Part 3 Chapter 1: Aftermath
Two men helped Vanir get up. They laid him down on one of the cots and propped him upright, at his request. He looked around. Corpses littered the ground in Ald Ruhn, but the flames had stopped. Smoke rose, but there was no fire. The Skar was gone, destroyed when the Great Gate rose. Less than half his men had survived, and even the Ashlanders had heavy casualties. The Nerevarine had left; he had business in other areas. The few soldiers who survived were packing up to leave; nobody wanted to stay in this terrible place. They left to Gnisis, or Ghostgate. He had never been in such a battle. It was fierce, and he had almost died. He sat under the shade of some rubble the next day as the hot sun burned down on them mercilessly. Had the arrows been a little more to the left, he would have been dead. Sylvestor had spoken with him briefly and left for Ahnassi. An-Jar mysteriously disappeared. He eventually took the Silt Strider home. He hopped down onto the cot and slept, once more dreaming of his past.
Vanir and Orgok trudged ahead of the group. The two trainees were much more fit than the reluctant others. They looked forward to serving. Since his childhood, Vanir had always wanted to serve Morrowind and the Legion. He was first assigned to sweeping in Fort Buckmoth. Even then, he was determined to become the best sweeper in the Legion. He was eventually allowed to begin training. His skill with blades, short or long, was much more than that of the others. He didnt use a shield often: he either wielded two katanas or tantos, or used one and switched hands frequently. This wasnt what made him different from the other soldiers, however. What made him different was that he didnt want the fame, or glory. He wanted to just serve, and serve he did. He studied the tactics, practiced and excelled in combat, and had more endurance and will than anyone in the groups. He had even corrected a Knight on a battle tactic, improving it largely.
One day he was out sparring with three trainees, Orgok and two others, when they recieved news that a General was in the area. He was excited, as he knew the general was picking assistants. He had to be one of them. It was his only chance. Soon they lined up for him. He walked down the line, examining the young men. He got to Vanir, eyed him, and spoke.
"You are the one I have heard about? A Dunmer, yes, with all the descriptions I have heard. I could use you. Have you ever fought in a battle?"
Vanir gulped, "No sir, but I have fought in simulation battles before. I know how to fight."
The general raised an eyebrow, "Do you know how to survive in the wilderness for weeks on end, or run across the length of Vvarvenfell in pursuit of someone?"
"Yes sir, I have never been worn out from running, and I know the terrain better than some knights."
Vanir woke and got up. He put on some clothes, walked over to the shore, and stared at the rising sun. Of his 32 years of fighting in the Legion, he had watched four sunrises. They were a treat for him, a sign that a new day would come.
Two years later a war between Skyrim and Morrowind erupted, with fierce battles going back and forth in Morrowind. The Dunmer had refused to leave the province unprotected, and instead stayed and defended from attacks. Vanir had fought many battles against them, and Sylvestor was always by his side
He was woken up by a knock on the door. He strode over and answered it. Dread filled his heart when he saw who it was. A soldier was there.
"Sir, we need you to help with Mar Gaan. It has been taken by the Nords, just as Ald Ruhn had been taken by the Daedra. We need a leader," He frowned.
"I'll be there in two days time," Vanir answered.
Part 3 Chapter 2: Two sides of a man
Vanir sat in his well-appointed tent at the base camp about a mile from the battlefront which was now only a few hours north of Ald Ruhn, a letter from Vivec in his hands and a puzzled frown creating a furrow down the center of his forehead. Even though the war was in its final phase, Vivec elected to remain at Vivec City without explanation. He assured Vanir that he had full faith in his ability to conduct operations on his own but that he would not miss the final fray for anything. He wanted to witness first hand the battle that would bring peace to the province at last. Vivec's letters were full of praise and encouragement for his general but they left Vanir disturbed and discontent rather than reassured.
"Is something wrong?" asked Sylvestor, steam from the plate in his hand wreathing around his head in the chilly air. He set Vanir's dinner in front of him on his desk, knowing that the general preferred to dine alone on nights before a battle so he could collect his thoughts. Sylvestor turned away to pour Vanir some wine, unsure if he would receive an answer to his question and totally unconcerned whether he did or not. He wasn't prying. He simply wanted Vanir to know that he was always conscious of his feelings and was pleased to be a confidante should the general need one.
Vanir glanced at his friend and sighed. "I don't know, Sylvestor. It's unlike Vivec to avoid battles. When he was younger he commanded them himself, and now he sits at Vivec City and entrusts it all to me. I'm worried that he's keeping something from me."
"He's old, sir, and maybe tired." Sylvestor wasn't sure that his words would sound as reassuring as he intended.
Vanir set aside the letter and picked up a fork, distractedly shifting around the food on his plate, his stomach too agitated to permit hunger. "Yes... but we've won a number of resounding victories lately and in a matter of weeks we may achieve what Uriel had sought for twenty years: peace in the Empire. It's hard to imagine, isn't it, Sylvestor. Peace. No more killing. Vivec should be here to see this war finish. I can't believe he's missing it."
"He knows you can do it without him." Sylvestor sat down in a nearby chair, sensing that Vanir needed to talk.
"I... I need him here. I need his council. It is not enough communicating by letter. I haven't actually seen him since last spring." Vanir stared at his friend again. "I need his company," he said, his voice no more than a whisper. "I suppose that I just miss him." He smiled derisively. "Maybe I just want him to personally accept my gift of peace... to hear him say how much it means to him."
"He's a father to you, isnt he?"
Vanir didn't reply. He didn't need to. He simply laced his fingers under his chin and stared at the candles beside his plate, the light flickering on the food.
Sylvestor studied his general, the furrowed brow, the hooded eyes, the slumped shoulders. He offered a gentle suggestion. "Maybe Vivec just wants you to tell him that. Tell him that you need him. Sometimes you are so strong people don't believe you need anybody."
Vanir looked at Sylvestor, startled, a question in his eyes. "People really see me that way?" Sylvestor nodded. "Do you?"
"You are strong, but I see a different side of you too... a side that most others do not. I've seen you playing with your little daughter, reading and writing difficult letters to your wife, agonizing over battle plans, grieving the loss of men who have fallen. Here...," Sylvestor pushed Vanir's plate closer to him. "Eat your supper before it gets even colder... then write to Vivec telling him how you feel and that you need him here." Sylvestor grasped Vanir's forearm and looked sincerely into the troubled red eyes. "He'll come here for you no matter what his problem is."
Part 3 Chapter 3: A Dying God
Vanir Dres stood in the Ashlands north of Ald Ruhn. Blackened stumps dotted the barren landscape where dead trees stood in the gusty winds just days ago. Ashes swirled, making it difficult to distinguish the new and fresh from the old and dead on this frigid, Frost Fall morning in 4E 002
He should be euphoric, he thought, but instead he felt only dread at what the coming weeks might bring. He and his men had swept victoriously through the Nord's territory in Morrowind in the past few months, their strength and vigor fired by the knowledge that it was almost over -- that only a few pockets of resistance remained-and they were now down to their final battle. Today could be the day that brought peace at last to the empire. He should be euphoric.
But he was not.
On a hill overlooking the battlefield where his men now moved into position awaiting their general's orders, Vivec stood, his thin frame heavily cloaked against the biting winds. Vanir had been shocked when he had first seen his emperor a week ago after being apart for almost ten months. How frail he was! How sickly. His invincible god was obviously invincible no more. When Vanir had embraced him he had feared the old man's brittle bones would snap. It was clear that he was dying and that his death would bring a frightening new regime to the empire and leave a gaping wound in Vanir's heart unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Even now he felt his chest constrict painfully at the thought of losing the man he loved as a father. And when that happened, Helseth would become all powerful-an irresponsible, spiteful, dangerous king-and Vanir knew already that he could never serve such a man even though Vanir had had a chance to alter the situation through a method that he just couldn't submit to. He would ask Vivec for his release and return to his family in Seyda Neen and run from the inescapable death of his beloved god. He had never considered himself a coward but the thought of watching Vivec slowly wither and die like leaves on an oak tree under autumn's frost was too much to bear. Vanir had already lost one father; he could not bear to lose another.
He would go home where he belonged, to the comforting arms of his loving wife and daughter, and resume his interrupted life as a father. He would sire more children and watch them grow up happy and strong and healthy and he would revel in his grandchildren and-the gods be willing-great-grandchildren.
Vanir looked at the scorched earth at his feet and used the toe of his worn, dusty boot to scrape aside some dirt and ash, searching for indication of life in this hellish place. A delicate green sapling was all he sought. Just a sign that something still lived in this dead and desolate land-would regenerate it-and that his life would rejuvenate too. He found no sapling. Instead, his nostrils were assaulted with acrid smoke, his throat burned and his eyes stung and watered. He would try to convince himself that the unshed tears that blurred his eyes were caused by the smoke. He blinked to soothe them and swallowed hard.
His men were ready, he knew, for this final battle and they, too, could envision their homes within their grasp. They were ready to follow their brave general's every move, jump to his every command-this man who had led them safely through battle after battle. He would end this interminable war and send them all home, they believed. But all of that was in the future, however close or distant, and now they needed to focus on the task at hand, the final battle, and Vanir did too.
He squared his shoulders and felt the comforting weight of the trappings of his Duke's Silver Cuirass, cape and furs. Slowly he raised his head and focused his thoughts on the battle ahead. He took a deep, steadying breath then turned away, only to hesitate, his eye caught by a little touch of color in this gray, bleak land. It was a robin, a very small one, in a place where it was far too early in the year to see robins. It perched upon a barren twig, bouncing slightly in the cold breeze, seemingly unaware of the devastation that had been wreaked here and the violence that was still to come. A small smile tugged at Vanir's mouth at finding a touch of beauty and life among the ruins.
As he watched, it fluttered its tiny wings and flew off to the right. A good sign, thought Vanir, and he smiled as he watched it fly until it was swallowed by the leaden winter skies. A good sign, he decided again and he pushed all thoughts from his mind except the task at hand-winning the upcoming battle. His face hardened into the impermeable mask that so terrified his enemies, emotionless and unreadable, signaling to the world that he was ready to meet and defeat any obstacle that stood between himself and what he wanted.
He turned gracefully, his long cape swirling around his knees, and headed across the dreary field back towards his men who awaited his orders... and to the god that he loved so dearly, and for whom Vanir would gladly sacrifice his own life on the battlefield to grant him his dying wish-peace and stability in Morrowind.