"The Minotaur Song

An ode to the Minotaur

Oh minotaur, oh minotaur,

A beast of rage and ignoble glaring.

Oh minotaur, oh minotaur,

None can deny your noble bearing.

Around Imperial ruins you gather,

Eternal guardians with hooves and horn.

What memories lead you to path there,

Is it Belharza or the Empire that you mourn?

Oh minotaur, oh minotaur,

Are you monster, Mer, or Man?

Oh minotaur, oh minotaur,

Tell us how you fit into the Divine's plan!"

The dust of the Inquisition Court had scarcely settled from Cura's last adventure when she found herself again in its profane chambers. Carcette, the Knight of Order, assumed command of the escort, guiding Cura to a structure resembling a Minotaur statue, albeit with over half its face eroded away.

"This is the Statue of Belharza, as I am sure you have no doubt surmised." She spoke plainly; as though she were giving an instruction. It was Carcette indeed, but how much of it was Jyggalag, Cura had to wonder. "Which animal is represented in this figure?"

Sabrina, standing some distance away, cocked her head to the side. "A cat." she said, her voice plagued with sarcasm.

As if it weren't obvious.

"Good guess, Sabrina." Sir Amiel said with a hearty laugh. At first he'd found her sharp tongue to be a thing of nuisance, though now he was beginning to appreciate it in moments like these.

Varla in turn crossed his arms. "This must be a trick question of sorts. You can't be serious. It's obviously a Bull."

Carcette nodded. "Yes; the Bull." she turned her crystalline visage towards Cura. "You know what you must do; you are already thinking about it."

Cura's jaw opened lightly in that ephemeral moment. Indeed, she was considering using the "Bull" Elder Scroll that she'd obtained from St. Alessia's memory. She tentatively removed the Scroll from her bag and observed a light cerulean glow emerging from within its holders; the Scroll acknowledged something - something none of them could sense, save for Cura, Mary, Korn, and Carcette.

Mary spoke up; "There is a Time Wound here, before the statue." she gestured towards what appeared to be a pulsating crack in the fabric of reality; invisible to the mortal eye, but to those in tuned with the Et'Ada, very visible.

"A Time Wound?" Sir Amiel inquired. "I've heard of such a phenomenon before."

Surprisingly, Gloriel nodded in agreement. "Yes; when the fabric of Meridia's light is warped by the burdens of shifting reality. One can peer into times long past."

Cura turned to the both of her speaking companions. "I already know what a Time Wound is, actually," she began to recount her past encounter. "when I was on my quest to slay the World-Eater, my journey took me to the Throat of the World; there was a Time Wound there, atop the mount itself. Paarthurnax, the amazing Dragon he is, taught me about how the use of an Elder Scroll caused it. When I used an Elder Scroll to peer into the past, I witnessed the battle of the Tongues and Alduin, where they used the Forbidden Shout to weaken him and the Elder Scroll to cast him into the Future. Doing this wounded the fabric of time itself."

Her group fell silent for a few moments, and Bourlor asked next, "So, what you are saying is that you owe your existence as Dragonborn to the wounding of time?"

"Yes." Cura sighed. "I essentially exist to return the balance to the world. I stopped Alduin, sure, but it seems many things from the past are haunting my present." she quickly corrected herself. "Er - present company excluded, of course. You're all great."

Mary giggled softly, "That's all right, Cura; you needn't justify yourself. It is true that much of the past continues onto the future. And in bringing us with you to Nirn, I suppose you will be bringing in more of the First Era, like you had with the Wretched Spire inhabitants. The Fourth Era is a time of convergence: a chance to right the wrongs of the past. The world turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

Bourlor played with the string of his bow. He was a silent witness to these events. He had no philosophical insight to add, nor comfort to give, but he was sure to watch the entrance in case any intruders should happen upon them.

Sir Torolf looked to the side wistfully as he remembered his old allies. "I wonder if we can find our brothers-in-arms and persuade them into coming with us before annihilation sweeps these lands..."

Sir Ralvas nodded with determination. "We will offer to any who we find. Sir Juncan, Sir Berich, Sir Henrik, Sir Gregory, and Sir Casimir."

Sir Amiel rolled his eyes. "Sir Henrik may take a tad more convincing: he seems to prefer to laze about in discreet places with nothing but alcohol as his companion these days. As for Sir Juncan, we saw him at the Waterfront District last, but he has moved on elsewhere."

Carcette's words were unembellished. "He is currently at Narfin's Inquisition Court, atop the Dibellan garden rooftop. I wouldn't hold out much hope for him or Sir Gregory, if I were in your position."

Sabrina whispered to Aria the Whisperer, "The Alessians were fond of their Inquisition Courts, weren't they?"

Aria responded in a hushed tone, "They were even fonder of the actions they could carry out within them."

"Oh, how could I forget? They burned Mara's human form, tried to drown children in lakes, backstabbed their own for power, attempted to exterminate the Elves, broke Akatosh, murdered those who followed the Eight Divines, and sacrificed people to power Molag Bal's glorified Soul Gem, mistaking it for the Amulet of Kings' stone..." Sabrina recounted their known transgressions. "Such a delightful bunch. As if their stupid red hooded outfits weren't reason enough to despise them."

Maram expressed his frustration with a grunt, "Under the Emperor's authority, they committed all those horrendous acts. It appears that Emperor might have been an impostor all along. It's a tragedy that so many lives were lost to the ambitions of a sycophantic cult on an ill-gotten throne."

"Imagine the sheer amount of cognitive dissonance one must have to worship St. Alessia and at the same time, kill her son and replace him with an impostor. Staggering." Sabrina said through gritted teeth.

"You would be amazed at what the Human heart can justify to protect one's pride and ambitions." Varla assured Sabrina from a wealth of experience. After all, he was certain now, in retrospect, that his actions were so horrific in those times that Mara herself turned her gaze from him.

"What did you mean?" Sir Torolf asked Carcette concerning his brother-in-arms. "What did you mean about not holding out hope for them?"

"Jyggalag has predicted it long ago." Carcette simply replied. "Now, Cura; do as you must." she gestured towards the Belharza Statue and the Time Wound before it.

Left bewildered by the cryptic warning, the thought was put in the group's collective mind to investigate Narfin's Inquisition Court; no doubt as Carcette - or Jyggalag had intended through her. What the Daedric Prince's intentions were was unclear to Cura, though a part of her wondered if this was an act of clemency to the souls trapped within the realm prior to the Greymarch's onset.

The Daedra, at best, were cryptic. At worst; malicious.

Either way, there was a task at hand.

Before approaching the Time Wound with the Scroll, Cura paused to study her former mentor's face. It was an unsettling sight; the woman was unmistakably Carcette, yet not completely. Cura pondered if there was any action she could take. As expected, the Knight of Order dismissed the thought with a shake of her head, as if Jyggalag had foreseen Cura's contemplations eons earlier.

Cura stood before the imposing statue of the Minotaur Belharza, her hands trembling as she unfurled the venerable Elder Scroll. As the parchment caught the dim light, reality itself seemed to quiver, the very air around her pulsating with unseen energies. The threads of existence, normally invisible to the mortal eye, began to shimmer like a tapestry woven with starlight, each strand a different hue of possibility and time.

Gloriel clasped her hands together. "It is a sight of beauty, is it not? The way light and time dance around one another?"

"I suppose so." Varla, haunted still by the echoes of loyalty misplaced, harbored a deep-seated aversion to the revered statue of Belharza. His past, a tapestry of service and deception, was irrevocably intertwined with the legacy of an impostor who had donned the mantle of Belharza with malevolent intent. This false Belharza, a master of manipulation, had once commanded Varla's unwavering fealty, exploiting his prowess for purposes as dark as the void between stars.

The revelation of the impostor's true nature had been a crucible for Varla, searing into his essence a distrust of all that bore the semblance of the name of that Emperor. The very sight of Belharza's effigy stirred within him a maelstrom of emotions: anger at the deception he had suffered, shame for the innocence he had lost, and a sorrow for the time wasted in the service of a lie. It was a wound upon his spirit that refused to heal, a scar that throbbed with every beat of his heart. Very much akin to the Time Wound itself.

"Dragonborn, do whatever it is you need to, and let's get out of here." Varla commanded with a tone of urgency.

Cura, exasperated by his hastiness, directed her gaze upon the Elder Scroll cradled in her grasp. As she delved into the arcane runes that pulsed at its core, a brilliant flare enveloped her. Her vision blurred, and it appeared as though she journeyed through the epochs of time itself. Cura's gaze was drawn to the vision that unfolded before her: a minotaur woman, regal and commanding, adorned in the resplendent robes of an Empress. She held an infant swaddled in a basket, a symbol of new beginnings and legacies yet to unfold. The woman was no mere Minotauress; she was unmistakably St. Alessia - though how she could have changed in this manner baffled the mind. This tableau was more than a mere image; it was a window into a lineage of power, a narrative woven into the fabric of the empire itself. A cavern surrounded them; lush and green, with beautiful red flowers in a patch of softgrass, filled with silence; aetherial in nature.

The scene shifted, and the Alessian Order's inquest materialized, a tribunal set against a young, Minotaur Emperor with fur as white as snow, whose very existence challenged the foundations of their beliefs. The Order's members, robed in their ceremonial garb, cast judgmental gazes upon the Emperor, their words a cacophony of condemnation and fear. Within the very court Cura's actual body had stood, scroll in hand, no less!

As the vision continued to unfurl, the Emperor's form began to contort and spiral, a dance of form and color that defied the laws of nature. His figure twisted through dimensions of thought and reality, a spectacle that left Cura breathless with awe and trepidation. The Emperor's visage blurred, his identity merging with the mythic and the historical, until he was both everywhere and nowhere, a legend lost to the annals of time.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision dissipated, the Emperor's form vanishing into the ether. Cura reached out to grasp him, but he was but a memory of a memory, now. The Elder Scroll, once a beacon of eldritch light, dimmed, its secrets once again sealed within its arcane glyphs. Cura stood alone in darkness for a few moments, the weight of what she had witnessed pressing upon her soul. She knew that the Scroll had revealed a truth that was both a burden and a gift - a glimpse into the ever-shifting sands of destiny that would forever alter the course of history.

As if responding to the Scroll's power, a portal began to take shape on the wall adjacent to the Statue, its gaze weighing heavily upon the shifting light.

Carcette took Cura's arm and brought her unto the portal. "You must go alone, Cura. It will only allow the one who holds the key. The Alessians had seen to it that the portal would destroy any who did not possess it."

"The key?" Cura asked.

Carcette nodded. "You will understand."

After a moment of silence, Cura scanned the faces of her partners and nodded. "I will be back soon." She turned to the teal-coloured vortex of whirling light, and with a deep breath, stepped into it.

In a flash, all of existence seemed to distort and Cura found herself walking upside down. The floor - or rather - ceiling under her feet was translucent; aquatic in nature. Each footstep was a ripple through Time, a wrinkle in the fabric of an ever-shifting reality. Nothing made sense; and yet everything seemed to bind itself together. The skies were turquoise and teal in alternating hues which danced like an aurora and the light shone under Cura's feet and the void over her head, centuries beneath her.

She walked the path of an aetherial pilgrim; discovering the realms between as she wandered forward; ever forward through the annals of time. She thanked the gods for the honour of seeing such an incredible spectacle as what lay between the Void and the Aether in this realm which mortal eyes would never see.

This Aetherial pocket dimension, a realm of existence nestled within the folds of the seeming multiverse, served as the prison of Belharza. This was no ordinary confinement; it was a place where the very essence of space and time converged into a singular point of arcane energy. The dimension itself was a tapestry of celestial beauty, a canvas painted with the hues of nebulas and the sparkle of distant stars beyond the auroral veil. It was as if the universe had carved out a private alcove for the purpose of containment, a cell made not of stone and iron, but of the ethereal and the divine.

Within this pocket dimension, reality behaved unlike anything known to the mortal realms. The laws of physics were mere suggestions, often bending to the will of the dimension's inherent magic. Here, the fabric of existence was thin, almost transparent, allowing glimpses into the parallel threads of reality that ran adjacent to this secluded space. The air shimmered with a luminescent quality, casting an otherworldly glow on everything within this domain.

Cura continued onward, through eternity, seeking Belharza's prison in the ever-changing eternal expanse. As she wandered, she found that her position had shifted: she had gone sideways through time, as the void was now to her left and the light of Aetherius to her right; each leagues away from her: moving, stretching, whirling, an endless cosmic canvas, painting images of harmonious chaos in its wake.

Belharza's prison was not a prison in the traditional sense. It was a grand expanse, an endless horizon where the sky met the ground in a seamless gradient of twilight. The landscape was dotted with structures that defied geometry, towers and bridges that looped back upon themselves, creating infinite pathways that led to the same destination, no matter the direction travelled. The ground was now a mosaic of cerulean crystal and stone, each piece reflecting the light of the dimension in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors which could not be categorized, as they did not exist upon Nirn.

At the heart of this dimension lay the core of Belharza's prison - a monolith of pure Aetherium, pulsating with the raw energy of creation. It was here that the power of the Et'Ada could be felt: a child of the gods, much like Varla, much like herself. The familiar sensation of the Divine drew Cura closer to this large stone structure.

The atmosphere was thick with the echoes of time, whispers of the past that resonated through the air like a haunting melody. These echoes carried the memories of St. Alessia's reign, her triumphs, and her tribulations, playing out in a loop for eternity. The dimension was alive with the residual energy of the Empress' spirit, a testament to her indomitable will and the impact she had on the course of history.

Despite its beauty, the Aetherial pocket dimension was a place of eternal solitude and reflection. It was beautiful; yet maddening. One could only wander through with their thoughts as their own companion in such a place.

In the tranquil expanse of unbridled eternity, Cura's footsteps were silent, her presence almost aethereal amidst the ever-changing vista. Here, in this serene interstice, her mind, usually so steadfast and unyielding, began to waver. The weight of her Dragonborn legacy, the relentless pursuit of Molag Bal, and the daunting task of securing the Amulet of Kings pressed heavily upon her. For a fleeting moment, the temptation to abandon her crusade, to slip away through the dimensional folds of Coldharbour's grasp, beckoned with a siren's call. To think, she was outside of its confines already - perhaps, through this weaving of cosmos, there could be a way to Nirn? She could rejoin Inigo and the others right now, perhaps; all she would need to do is find an entry point somehow. Coldharbour could not touch her here.

"Damn it, Cura!" she blurted to herself out loud, smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand in a stern gesture of correction. Her voice resonated through the cosmos in admonition.

Yet, as quickly as doubt crept in, Cura's resolve solidified. She chastised herself for even considering such a dereliction of duty. How could she, the chosen of Akatosh, a Vigilant of Stendarr, contemplate such cowardice? The path of least resistance was a seductive enemy, but she would not succumb. With a quick thought, she recalled the countless souls relying on her strength, the fate that was hers to embrace, and the justice she was sworn to deliver.

The very thought of shirking her sacred responsibilities ignited a fire within her, a flame of determination that burned away the tendrils of temptation. She would not be swayed by fleeting desires for escape or respite. Her destiny was not one of ease but of valourous struggle, a testament to the enduring spirit of those who dare to try to walk the path of the righteous.

With each step, her conviction grew stronger, her spirit more indomitable. She would face Molag Bal, she would reclaim the Amulet of Kings, and she would fulfill her destiny, not as a mere Dragonborn, but as the embodiment of Stendarr's unwavering justice and mercy. The easy way out was no path for her; she was Vigilant Cura Stormcloak, and she would push onward, embracing the arduous journey ahead, for it was in the crucible of challenge and suffering that true heroes were forged.

At least, that was what she was always taught.

For the time being, she would push away those intrusive, deterrent thoughts.

As time marched on in the world beyond, and the gears of Coldharbour continued to grind themselves to dust, the Aetherial pocket dimension remained timeless, unaffected by the passage of years. It was a constant in an ever-changing universe, a fixed point where the stolen legacy of an Emperor was preserved for all of eternity. And though it was a prison, it was also a place of wonder, a reminder of the mysteries that lie beyond the veil of reality, waiting to be discovered by those brave enough to seek them out. The Aetherial pocket dimension, with its boundless beauty and profound solitude, stood as a monument to the complexities of existence, a space where the past, present, and future merged into a single, everlasting moment; and here stood Cura, now. The Last Dragonborn - step by step, reaching the cell which contained the forgotten Belharza.

Her heart ached for the Man-Bull. He had been here all this time, while his good name was sullied by a malignant impostor. Left to rot amongst the stars while the group that bore his mother's name tormented his world; his birthright destroyed, his person; condemned.

It was all so wrong.

As Cura approached the prison, she saw a familiar figure sitting at a perch near it, looking into a room which seemed isolated from the rest of the dimension. Kahkaankrein - the Pride of Kyne, watched over what Cura was certain was her Grandson's prison. As she gazed upon the gentle white dragon, he simply nodded to her, understanding her purpose.

"Please... release the Emperor that never reigned." implored Kahkaankrein, his voice echoing with a somber tone as he mourned the destiny of his goddess' descendant.

Cura nodded reassuringly to her new Dragon friend, "I will." She approached the eternal door and laid a hand upon it. Suddenly, her body glowed a deep teal hue, and she phased through it, and reemerged into the confines within.

She found herself in what looked to be an Office of sorts: there was a desk, a chair, parchment, writing tools, shelves, and paintings mounted upon its walls. Through the large window on the eastern side of the room, the confines of the eternal prison were made known: Kahkaankrein sat on the perch, watching over the room, while the Aetherial pocket dimension itself continued to shift and contort without pause.

At the very center of the room was an unassuming bull with a missing horn.

Cura approached the bovine figure and stared into its eyes. This was the true Belharza; she could see intelligence beyond that of an animal within them. She reached out to touch the bull and it pulled back from her hand. "It's okay," Cura reassured him. "I'm here to help you. I know who you are... and what they've done to you."

The bull tilted its head to show her its missing horn, and Cura nodded solemnly. She knew what needed to be done. She recalled finding a horn when she slayed the Belharza in Varla's fort long ago. It had been on the Fake Belharza's person. Now she surmised why.

Cura reached into her satchel and carefully removed the horn piece. The bull lowered her head and she placed the horn on its stump and twisted it into the correct position, and cast a Healing Spell upon it to bind it in place. Once the missing piece was returned, the bull exploded into a burst of teal light. Its form began to shrink and then elongate to a bipedal position, its silhouette continuing to contort and change before her very eyes.

When the light cleared, there stood a humanoid figure. He had the shape of a man, but with the legs and head of a Bull. He stood hunched forward, and his fur was white as the snow of Skyrim itself. He was muscular and strong; yet he had a gentleness about him. A humanity that glimmered behind his luminous eyes. He wore a set of blue Emperor's robes with a white fur collar, and around his neck was the Amulet of Kings. Or rather, an Amulet of Kings.

Perhaps it was the one lost to History, unrecovered until the birth of Reman Cyrodiil?

Either way, Cura saw fit to not play games regarding it.

She took a step back and examined the mighty figure before her with awe. "Emperor Belharza..." she bowed her head forward in respect. "The true Emperor Belharza..."

The Man-Bull's eyes softened and he looked at his human hands. He began to flex his fingers; as though they were foreign to him. After all, he'd been trapped as a bovine for who knows how long? He cleared his powerful throat, and his voice came out soft; lilting. "I didn't expect Akatosh to send me his messenger... I guess the gods haven't given up on me yet, after all." he snorted through his nostrils. "I'd already resigned myself to the fact that I could never live as my old self again. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

Cura gently took his hand. "You're welcome, Emperor Belharza."

Belharza nodded and slowly walked over to the desk at the end of the room. He took a quill into his large hand and a piece of parchment. He began to jot something down. "This desk is my battlefield. There is yet more that can be done here."

Cura followed him to his desk and placed a hand upon its wooden surface. She examined the pictures on the wall behind it, and noticed a cute sketch of a chubby infant Minotaur, assuming it to be Belharza himself. With a somber smirk, she decided to ask. "How come you were imprisoned here?"

Belharza looked up from his writing and sighed. "The Alessian Order thought my appearance would hinder faith in St. Alessia... even though the image of a god is not its essence. In the end, I lost the political battle against them and they deprived me of power. Now, I am the Emperor in name only."

Cura sighed. "And what they did with that power..."

"They couldn't kill me thanks to the Amulet of Kings. But as you've seen with your own eyes, they still took so much from me." the Man-Bull said solemnly. "I was told that in the outside world, they made a puppet loyal to the Alessians... out of my own horn." he ran a hand around the recovered horn on his head. "It feels like the end of the world."

Cura placed her Dwarven Metal hand on his arm and touched him gently. "It's not the end of the world, Emperor Belharza. The Alessian Order have paid in full for the evil they've wrought."

Belharza snorted, "The Alessians have been corrupted and are now aiming to create a world with humans as the only remaining race. It did not take them long to go from persecuting the elven races to persecuting all the non-humans."

Cura's mind drifted to the Thalmor; to what Ancano's intentions were with the Eye of Magnus. The rhetoric was exactly the same: though with Altmer being the only remaining race instead. The entire thing disgusted her. Perhaps being a hybrid of men and mer herself, Cura found ways to empathize with both sides. And a world without Inigo in it would certainly be beyond miserable.

Belharza continued, this time sounding more laden with disbelief. "They even turn a blind eye to the fact that their Prophet Marukh is an Imga and not a human. I should have addressed this earlier when there was still time..." He sighed and paused his writing altogether. He leaned back in his seat and gazed up at the ceiling. "The future will remember me as a foolish ruler. In a single generation, I've ruined the ideals of the Empire my mother hoped to build."

"It wasn't your fault!" Cura exclaimed. "The Alessians did this, not you. You couldn't have seen this coming."

Emperor Belharza stared at Cura for a few moments. "Yes; yes, you are right. But it was done under my name. It is my shame to bear."

Cura shook her head. "No; I will make sure that everyone knows what happened. My word will change the knowledge of History forever. I can bring undeniable proof to the people of Nirn that you were framed. I will have Varla testify on your behalf, as well. Having been to Coldharbour and returned to Nirn, I can be able to tell people the truth at last."

Belharza looked at Cura with misty eyes. "You are a kind soul. I thank you." He continued writing a decree of sorts on his parchment.

Cura wondered why he was so preoccupied with this particular paper, and asked, "What are you doing?"

The Man-Bull responded with hope on his tongue. "Writing an Imperial decree to all the provinces. Even now, there remains some who yet serve a foolish ruler like me. They are my pride. The wind has changed with your arrival. The winds of Kynareth tell me there is still something I can do." he looked into Cura's emerald eyes. "I understand now why Akatosh sent you... To be a witness to this moment. So I'll keep struggling, in this little room."

"I will support you from the shadows of my time, your majesty." Cura promised him.

Belharza reached over the desk and gently took Cura's hand. He gazed into her eyes with a countenance of sincerity and tenderness. "I am in your debt for all the help you've given me. but I have nothing to repay you with. I will repay you someday, though." he smiled, "I will prove to my mother, Alessia, that at least a shred of her ideals will be preserved for future generations. May it reach your time."

Considering that Cura was a Vigilant of Stendarr, and not a Vigilant of Marukh, it seems he must have succeeded.

Cura walked around the desk and observed a painting depicting a battle of many Cyrodiilic peoples, with a large winged Bull figure wielding a greatsword at its heart. Cura knew this was Morihaus. When Belharza noticed her staring at the picture, he smiled. "The image I have of my father, Morihaus, is vague, like a foggy memory. Him being a demigod is probably the reason. His appearance changed with my every blink, and the touch of his hand caressing me was different every time. Sometimes he stroked me vigorously with powerful, knobbly hands, and sometimes he caressed me gently with slender hands, so unlike those of a warrior."

These words granted Cura some solace: perhaps when Alessia and Morihaus were intimate, he had assumed Human form after all. Not that it was an image Cura was ready to conjure up regardless. The very thought reddened her cheeks. It was a good thing her back was turned to Belharza.

The Emperor continued to reminisce of the past and the stories he'd heard. "They say the Alessian rebellion included a wide variety of people, including Thu'um practitioners and Minotaur clans. The person we know as Morihaus is likely the result of anecdotes and spirits of these men accumulating together. His divinity is the vessel for his spirit."

Cura shook her head, trying to make sense of the thaumaturgical matters he'd spoken of. "Huh?"

Belharza digressed. "Whatever my father was, he loved me. And now that I am older than he was at the time, I understand... I was a son unworthy of his father's love."

"Don't say things like that, Belharza..." Cura tried to reassure him. "I'm sure your father did love you - but he probably had to return to Aetherius. I've never heard of an Et'Ada, or even a demigod being on Nirn for all too long. Though, perhaps there's still more to learn, evidently."

"I appreciate your kind words." Belharza admitted.

"What was your childhood like?" Cura asked out of curiosity.

Belharza gestured with a hand towards the sketch of a baby minotaur. "This is a portrait of me as a child. What an ugly form... to have the blood of Ada flowing in one's veins means to be a monster like this." he scoffed at his own self. It was clear that Belharza had a lot of issues with his self-esteem. Cura felt sorry for the Forgotten Emperor. Being what he was surely could not have been easy, especially at the Dawn of the Alessian Order. When Alessia died and Morihaus returned to Aetherius, Belharza was left to fend for himself, to take his mother's throne, surrounded by venomous serpents who despised every fiber of his being.

"It was often rumoured in the court that Alessia was unable to bear children, and instead adopted an orphaned Minotaur child." Belharza explained.

"The Alessians came up with that justification, I'd wager." Cura rolled her eyes.

"I was a young child at the time, and I believed these rumours. Fearing the people's disbelief and curiosity, I was always hiding behind my mother. But after mother died and the Amulet of Kings recognized me, my foolish thoughts vanished as if in the blink of an eye." Belharza explained. "I understood then that I was indeed the son of my mother, Alessia, and my father, Morihaus. I am Belharza, the Man-Bull."

Cura nodded; "Well, given that you are indeed a man, and a bull, and wear the Amulet of Kings, there can be little room for doubt."

Emperor Belharza smiled softly at her comment, and turned to her, setting down his quill for a moment. "What do you see when you look in the mirror? Is the image I see of you the same as the one you see? Like with my father, your form does not seem to be set in stone... Perhaps you are not the only person I am talking to at the moment."

Cura froze for a moment, considering his words. She was an amalgam of beings, technically. She nodded in response, but no words could suffice for an explanation on her part.

"No wonder, given the nature of Akatosh. This must be the reason why Akatosh chose you to be his messenger." he stood up, looming over Cura in that brief moment, a sense of determination in his posture. "If I were only allowed, I would pass the Amulet of Kings to you and leave the Empire in your hands. Such is my weakness. But that could never be forgiven. For it would be a betrayal of all who believed in me, and of myself." he sat back down. "So I'll keep struggling. No matter how many call me an incompetent ruler, no matter how much the Alessian Order tries to erase me from History.

Cura inquired, "Wait... so... do you intend to change the past? Wouldn't that cause a..."

Emperor Belharza shook his head. "Not change the past: complete it. The only way I can mend the Time Wound is through fulfilling my duty as was intended before the Alessians sundered time in their foolishness."

A memory briefly came to Cura: when she'd entered Alessia's vision, she found the Bull Elder Scroll on the nightstand beside her bed. Was it possible that it was supposed to belong to Belharza after Alessia's passing? Had she made a mistake by taking it when she did? Was that Scroll going to warn him of the trials he'd face, but her prompt grabbing of it somehow altered History? Could such a thing be possible?

Cura's mind drifted to the Time Wound at the Throat of the World, and the Time Wound which brought her here, to this odd prison connected to the past, and yet isolated. She wondered if her Dragon Soul's Dragon Breaks across Coldharbour were what made this conjoining of eras possible.

Cura stood before Emperor Belharza, her gaze steady and her voice resolute. "Your Majesty," she began, "the nature of time is a vast and complex weave, one that holds the threads of our existence together yet remains ever elusive."

Belharza nodded, his eyes reflecting the weight of his crown. "Indeed, Vigilant. Time governs all, yet it is the one thing over which we have little dominion. What is it you propose?"

Cura took a deep breath, her mind racing with possibilities. "I speak of the Dragon Breaks, the fractures in time's domain. They show us that the past isn't entirely immutable. If we can understand these breaks, we could change the past to complete the future."

The Emperor leaned forward, intrigued. "A bold claim. But to alter my era is to tread upon the very fabric of reality. What consequences might such actions unleash upon your present?"

"The risks are great," Cura conceded, "but the Scrolls speak of such possibilities, of paths not taken and futures unwritten. We stand at a crossroads, where choice and consequence converge."

Belharza's hand rested upon the armrest, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm. "The Elder Scrolls are not mere tools to be used. They are the keepers of knowledge, yes, but also of warnings. Their prophecies are double-edged."

"True, but consider the potential," Cura pressed on. "To right wrongs that have long since echoed through history, to bring about a future where peace reigns over war, prosperity over poverty."

The Emperor stood, his presence commanding the room. "And yet, who are we to decide which wrongs to right, which course of history is the correct one? Your present is built upon the past, however flawed it may be."

Cura met his gaze, her conviction unwavering. "We are the guardians of our people, Your Majesty. It falls upon us to consider not just your past or my present, but the future of our Empire."

Belharza walked to the window, looking out upon the expanse of Time surrounding them. "The weight of such decisions is heavy. One must consider not only the moral implications but the very essence of our existence."

"Time is the river in which we all swim, Your Majesty," Cura replied softly. "But what if we could navigate its currents, steer its course towards a brighter horizon?"

The Emperor turned, a thoughtful expression etched upon his face. "Perhaps. But we must also be wary of the tides. To change the course of a river is to affect all who depend upon its waters."

Cura nodded, understanding the metaphor. "We would proceed with caution, with the wisdom of the Scrolls as our guide. The past, present, and future are interconnected, a tapestry that we must handle with care."

Belharza sighed, the burden of his title apparent. "It is a heavy tapestry, indeed. One that requires the strength of will and the clarity of purpose. Tell me, are you prepared for such a task?"

"I am," Cura affirmed, her voice steady. "For it is not just my duty, but my calling. To protect not only the present but to ensure the future of all peoples."

The Emperor returned to his throne, the decision weighing upon him. "Then let us ponder this path further. For every action, there is a reaction, and we must be prepared for all eventualities."

Cura bowed, her heart buoyed by the Emperor's consideration. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Together, we shall navigate the currents of time, for the sake of all who come after us."

Cura handed Belharza the Elder Scroll which brought her to this pocket dimension. "This Scroll is yours, regardless; go forth with Akatosh's blessing."

Cura's thoughts seemed to come together once more, and she shook a chill from her body. Something had pushed her, just now; she was uncertain to what it was, but she was compelled to hold this conversation, somehow.

Belharza accepted the Scroll. "I thank you; I will do my best to navigate these treacherous waters." he placed the Elder Scroll on the corner of his desk. "Tell me: what is your name?"

"Vigilant Cura Stormcloak." Cura answered.

"Cura Stormcloak. A lovely name," Belharza said kindly. "it exudes warmth and power."

"I have affairs that call me, as well, Emperor Belharza." Cura informed him. "I would like to stay longer, but I must go."

Belharza nodded, "Certainly. One such as yourself no doubt has a myriad of trials to contend with. I wish you the best, Vigilant Cura. Walk with the Divines."

Cura smiled as she approached the portal. She turned back to face the noble minotaur one last time. "Thank you, your majesty. You, as well."

As she left the Emperor's private quarters, the weight of their conversation lingered in the air, a testament to the gravity of their discourse and the monumental decisions that lay ahead. For in the world of Tamriel, the flow of time was both a gift and a challenge, one that required the utmost respect and the wisest of stewardship. As Cura continued through the boundless space, she was content with the knowledge that perhaps she'd nudged time in the right direction.

After what seemed an eternity of wandering, Cura found herself once again at the Inquisition Court in Coldharbour, immediately besieged by questions from her allies.

Cura nodded. "Yes, yes. I found him. The real Belharza." she got that out of the way first and foremost, as it was the most relevant question.

Varla's eyes widened and he stepped forward. "And? What did he say? What was he like? Was he..."

"He was a very kind, and soft-spoken white-furred Minotaur." Cura confirmed.

"Good gods!" Sabrina almost laughed, and covered her mouth quickly. "Saint Alessia was into some weird things, I'll give her that."

"So the legends were true..." Sir Amiel scratched the hairs on his chin.

"Well, apparently Morihaus has taken various different forms." Cura shrugged her shoulders. "At any rate - I've liberated him from the shackles that held him down for eternity. He promises that he will help me at some point. And he has the Elder Scroll that rightfully was his."

Carcette affirmed with a nod. "By this act, you've steered the currents of history. The bestowal of the Elder Scroll upon Belharza has guaranteed the unfolding of historical events as destined: the emergence of Reman Cyrodiil, the Planemeld, the Warp in the West, the ascendancy of the Aldmeri Dominion, and Alduin's resurgence have all occurred precisely as they were meant to."

A hush fell over the assembly as they processed this truth.

"But how is this possible?" Sabrina questioned. "Wouldn't Cura need to have existed already to be here right at this moment to have set these events in motion?"

Carcette glossed over the intricacies. "The establishment of the Aldmeri Dominion allowed for Elenwen's appointment over Skyrim, and the Great War raged on without interruption. Ulfric Stormcloak fell into Thalmor captivity." She continued, "Everything aligns with destiny. The Warp in the West reshaped High Rock's terrain and transformed the Iliac Bay. My birth occurred as per normal, I presided over the Hall of the Vigilant, Cura was delivered unto our doorstep, and all events have occurred, leading us to this destined moment."

The group looked amongst themselves to see if anyone had vanished, or if anything was out of place, but nothing was different at all.

Cura rubbed the back of her neck, perplexed. "So... you're suggesting that my actions have simply ensured the continuity of my own experiences?"

"That's correct."

"Did she alter the course of history, only to bring about the events that have already transpired?" Varla inquired, attempting to understand the paradox himself.

Sabrina furrowed her brow in confusion. "Cura, did you... alter history by preserving it?"

Cura pondered the conundrum, trying to make sense of the situation. However, no matter how she approached it, the logic eluded her. Resigned, she just gave a noncommittal shrug. "Okay."

She led the way out of the Inquisition Court. Next, the group decided that they would head to Narfin's Inquisition Court to save Sir Juncan and Sir Gregory from the danger they were in, if it were at all possible.

Cura could feel a nagging sensation, however: they were nearing the heart of the Alessian conundrum. She'd freed Belharza, but there were more sins that needed to be dug up before she would be ready to claim the Amulet of Kings. Cura had to commit these lessons to memory: otherwise the future would be doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.

She hoped that someday, somehow, she would see Belharza again. His gentle demeanour and humble disposition warmed her heart. Especially after all she'd seen thus far. It was a far cry from the wickedness she'd been bombarded with from his era. As they walked, Cura glanced over at Varla, who seemed much more confident now that he had a new direction in his life. Though, it was clear that a shadow still haunted his past. Perhaps soon the group would have to find their way to Malada itself: the definitive place of Alessian slaughter, which sent its echoes into the future.

Cura placed a gentle hand on Varla's arm and gave him a gentle shake as they exited into the dulling red skies of Coldharbour. Something was different about it, but none could say for certain.

"So, there you are." came the voice of Savos Aren, who, with Mirabelle Ervine, awaited the group in the streets.

"You've done something to the realm, it seems." Mirabelle gestured upwards to the formerly-orange skies which were now far more desaturated. "It would seem the more anguished souls you've set free, the weaker this realm is becoming. Though; we knew that already."

"Coldharbour is like a Soul Gem, requiring souls for its sustenance." Savos Aren revealed. "Jhunal told us this. It is a living entity in and of itself; and Molag Bal is a prisoner within it, as well. Truly, its Original inhabitant: the Stone-Fire."

"Whatever you're doing, Cura; continue." Mirabelle entreated her. "The Red Stone will yet starve."

Korn, who stood nearby panting, looked around at the slowly-corroding hellscape with eagerness to see the destruction of that which has inflicted such agony upon Nirn.

Cura readjusted her hood, affirming, "I will ensure that Stendarr's mercy and justice prevail in this realm."

She gazed at the towering pillar of red light, the barrier that jeered at her. It seemed to mock her determination, unaware that she had forsaken her chance to flee not out of fear, but because her escape would grant Molag Bal reprieve.