Kairos
Loading Screen… Alduin is the firstborn son of Akatosh and Mara whereas Saadia is the lastborn daughter of Akatosh and Mara…
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The sky seemed as if the gods had painted with strokes of white over a blue canvas. Krest saw kites being raised against the wind as they flew highest against the current, not with it. He ran down a hill in the southeastern countryside of Cyrodiil, giggling and laughing. He was a kid again, chasing after his friends, the breeze flowing through his hair.
"Okay what game next?" Asked the neighbor's girl, Aia. "Also, is it true you're moving to Sutch, Addie?"
"Heroes and villains," suggested Adius. "Yeah, my parents want to go there. But I wanted to go to Stirk. It's an island!"
Krest hopped in between them, splashing mud everywhere as he landed smack in the middle of a puddle. "I'm gonna play as Tiber Septim!"
"No fair! You always play Tiber Septim!" Shouted Adius, shaking mud off his trousers. "I wanna be Tiber Septim! You play the Devil!"
"Ugh, fine. I was supposed to save the world. Just you wait, I'm gonna be Dragonborn like him one day!" Krest pumped his fist into the air. "I'm gonna be the next great hero, just like Tiber Septim!"
"Yeah, yeah," dismissed Aia, "go change, you're all dirty. Next time we'll play Oblivion Crisis and I'll be Augusta and Adius you can be Caius the Champion, and Krest you'll be Martin," Adius and Aia laughed in unison. The Imperial girl stuck her tongue out at him.
"Meanies." Krest ran away, trying to go as fast as he could. "Weeeeeee!" He ran all the way to their city of Water's Edge, the coastline smelling salty.
He entered the village full of shanties and shacks with gabled rooves with men in funny cloaks with pointy hoods who called themselves 'the College of Whispers'. Water edging onto the shore the hamlet rested by. Dodgy stall-shaped huts.
"Can't believe the great Ragnar Salot is in town," one of the wizards said to another as Krest came to the corner home he lived in. Ragnar was a hero. He'd helped the Champion of Cyrodiil stop Dagon and Tharn.
Pushing aside the door, it was dark. A weird noise permeated from another room. Krest's heartbeat rose in a crescendo as he placed one foot ahead of the other. An eeriness wove its web through the tapestry of his mind. Was that Ragnar? Why was he doing these awful things to Krest's mom? Why was this man not wearing his clothes?
Krest's eyes widened with horror as the man abused his mother. "Mama! Why is he hurting you!?"
"What the fuck?!" Ragnar wore his shirt, but his pants had slid down to his ankles. "Get the Oblivion out of here, stupid kid!"
Krest saw the tears escaping her eyes. He ran at the man. The bad man grabbed Krest with one chokehold grip and tossed him aside. Krest smashed into a table, too dizzy to stand. Glass fragments pricking into his forearms.
"NO!" His mother screamed. "DON'T TOUCH MY SON!"
"Shut up, bitch!" The evil man slammed Persephone into the surface.
Why do these bad things to my mama!?
Krest's mom was thrown to the floor. The mean man had stabbed her many times.
The doors and walls bust wide open and a battalion of guardsmen in knight armor rushed the mean man. – After the men had arrested Ragnar, healers and clergymen assaulted their house. Krest's mom was dead.
"It's okay. You're alright," one of the guards, Itius, said to Krest.
Krest saw his mom taken away and he was sent somewhere special in the Imperial City because some bald man named Velus said he didn't want him. – Krest was tied down into a chair as a strange lady and some Breton from the Elder Council spoke.
"Susanne Dubois, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Said the strange Imperial.
"Dea, thought I'd save you some time. The Highlanders of High Rock are losing in the Arena right now. Worst team in Tamriel. This Persephone and Velus' kid? Armilius?"
Dea nodded, pulling out some tools from a cabinet on the wall. "We'll be inducting him into the Praetorians. We'll be retraining his brain today."
"There's the chance of hallucinations and other problems. Not every mind adapts to this rigorous a program." Susanne folded her arms and tugged her braid.
"Don't you worry about a thing, Susanne." Dea injected a needle into Krest's arm.
Electricity shocked him with the force of a thousand suns.
Krest was eighteen, peering behind a corner, watching his friend, Bretagne Verashesher writing something. When the Altmer left, Krest looked at the script. Going to Skyrim will be nice. I think I'm done with Krest, he's always hallucinating, and I don't want a looney as a friend.
Krest stooped outside, slumping through the daunting figures of the white Imperial towers of the interior Imperial City. Akaviri dragon motifs adorned every quarter – from the lofty minaret bridges of the city to the paper hako skiffs used by villagers to send their dead downriver. Thousands of laborers tended to the rice fields following the flooding from Lake Rumare. High in the clouds, the White-Gold tower watched over it all, as wyverns wheeled through the sky. He saw a heroic statue of Tiber Septim, his foot pressed against the form of the Devil's dragonhead.
The train thundered through a tunnel carved into the mountain while the crack of dawn rippled through the brightening, orangey sky. Pink seams of light soaking Skyrim in vibrancy.
Krest shut the ingress and gazed out the window, showing a view of the whole city and surrounding misted mountainside. He could see some steam centurions below, unloading cargo from airships on the ledge.
23rd of Evening Star, 4th Era 22
The day of the Peace Council, Krest discovered himself by the fireside of Heorot, a mead hall. He schlepped across town to get some breakfast, cheese-bread and coffee, taking the food to an isolated table to eat. After his chest and arms felt heated, he paid and dove into the rat race of Hrothgar. Preparations were going on, foreign emissaries going back and forth, agitating a few of the local populace who suddenly had to deal with Thalmor and so many foreign ambassadors who had just arrived.
"I came here to get away from all these pointy-eared devils, and now what." A drunken Nordenbjorg native tossed his empty cup lawlessly. He was assigned to Elisif's guard. "Goddamn Imperials too," he uttered when he saw the Imperial envoys who'd arrived with the Elder Council Members. Krest noticed a few of his fellow Praetorians were here too, including the leader, Dea Xanthippe.
Krest carefully approached her behind the squadron as they lined up in a queue to enter Dragonskeep. The pale, grey-haired Imperial's eyes shot open when she saw him. "Krest?! I thought you dead, it's been weeks! Why didn't you return? We didn't have enough men to spare a search party despite our attempts to contact Bolgeir over there." She gestured to the bigot in Elisif's employ.
Krest spoke, "Pierre Guimard came for me. He was in Jattewood last I saw."
Dea's eyes narrowed to slits. "Krest. There is nobody on Nirn named Pierre Guimard. If you're going to keep your imaginary friend at twenty-two years of age, keep it to yourself otherwise they'll throw you in a nuthouse." She turned away. "Perhaps it best you never return to the Praetorians…"
He was suddenly very small in a wide, vast flood plain. Memories of Pierre flickered through his head. Appearing seemingly from nowhere, always when Krest felt the need to take his anger out on something. He shrieked out loud, a high-pitched lark. It bounced off the angles of the city, rebounding at his eardrums as uncertainty weaved its way into the crannies of his mind. Was here safe? No. What about there, around that corner and in that crevice. The laughter stopped abruptly, and he shuddered intensely
Krest cupped his head, cackling a bit as he walked carefully over to a local flower shop, holding a bundle of lilies. The elderly florist exchanged the white belladonna-lilies and went back to watering her plants. Among the troves of grove that the shop was flushed in, he breathed a lungful of the serene mountain air as he walked out. The snake roiling away within the bust of Talos Stormcrown. The city was coated with dragon shaped effigies, water fares curving in corners and flossing out between sewerage, intertwining with the wood panels and flagstones.
Pierre was just… inside my head… Krest laughed a little. That's funny funny funny.
Krest washed his throat with water, enjoying the aroma of the oven-baked pastries as he stepped into Dragonskeep. He arrived at Dibella's quarters, flowers in hand. He pushed a hand through his hair. Krest knocked lightly, noticing the jewel-studded doorframe. No one replied. He knocked again. No response. Krest perked the door slightly aside and peaked in.
Tsun and Dibella were kissing each other, locked in a hug.
"What do you say, huh? Marry me, my love. I promise it won't be like it was with those other men." Tsun stroked his hand across the small of Dibella's back.
Krest shut the door softly and walked away.
At the start of the Hrothgar Peace Council, Krest sat in the very back, nearest to the exit towards the halls as the politicians bickered and debated. Wearing his light-stalhrim, he slipped out the back before they knew he was there. Akatosh stood with Tsun and Dibella on each side of him at the head behind the lectern near some people he didn't know alongside Yeshur who was eyeballing him.
Krest shook his head and marched down ancient halls of the palace. Portraits of historical figures passed him on each side as he filed through. Life is completely meaningless, he decided.
"Can't believe the Elder Council are here, Mister Stenvar!" Meowed J'zargo. "Does this one think they'll really make Tamriel a republic?"
"Hopefully, they will enjoy the Potage le Magnifique Balagog prepared. Too bad Gianna isn't here." The bald Nord loosened his jerkin, sweating. The air was a bit steamy for some reason.
Krest grabbed a wine-tray outside the lobby, smelling of polish, and walked into the boring central room, journeying up the runic-styled stairs before a Penitus Oculatus agent put a hand to his chest.
The end blaring. Kairos.
"Sorry, this room is off limits."
Akatosh's room.
The agent looked away, pursing his lips. Krest slid the blade from his arm and shanked it into the man's abdomen, covering his mouth. He put the tray of wine on a nightstand, dragging his kinsmen's body into the cupboard. Krest punched the doorway open, locking it behind him. Stretched in the shape of an architectural square, a predictable room design. Through the circular glass he could see Akatosh presenting his speech to Tamriel's leaders in great detail. Dibella and Tsun were now seated amongst the audience as well, gathered at the electoral. The chambers were large and had a view of the entire city from the podium. Akatosh's king-sized bed near the windows with an open space and a gold door on the right-hand corner leading into his bathroom. Dark-crimson curtains and designs covered the room, giving it an old-style regal feel.
Krest grimaced and glanced in the corner and saw a shadow. He itched the back of his head and returned to his original objective. This better work. Drafting a hand over the Skyrim-styled workmanship, eyeing the stoning of the worktop. Krest plucked the Elder Scroll from its pedestal, crossing over the tiled platform, phasing through the Elder Scroll's protective enchantments, and ripped out the scroll from its pedestal before hopping out. Krest dug through a stack of scripts from a chest and dumped them on the table. The mask's not in here.
He opened the chest by Akatosh's bed and there it was – the Mask of Akatosh.
It should provide me with the sight to access the scroll.
He tucked his hair behind his ear and secured the mask over his head and face. Everything had a glossy sheen to it.
He stood up, straightening his posture and untied the scroll from its sheath. Patterns, scribbles, designs he'd never seen came alive and danced in the space between. He thought of the time he had to go to, the Dawn Era, during the Ehlnofey Wars between Lorkhan and Akatosh as the prophecy spoke of it and Saadia. Green swirls washed and flushed, strengthening, and carrying him away to a time forgotten.
The world raced by him like errant, skewed strokes on a broken viola as he was sent back in time to the Dawn.
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A/N: Do you know the ancient Nord word for war? Season unending.