

As Mary and Korn began to tend to Sir Torolf, Gloriel and Varla stood further from the group, watching from a distance. The Valkyrie turned to the Man-Hunter. "When we return to Nirn, what do you intend to do, going forward?"

Varla's attention was placed upon the miracle unfolding before their eyes, but he did hear Gloriel's question. Without paying much attention to his own tongue, he spoke, "I think... maybe I'll go to the Temple of Mara in that Riften place, and then continue my service to the Dragonborn. It was my life, after all."

Gloriel smiled, hearing it. "And as for me, I shall go wherever Lady Meridia guides me."

Sir Torolf's flesh began to reconstruct itself, beginning with the muscles and finishing with his pale skin and flaming orange hair. He slowly opened his blue eyes, seeing the world around him again. He paused and began to touch the flesh on his cheeks. "I-incredible."

Sir Amiel came to his side and laid a hand on his upper arm. "Welcome back into the fold, Sir Torolf. You will find you have kinsmen within the group, as well; Cura, Mirabelle, Savos, and Carctte all hail from Skyrim in the current era."

Mirabelle corrected him. "Actually, I am from Daggerfall. And Carcette is from... the Kingdom of Wayrest; am I correct?"

Carcette nods. "Yes, the county of Bhoriane, specifically. Though, I have spent considerably more of my life in Skyrim to be honest." she nodded to Sir Torolf. "I have a lot of admiration for the Nords and their customs." she held up her own Amulet of Stendarr, ccarved in the distinct Nordic styled Drinking Horn as opposed to the Bretonic and Cyrodiilic Chalices.

Sir Torolf turned to Cura. "How has it been in Skyrim? The Nords are surely fighting the good fight above the Jeralls, I hope."

Cura winced. "Not quite so well, to tell you the truth. I'll explain more later. But for now, I'm looking for the Black Hand."

Sir Torolf pointed to the mass of skeletons and the large body of Arkay which obstructed the doorway, looking to be mantled on the wall in a nook. "The cruelty of cruelties by the Lord of Domination." he took the greatsword he'd wielded in battle between his hands. "This is the Greatsword of Anui-El. The key to the void rests behind my lord's immovable body. I have done all apart from striking it down."

Cura accepted the greatsword into her hands and observed its form. "I understand. I could never strike Stendarr's body either." as she walked up, Sabrina placed a hand on her arm.

"Are you really going to go through with this, Cura?" Sabrina asked her, nearly pleading with her to stop.

Cura nodded. "If the Black Hand is hiding behind it, I must. It's the only way we'll reach the eastern islands, and the only way we're going to get Sir Ralvas' head back."

Sabrina shuddered. "Fine, fine. Arkay preserve us, then." she threw up her hands and descended the stairs, realizing it was a losing battle. Cura looked at her with a mix of bewilderment and suspicion before turning back to the large, mounted skeleton.

She went down on one knee before Arkay's body and lowered her head. "Arkay, god of life and death, I entreat you as a humble servant of the Nine." she held up her sword. "I pray not just for your favour, but for your forgiveness for what I must do. Though, being a Divine, you understand the larger picture greater than I ever could. Forgive me this transgression against your body; for it was Molag Bal who ultimately forced this encounter to happen."

A faint whisper moved into Cura's head, from her right ear and through her left. "Do as you must, Dragonborn. You are forgiven."

Cura stood up and gripped the sword tightly in both hands, raising it over her head. As she did, it began to glow with an orange pulse of energy. She brought it down, and the power which emanated obliterated the skeletal wall which blocked the doorway. Bones fell like rain, prompting the others to shield themselves. As the smoke dissipated, an open passageway revealed a black door marked by a skull with a black right hand printed on its forehead. Beneath the skull lay a skeleton on its back, flanked by five smaller skulls. The door stood as a grim tapestry of death.

Sabrina gasped. "Th-the Black Door." She walked closer to Sir Amiel, who nodded to her.

Cura returned the Greatsword of Anui-El to Sir Torolf and steeled herself. She slowly walked towards the evil door and pushed it open, her light disappearing into the darkness.