Your last line is a gem! Awesome Write!!

I will echo the sentiments of the other comments. The exchange with Martin and Awtwyr's humility are both very well done. Awesome write!

@Cardboard Box: Thanks for noticing, the nit has been picked. Well, more like carefully pierced with a white-hot needle, but still.

I always felt the game tried to do a decent job with Martin. One day, he's a priest doing his work in the temple, the next, Daedra have attacked, the city had been captured and then re-taken, and then the guy/gal that saved the city comes up and says "Hey, buddy, guess what? You're emperor!" The voice acting by Sean Bean is good about getting it across, but the player's own dialogue options are rather...limited. Glad that you think I could change that.

@Mistress of the Horse: High praise coming from Julian's own personal scribe. Though to be fair, I think my young wipper-snapper Breton's just a little bit less altruistic than our favorite Anvil-bred veteran. The more people that claim the title 'Hero of Kvatch,' the less time the assassins have to hunt him down.

Batul was always one of my favorite characters. For as much practical aid she can be before heading into battle, the game does a great job of making her a person you can connect with. She remains one of my top five favorite smiths in the game. She's also my favorite she-orsimer of Oblivion.

@Grits: As above, so again, though it's tough to compare wanting to ditch assassins with losing one's entire family. As for the equipment arrangement, I have Roman re-enactors to thank for that. Spare weapons could be carried on the inside of a Roman scutum, so if you lost one weapon in the heat of battle, you had a serviceable replacement or three to continue on with the killing until Mars was satisfied for another day.

And yes, Weebum-Ja is indomitable. I often wonder if the scales in her hide contain unusually high concentrations of metal.

@ the Old Paladin: Thank you. It's high praise indeed to have one such as yourself state that Awtwyr has "quiet nobility."

Now, about that bet on dragons eating the undesirable count and countess...?

@ Malx: Thank you again for your dedication, both here, and on the rest of the forum. And hey, it's easy to make the last line a gem. You just find a point in the story, take an axe, and then sand and polish the edge to a brilliant luster.

@ The-Rick-Who-Is-Not-This-Rick: Thanks again for your advice. I must admit, I find it much easier to keep the flow going if I break the posts down. Your advice on length has helped me stop writing research papers as narratives, and hopefully cut down on mistakes wriggling in.

@ Omnes (That's Latin for 'All'): As always, nit-finding appreciated. I can barely be trusted to my own mind, so the help is definitely appreciated.

We last found that Martin was willing to at least believe that Awtwyr wasn't an emissary of Sheogorath. We now spend some time...thinking.

---------------------------------------------------------



I tried to convince Martin to take the horse first, but he wouldn’t have it. “I’ve healed a fair number of people coming to the Chapel with injuries,” he had said with only minor annoyance. “You’re tired, exhausted were it not for the stamina restoratives you’ve consumed, but that can only mitigate the need for sleep for so long. At some point, the body requires rest. If we must cover ground until after dark, we’ll get farther with you on the horse.”

What bothered me most was the fact that I knew he was right before he tried to convince me. I had been on marches, fought some skirmishes, and taken the night watches that were every soldier’s due. I knew how far my body could go, how far it would go, and I would reach that limit before Martin did. No. Emperor. Emperor Martin Septim. Must remember that. Must remember to think of him as emperor. I was slouched forward in the saddle, as Martin walked beside the horse on the road. The Gold Road was one of the main arteries of commerce, well maintained and heavily traveled. As such, it was kept paved and generally free of the holes or breaks that could cripple a horse or ruin a wagon-wheel. For now, it meant I could trust more to Emperor Martin to guide the horse while I tried to rest in the saddle. I couldn’t sleep or nap riding, but I felt some of the fatigue ease out of me as I rode. Martin did a fine job of keeping pace, his stride surprisingly long and confidant for a priest recently told he was emperor.

We reached the point to turn off shortly before sunset, and I dismounted to walk beside Martin while leading the horse. Thankfully, we had not run into any bandits, probably due as much to luck as to the fact that the burning of Kvatch had made the area less favorable to outlaw bands. They would have retreated to their camps and hidden refuges to wait out the inevitable increase in Legion activity or avoid whatever evil force had visited the land. Either way, once the conflict was less likely to catch them in the crossfire and the fear of destroyed city glazed over by passing days, the outlaws would re-emerge. Until then, it was prudent to press the advantage of solitude and avoid contact. Any person we met on the road could as easily be an outlaw, a refugee, or a waiting assassin.

Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse. It had occurred to me that I never bothered to learn the name of the paint horse, but worrying over a detail struck me as absurd in that moment. After seeing to the animal’s needs, I joined Martin by the fire for our meal.

“Does it strike you as strange to be here?” Martin asked, staring at the stars.

“Honestly, Sire, it does not. This past week, I met Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, a man that had been my emperor since before I was born, I man I had served for years during my time in the Legion. Only, I met him in a prison cell, by chance, due to being arrested for a bar brawl I shouldn’t have started. From there, it only got more interesting. This pales by comparison.”

“And since? Are you certain that this week hasn’t all been one long dream, maybe for the both of us?”

“Who can say? If it is, it’s the most vivid and convoluted dream I’ve ever had. And the worst nightmare I’ve had.” I took the skin of water, drained some, then passed it to Martin. “You seem to be taking it well.”

“It’s not a matter of taking it well or poorly. In a few days’ time, I’ve learned of the death of the emperor, seen my home mostly destroyed by daedra, witnessed the reclamation of an entire city, and been told that Emperor Uriel was my father. I guess I’m still trying to piece everything together.” Martin shook his head, than turned to look at me. “You should get some rest. You’re far more tired than I, and I could use the opportunity to think. I’ll wake you for second watch, but for now, you need sleep.”

I nodded, taking the travel blanket and turning in for rest. The last thing I heard before the darkness of sleep was a low chant to Akatosh and Kynareth, one often used by travelers for speed on a journey and safety from storms.

I awoke slightly past my allotted time, Martin still up and staring into the night. My rising caught his attention, and I spent a moment thankful that he had kept himself alert through his contemplations. I moved to sit next to him, then made a show of studying the position of Masser and Secunda.

“Looks as though it’s about my time for the watch, Sire,” I finally said. “Seems I should have woken earlier."

“Yes, but I had some thinking to do, and you had a need for the sleep. And please, I think you should stop calling me ‘Sire.’ For one, I must still speak with Jauffre.”

“My apologies, but what you are, you are. A thought or desire alone does not necessarily change that.”

“Then, consider that by using any honorific, you mark me out for my enemies. Are you not supposed to be keeping me alive?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but paused for a moment as his words sunk home. I had waited until we were alone before saluting him as Emperor of Tamriel. “I concede the point, Martin,” adding emphasis to the address. “Might I ask what you were thinking on?”

“What is the greatest trouble of your soul?” he asked, looking out to the surroundings.

“Do you mean that rhetorically, or are you truly asking me?” I replied.

Martin turned towards me, raised an eyebrow, and simply said “Yes,” accompanied by a small nod.

“I am not yet ready to say mine. If that troubles you, take the pack horse and continue, I will not try to bar your passage. The guilt I feel now is the struggle, and I have not yet fed that to the fire.”

“You would feed your guilt to a fire?” Martin asked, the barest hint of the question on his voice.

“Pardon. It’s something that I was taught by a Redguard Swordmaster who thought I was too distracted by what was around me. He called it ‘Feeding the Fire in the Vacuum.’ It’s a way to get past the shortcomings of ourselves and to better understand the true nature of reality. For a philosopher, he was incredibly easy to understand.”

“Ah,” replied Martin. “I know of what you speak. Priests of Akatosh will, before they are raised, be taken to the Temple of the One for a night of meditation before the Dragonfires. We are not told anything beforehand, but are asked questions later. Some question us about the thoughts we had during the night. Some question us about our brethren, society and its ills. Some ask us about the true nature of totality. The responses determine much about where we are sent, and how we serve.”

“So,” I said, “Is that what allows your order to separate itself from the other Eight?”

“Actually, no,” said Martin. “Priests of Zenithar will follow a similar ritual, and some few of each order will also undergo the others’ ritual in preparation for theological debates between the acolytes of our two patrons. Additionally, the Psijic Order makes use of another, closely related process for similar purposes.”

“But why? Do you each simply want to be able to test yourselves differently from each other, to evaluate the initiates of your own order?” Something about the way he said it made sense to me. And something else did not.

“Yes, and no. It is impossible to fully answer without some basic preparation. But I will say this, the answer lies in Anuiel.”

“Do you know any man, mer, or beastfolk that have grasped the answer?”

“A few. Some to a greater degree than others. There are far more individuals that are capable of doing so than they themselves realize. Frequently, the only outward indication is a degree of exceptionalism that does not seem probable.”

“Does that include yourself?” I asked. Perhaps if I could not convince, he could convince himself, thinking that he was convincing me.

“Perhaps,” said Martin, giving a tiny half-laugh and turning the corners of his mouth up in the faintest smile. “Perhaps.”

We sat for a few more moments, neither of us looking directly at each other, both surveying the landscape. Finally, Martin got up, dusted off his clothes, and turned towards the bedrolls. “I think I have found some of my answers tonight. I will acquiesce to your wishes and rest, though I ask you wake me in the morning. I fear I may not be the most eager of people to rise with the sun. Please, try not to kick me awake.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied. Martin settled in, and I settled down for the watch. His words had given me food for thought. It brought me back to what Nelthan had taught me.

Once you spill seawater onto a tree, you cannot force the roots to give up what they have drunk. Rinse your mistake with clean water, if you can. If not, then wait. The tree may live, or it may die. Do not wallow in your grief, for your misery comes from a desire for that tree. If it lives, it lives, and nothing more need be said. If it dies, it dies. Cut it down, split its branches, feed the logs to the fire. It may yet provide you warmth, cook your food, drive away the darkness. What has passed is in the past. Leave it there.

The trouble was following through on that advice. Nelthan had warned me that I would take it too quickly. I had tried before, feeding everything to the fire, but it hadn’t been consumed. I stood, pacing in circles to watch every approach, and trying once again to kindle the Fire that burned in the Void.

------------------------------

EDIT: Nit fixed.

Let's get the nit out of the way first: Seems to me the closing quote got fed to the fire!

Speaking of feeding the fire, it's a great analogy for dealing with guilt. I came across a similar method for dealing with fear - write "fear" in the palm of your hand, then 'eat' it. Continue until your fear is all 'eaten.' Not suitable for combat, but great for dealing with the anticipation of a nightmare waiting to happen. I'll have to find a place to use it in my fiction.

And already Martin is dispensing sage wisdom beyond his years! As a priest, he should be unable to resist giving helpful advice to our (relatively) young Breton warrior.

And how appropriate that Martin should point out that calling him "Sire" before they are safe only makes him a target for assassins.

I enjoyed the logic in deciding who rode the horse. I also liked Awtwyr's reasoning as to why they did not encounter bandits.

I'm with Rider in thinking Martin was wise to have Awtwyr knock of the Sire honorific until they were safer.

'Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse.'
This, along with establishing a 'watch schedule' shows a solid and prudent awareness of the danger they are in as well as a fine awareness of their surroundings and how to survive.

@ Acadian: I figured I should have added an in-game justification to the ease with which one may fast-travel to Weynon Priory. And yes, Awtwyr has a very developed situational awareness and assessment ability. He once failed in that regard, something we begin to touch upon in this next part of our story. The lesson has stayed with him, forcing him to think about every factor to avoid getting caught up in a terrible situation again.

@Hawt E.coli Ryder: Thanks, Nit picked. Glad you picked up on Martin's inability to stop being a priest, as well as his more practical side and desire not to be called 'Sire.' And now I'm going to be looking for the "Eat the Fear" sequence in Julian's story. Should I assume it's an old habit making its use known again after such a long time?

For those who are wondering, the actual technique of "Fire in the Void" is an almost direct parallel to Robert Jordan's "Flame in the Void" used in the Wheel of Time series. The process itself is actually based on Zen Buddhist meditation techniques, some of which I picked up from a Buddhist Philosophy professor/adviser/confidant at my school. I actually learned the practice before ever picking up that first book, and recognized it almost immediately. Other issues with the series aside, it is one of the things that translates accurately, and I felt that priests of Akatosh (or Auri-El, the Soul of Anuiel, the Soul of Aurbis in the Void) would use the "Dragonfires in the Night" for similar reasons in seeking to understand themselves and the nature of reality.

Just as they call it the "Temple of the One," so too is it a place where a manifestation of "Oneness" may exist on Mundus.

@ all: Thanks go out to those that continue to stay with Awtwyr on his journey. I know update progress has been slow and highly irregular. Illa Vita Est (That's Life!). Your continued support has meant a lot to me as I find motivation to pick up with a soon-to-be out of date story (though if Athlain is any indication, I've got a few years' grace period after November to wrap up everything. Thanks for the example, Trey!).

As always, finding those pesky nits is appreciated. Let's not blame the Forum this time. Instead, we'll blame bad Copy-Paste execution on my browser (Shh!, it's just a joke, 'Zilla. I'd never abandon you for IE.)

In this next installment, we learn a bit about Awtwyr's upbringing, the topography and meaning of 'home,' and two men with intertwined destinies find out what the dark spot is on the other's soul.

-------------------------------------------------



Martin and I spent the next days walking and riding, with a majority of the time spent on foot. I became suitably impressed with my new emperor’s ability to travel on his own feet, though his remarks about visiting outlying areas for his priestly duties explained a great deal. While he couldn’t force us to split time on the horse equally, if he had spent time in the Legion he would have had an easier time of it than the average recruit.

By the third evening we were properly into the region called the Colovian Highlands. A casual remark by Martin, and a half-muttered reply from me, jump-started the seemingly inevitable conversation about our personal histories.

“Well, we’re in the Highlands now, Awtwyr. Rough travels from here on. Hill and mountain country till we reach Chorrol,” said Martin as he prepared the low fire.

“Ach, these be wee bonny hills where I’m from,” I said, a bit louder than intended and not in proper Tamriellic.

“‘Bonny hills?’ I’ve heard that expression twice before, and a heavier form of that accent. You’re from Shornhelm, aren’t you?”

“Aye. I grew up in a small village in the north, west and a little south of the City of Old Gate. We’re located in one of the valleys that sit between the mountain shoulders, wide enough for passage but still in sight of permanently frozen peaks.”

“I take it you’re comfortable with high places, then,” said Martin.

I nodded. “Shornhelm’s portion of the Wrothgarian Mountains contains the highest peaks in High Rock. Orsinium and Evermore have peaks with steeper climbs and a greater difference of vertical height for individual mountains. But the valleys and dales in Shornhelm all sit higher, and we don’t have a large number of ravines or canyons. Beyond us, to the west and north, are the foothills that slope down to the coast, but most of that is still higher than what we’ll see till we get closer to Chorrol. The closest approximation I can give is that there are mountains of middling size, all sitting on a single large plateau that drops out to the forested coastal lowlands. It’s not an alpine region like some parts of Skyrim or the Reach, and the climate’s moderated by oceanic currents.”

“You surprise me,” said Martin. “And until now, I didn’t think you had an unusual accent. You drop it well.”

“Habit, actually, though now it’s even more natural to speak without it than with it. Eight years in the Legion will do that to you. Otherwise lives would be lost,” I replied. Martin raised an eyebrow, and made a small gesture to continue. “Accents, idioms, and figures of speech that vary too greatly can disrupt communication. It’s why the Legions will recruit from the province they’re stationed in before they rotate to their next province. Enlistment training isn’t just about teaching new fish how to fight. It’s about breaking down the barriers that will keep soldiers from working together properly, turning them into members of a community that share a mission and a way of life. If there’s something that’ll interfere with that, the pilii priorum will catch it before it becomes a problem. They can be pretty inventive about it.”

“You speak as one from experience,” said Martin, inviting but not accusing. If he could deal with the Elder Council in the same way, he’d make a truly remarkable emperor. If we could get him crowned. If he believed Jauffre after getting to Weynon Priory. Plenty of “If’s”.

“Pretty inevitable when you’re talking about recruits from the Wrothgarians. Bretons and Orcs thrown together in a mix, and this was a mere nine years ago. It’s only been 16 years since the Warp occurred, and there’s still a lot of deep seated bias in the area.”

“Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that? Have you been to High Rock recently?”

“I visited home after my discharge came through, but didn’t stay. Met my new nephews, and realized that my brother Roland was better suited to the family land than I. So I came to the Imperial City for the first time right after. Spent a week there. Got drunk, got thrown in prison for upsetting the wrong watch captain, got put in the wrong cell on the wrong night. Or, alternatively, I was guided to being placed in the right cell at the right time. Depending on your interpretation of events.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

“That was the day the emperor died. And it was he who sent me off on this mission to see his heir crowned,” I said.

“You were there? Were you with him when he died? What happened?” Martin was suddenly sitting upright, more alert and more focused than before. Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.

So, I told him. I explained, from the point where I woke up just before the Blades came to my cell, all the way through my escape from the sewer tunnels. I told him about the assassins that had infiltrated the escape route; I told Martin what little I knew of the Blades, advising that he ask Grandmaster Jauffre for their biographies. I talked about the side tunnels I used to escape, meeting up again with Emperor Uriel Septim VII, and I told him, in detail, the final minutes of his father’s life. I tried to hold back some, but his few pointed questions and inquisitive expression made the story flow like a river from my lips. I told Martin about the deaths of the Blades that had sworn to guard his father’s life. I told him about the rage and misery written across Baurus’s face when he found me. I recounted the most vivid moment of my entire life, when my emperor threw away the precious last minutes of his life to ensure the survival of mine.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. Martin demanded the first watch again, though I had taken it without trouble the night before. “Please. There are prayers I must offer. Whether I am truly Uriel’s son or not, the man was still my emperor, and he was still the anointed of the Nine. Your tale must be intoned, the actions of the emperor sung to the spirits.”

“Then shouldn’t I be the one to pray?” I asked.

“In your own time, yes. But for now, I am still a priest of Akatosh. In some ways, the emperor is the chief priest of our order. Either way, I have a duty that I must fulfill to him.”

I noticed the brief look of…was it regret?…that flashed across Martin’s face. Whether it was for the father he never met, or the emperor he had lost, I didn’t know. I left him to his thoughts and prayers, and turned in for the night.



We continued the next day, after having properly split the night’s watch schedule, and as we traveled on towards Chorrol I found myself telling Martin more about my childhood. I talked about the games I played with my friends, many of whom had gone off on their own, about half returning with wives, betrothals, or even families.

“Too many sons,” I explained. “And that’s mostly unique to my village. Half the lads in a generation will go out, marry some merchant’s heiress or farmer’s daughter and only come back once every few years to see family. Those that return will have helped deal with the surplus of daughters from elsewhere, only for the cycle to repeat again with their children.”

“Hence your height and build?” asked Martin, sitting on the horse.

“Hence my height and build,” I replied. “I can thank healthy infusions from Skyrim and the Western Reach. I’m tall for my village, but not by much. Most of us don’t have much trouble swinging around the larger one-handed and two-handed swords.”

“As so ably demonstrated by your actions back in Kvatch. It seems your decision to enlist in the Legion was fortuitous not only for myself, but for the rest of the survivors.”

I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I said, shooting him a glance from my position beside the horse, “You still haven’t told me anything about yourself. Or am I to imagine that you’ve never had an interesting experience?”

“Changing the topic on me, are we?” asked Martin.

“No. Just pointing out the large discrepancy between how much I know about you, and how much you know about me. Of course, if we were something other than just two men on a journey together, I’d not be in a position to ask such questions…” I trailed off, mouthing the word ‘Majesty’ silently.

“No, you are correct. I was not always what I am. At one time, I was training as a Sorcerer in the Mages Guild.”

“Well, as my powers of observation and assessment have told me, that clearly changed.”

“It changed on account of my own weakness,” said Martin. “There were boundaries that I pushed and broke, prices I paid. Would it surprise you to know that I once acted the role of a conjurer?”

That did surprise me, and I looked up at Martin intently, almost tripping over a large, sunken boulder in the process. Martin continued with his narrative, as though it was not a great admission of guilt. “I and my friends grew reckless. And in our hubris, others died for me. Including my own friends. What of you? You carry some burden with you, else you would not be one who claims the need of Stendarr’s mercy.”

I mulled his words heavily inside my mind. I had once confessed that deed, a few years ago, to the same man that taught me to ignite Fire in the Void. The Redguard had listened to my words, considered my explanations, then rapped me over the head for what he called “Bloody arrogant idiocy, coming from the mouth of a petulant, greedy child.” Much of my guilt had gone, but there was still the seed of its origin hiding in the back of my mind. Keeping it in the dark hadn’t helped. And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

“During my tour in Morrowind, on the second half of the cycle, I led a group of legionaries on a mission for the Duke. We successfully murdered escaped slaves and pacifist abolitionists that were part of a movement called the ‘Twin Lamps.’ And we didn’t know.”

Martin drew rein even before I finished talking. “You did what?” he asked, open shock on his face for the first time.

“Like I said, murder,” I replied, calmly. “Slaughter, really, based on what happened. We thought we were clearing out a violent, outlaw anti-slavery ring. At least, that was what I had figured we were supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the fact that I realized what had really happened. I’d been deceived, myself and the men under my command, for a political goal of dubious morality.”

“Then how did it happen? How come nobody ever heard of it?” Martin looked concerned, probably weighing whether to bolt with the horse now. If he did, I didn’t know if I could catch him.

“It was in Morrowind, Vvardenfell after that whole Nerevarine business wrapped up. In truth, it was just a little after the collapse of the Tribunal. The place was mostly wilderness and native culture with only a few solid footholds of the Empire, the Great Houses still engaged in their land-grab. I’ll explain tonight, the entire story. My actions were the result of a tangled mess of machinations that formed a verifiable vortex for those trying to make any progress in their respective fields.”

“Tonight, then,” said Martin. “And please, excuse my outburst. I’m a Priest of Akatosh, I’ve heard legionaries’ stories before. My anger is that things like this shouldn’t happen, especially if it involved Legion officers and magistrates. I have some knowledge of the chaos of the time in that locale.”

“Tonight, then. We trade stories of failure and death.” Martin sat for a moment, then nodded. After a few more moments of walking, I couldn’t help but add, “You know, I’m actually not dreading the prospect of telling you.”

“Tell me Awtwyr, should I laugh, or weep?” asked Martin.

“I don’t know. You’re the one that’s supposed to understand that sort of thing. Being a priest and all.”

EDIT: Multiple nits fixed. Small admission: the difficulty of actually mulling through this sequence (basically an info-drop used as a means of developing the dynamic between two characters without making it too boring) required the assistance of unearthly powers. Specifically, Sanguine. Several bottles of well-brewed liquid bravely perished to bring you this installment. Honor their brave but inevitable guzzling.

Let's start by saying I really enjoyed this chapter - a nice easy walk, a bit of male bonding, and quite a bit of background for us clueless readers.

Now I want to get the few nits out of my way. First: You have our own feet and his own feet rather close together. It's a bit disruptive to the flow. I would suggest changing the first incidence to on foot.

Next is a change in verb tense in the middle of the paragraph: I'd use slope here.

Your choice of words technically is okay, but I found it a bit startling again. I'd use sunken instead.


And last nit: The proper form here is rein. The King gets the reign, while the horse gets just a mere rein. That's what I'd do to remember which is which!

Now on to better things.

Ah, yes, Julian knows too well what Awytwyr speaks of here. It is the source of her open mindedness when it comes to the different races (though her years in a polyglot town like Anvil didn't hurt). She is judgmental only on the basis of behavior. Unfortunately it doesn't always work that way --

I really appreciated this mildly insolent dig at Martin's insistence to drop the 'Sire.' Awtwyr isn't so subtle in his reminder that Martin is still the Emperor to be.

Do I detect a reference to a certain great fan fic? Well done! Thanks for reminding me of that story.

I couldn't help but chuckle at this bit of dry humor at the end. It shows how well these two men, mere strangers just a few days ago, have grown closer together.

Overall, a really good chapter. I'm still enjoying this story, and plan to continue riding/walking alongside with these two guys. -Majesty-

This is a really interesting journey. It's nice to see the time being taken for this journey being portrayed as both realistic and used for these two men to become friends. I'm betting that friendship will strengthen over time.

'Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.'
Very effective, this.


Nit? “Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that. Have you been to High Rock recently?”
Do you perhaps want a question mark instead of a period after the second sentence?

I am reading, and for death, for glory, for Chorrol, and for bludgeoning objects across the world, I WILL catch up!

Something that stuck out to me, though:

This is not necessary at all. Horses already have excellent dark vision (at the cost of not being able to see the color red). Not only that, but they have a very keen sense of smell, and are quite apt at navigating in the dark. These are animals that only need three hours of REM sleep a week, after all, nighttime operation is paramount to their survival.

Not a nit, as this observation was made by the character who probably doesn't know that, I just thought i'd point that out.

My concern with the November happening is that people will lose interest in their own Oblivion stories and stop writing them. I’ll still be eagerly reading!!

And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

There’s that tactical planning.

I loved listening to Awtwyr fill in some blanks for Martin. There’s so much I’d like to know about our Shornhelm Spellsword. Their little humorous jabs at each other show their friendship growing. Both of them having a tale of failure and death to tell certainly provides some common ground. And the atmosphere of a roadtrip encourages the telling.

Maybe they can risk a campfire tonight, and tell some tales.

Don't worry, most of the people here are straight-up Oblivion fans who won't be continuing on to Skyrim (at least not for a while).

I know I will be getting Skyrim, but if you think that is going to cause problems for my work here, think again.

I might get Skyrim, but definitely not right away. Maybe three years post-release when the price falls.

So no worries. I'm still planning on writing more Oblivion fiction!

ROFL !!! Sanguine's assistance, lol. I just noticed you had updated, (twice). A great two chapters !!

Well, I'm back. I've left appropriate updates in a bunch of threads, and some messages to others. Can't say much more, it is what it is.

@ Malx: My thanks, and my hopes that you find this installment free of such demonic-liquid influence. Your encouragements are a cheer to the heart.

@ Jockey in Fancy Pants: Glad to hear you still plan on keeping up with your Oblivion stuff (even better than I have), and hoping you find the fortitude to wait. Being in the process of re-gifting my 360 edition of Skyrim to my brother for Christmas so I can wait for a reduced-glitch PC version, I am now doing the same. The next game of giant-ball can wait another 18 months, for all I care.

@ Thomas the Kook: Not mentioning any more Skyrim, so that brings us to...Awtwyr's horsemanship. Aye, he knows little of the fine equestrian arts, and will find other means of transport in Cyrodiil more to his liking. Shame he can't get himself a dragon at his beck and call, though...

@ Grits: As we can see, November has come and gone, and it is only now that I go back to the computer. Maybe I'll finish by the time Elder Scrolls VI comes out, yeah? Well, I hope that this teaches you some more of our Shornhelm native, though he's not a technical Spellsword. More like a soldier that's picked up enough skills to perform as a Spellsword in fact, if not in name. But hey, all things must adapt and change, or must die. Who know?

@ Adadian: And how, I wonder, would Buffy deal with Martin? Guess it's a good think Savlian's fallen for her, and she for him, lest I find myself without an emperor to talk to simply because Martin's been enchanted by a Boderi-trained Bravilian Bowgirl. Mostly, though, I think that having Sean Bean as Martin is a lot like being able to talk to Ned Stark and come away with some great lordly advice. But man does Mr. Bean never get the luck. Which brings us to...

@ Destri "Still faster than GRRM" Melarg: Serve returned, and you've had time to take the center for superior court position.

@ All: Awtwyr and Martin have told each other that they are responsible for the deaths of others. Now we have a chance to explore the question of morality, forgiveness, guilt, responsibility, the divines, and philosophy.


*****************************************************

Martin had made the fire somewhat larger than our usual small affair. We had been lucky, finding a site near a pine tree where several large rocks blocked the light from most directions. Careful rigging of the heavy cloth used for sleeping finished our preparations, with the prior’s paint horse given a wide tether to feed, and with some luck, alert us to approaching threats.

“Do not worry,” remarked Martin. “I am well versed with the use of detect life. I should be able to sense life-signs even if the fire upsets my night-vision.”

“A useful spell. I never had the chance to learn it.”

“Are you unskilled with Mysticism?” asked Martin.

“No. I have used soul trap frequently enough to recharge enchanted weapons when issued for a particular task, and countless times I have cast Dispel. I simply did not have the gold to buy the spell, and became practiced at going without the technique.”

“When we are done,” said Martin, “We can see about correcting that oversight. Now, though, we ought to begin.”

Martin sent a small stream of energy into the fire, causing the flames to grow larger and hotter. Weakness to fire. It strengthens the effect of flame. The emperor and I sat like that for a moment, facing each other with the fire between us, the flames growing to consume our vision. Soon the twisting yellow light was all that I was focused on. I began to sweat, beads of perspiration forming on my face, my arms, and across my bared chest.

“When you are ready, we will begin,” said Martin, his voice distant.

I closed my eyes, and opened them again. I saw the parchment with my name and the signature that had started it all. Viguri. Even now, the name stirred feelings of betrayal, disgust, wrath, and shame. I nodded.

“In the Void, there is Light.” Martin intoned the words carefully, dropping his voice to pronounce each syllable. “We feed our distractions to the fire, burning the waste that Light may illuminate our minds. We seek the Void, emptying ourselves of distraction lest the Light cast a shadow, allowing the full Truth we seek to hide.

“Awtwyr, Son of the Clan of Draghoyn, you come now to the Light in the Void. To the Void, we will dispose of the useless weight upon thy soul. To the Light, we shall burn that which is not yours to have. From the Void, we shall find Serenity, pure and real. From the Light, we shall seek Enlightenment, the True Freedom of the Mind.

“Your vision in the Fire is clouded. What do you see?” asked Martin, prompting me to begin.

“It is the letter from Viguri. It is the piece of parchment that opened the path down which I took myself, blind to my conscious and to the warning given to me by my father. The letter asks that I help stop an abolitionist cell associated with the radical side of the Twin Lamps. It’s not an official request, but it might as well be one. Viguri was my training officer and direct superior for a time. He mustered out of the regular service to go work for a group with connections to Duke Vedam Dren. When he was a legionary, he handled situations that could not be seen to have any official hand. I accepted the idea that this was a similar situation, and that Viguri was asking for my help.

“The assignment was supposed to be simplicity itself. An agent working for Viguri would be accompanied by myself and a squadron of the duke’s chosen men. We would head inland to the island to a cave that could be used for smuggling. That was the target. Inside, we were supposed to encounter Argonian radicals, and to kill or capture them. The agent was specific about that. Capture would only be used if an immediate and total surrender was offered by the enemy. We would claim to be a patrol sent with a knowledgeable guide to clear out smugglers and bandits, and that would be that. A friend of mine trusted in such matters brought us a few confiscated weapons from the surplus used for such things. No trail, no worry over deep inquiry, just another job.

“Slavery was such an issue at the time that there were brawls occurring every few weeks. Opinion about government action was extreme, but extreme to both ends and showing little chance of finding a common consensus. Memories of the slave uprising that started the Arnesian War were still recent for the Dark Elves. The Empire’s representative was Duke Vedam Dren. The man was previously Grandmaster of House Hlaalu, brother to a slavery-defending crime lord, and father to the public face of the abolitionist movement. To be seen favoring one side would provoke the other. But by walking his middle path, Dren allowed resentment to build amongst all. For that, though, there was still some semblance of peace, and the threat of Dagoth Ur and the Blight pre-occupied most. The Nerevarine’s triumph brought the slavery question back to the political fore.”

Martin made a gesture with his hands, causing me to look from the fire to him. “I can hear it in your voice, in what you say, and in what you do not say. You blame the system as well, yet you do not hold yourself guiltless. I give, or rather I used to give, counsel to congregants on a regular basis. You don’t approach this the way people usually do. Why?”

“After, I buried myself in philosophy. I felt that the faith of my youth was misplaced. Turning back to religion seemed both hypocritical and wasteful.” I spoke with a careful nonchalance. I had had this debate with priests before. But I had not done so with an emperor. “In doing what I thought was the Nine’s Will, I found myself down a path that ended with the violation of my own morals. Either the gods were not what the priests had said, or the priests of my youth had not perfectly followed the teachings they fed to us. That, or I was simply too cursed to be able to count on their intercession.”

Martin nodded, then spoke slowly. “Tell me, is morality determined by the gods? That is to say, do you believe an act is good or evil because of what a member of the Nine advocates as a moral act?”

“Or do I believe that morality is absolute, that a divine entity does not determine morality but rather is the thing most determined by morality? I’ve been asked this question before. And to answer: Both. Nirn would not be what it is without the Earthbones formed from the sacrifice that occurred in the beginning of the Dawn Era. Yet change comes as a result of the Padomaic forces, and upon us in particular through our connection to Lorkhan and the influence of the Daedra. Witness both the situation in which we find ourselves, you as the last living Septim, and the circumstances that surrounded the death of your great ancestor, for now we worship Talos as a god.”

Martin grunted, but soon started chuckling. “You have been down this road for a decently long time. Clearly, I’m not the first man you’ve told about all this.”

“One of the weapons-masters during my second tour, in Hammerfell. Parts of the local religious customs include a greater prevalence of warrior-monks, where combat training and philosophical discussions are more entwined with each other than romantic ballads and climbing into a paramour’s bedroom window.”

“And this weapons-master?” asked Martin.

“He helped me realize that as much as the Legion and Duke Dren had put me into the position that led me to the actions on that day, I was one of the supporters that blindly bought into the system and kept it working. I threw myself into it, and for that, I may have damned myself.”

“As you have said before. You cut down innocents defenseless against your attacks. You and your men raided an outpost helping escaped slaves, doing so under the cover of rooting out a radical abolitionist group so as to avoid the civil strife and internal violence seen during the Simulacram. Do I have the gist of it?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no. I didn’t realize what I had done, until after I had already done so. It’s always just a little harder to understand an enemy not of your race, and with Argonians, the lines between skinny scrapper and underfed slave are closer than what you see in a Nord or Orc. They resisted, aye, but they resisted because they wanted to live, or to save their brethren, and our purpose for being there was not important to them. We were there, and if they surrendered they would have either been killed or returned to their previous owners. But to us, they were what we thought them to be: bandits and raiders dedicated to a fight that could destroy a province. It wasn’t until after, when we examined their camp that we realized we had been misled.”

“Duke Dren lied,” said Martin. “I am sorry. Does he still govern?”

“Aye, he governs,” I replied, “But I do not know if he lied. I do know Viguri lied. He had been part of a group dedicated to hunting down and exterminating Argonians in Vvardenfell, and may have disguised his motives when dealing with the duke’s office. Then again, Dren might have known all along. His own brother was plotting the duke’s death, but Vedam showed less surprise than disappointment about the plot.”

“And Viguri?”

“Dead. The man he sent to help us turned and killed Viguri, and Viguri’s organization. He deserved no better.” I stared into the fire, feeling no loss or rage about my old optio’s death. That much, at least, I was at peace about.

“Awtwyr,” said Martin, causing me to look up at him. “I’ve listened to men that have served for as long as I’ve been a priest. Some have done worse. All have professed varying degrees of guilt and shame. You have clearly been thinking this through for some time, and as you’ve already pointed out, have had significant guidance to bring you to where you are. I know what you would have done differently. But you were in battle, and from my own brief experiences of the terror that can cause, I cannot fault you for allowing your basic survival instincts to take control of you. So, instead, answer me this: what will you do to prevent it from ever happening again?”

“Treason,” I responded, slowly. “I would, by all accounts of the law, be willing to engage in an act of treason. And based on this past month, I would engage in an act of blasphemy and self-destruction that would doom us all. And I refuse to do that. So instead, I must do the best I can, hope it is enough, and trust that when I allow myself to be used as the sword standing between you and Dagon, I do not commit the same crime twice.”

“And what would be treason?” asked Martin. “You clearly intend to see me safely to Jauffre, despite my initial protestations. As you said when we first met, you could kill me, and nobody would know. Has this attack been so jarring?”

“Not quite. I don’t believe in arbitrarily killing anybody, especially for who their parents are. It comes down to a simple idea, but one profound in the ramifications. A single word I found in a book. Republic.”

“The concept of absolute non-hereditary rule? I can understand that. And I understand why contemporary evidence would argue for the contrary. But you feel guilty about wanting to try an answer to a problem that, by any reasonable approximation, must be addressed. Should we succeed, I think you and I should address this on another day. But as for the matter of your conscious, consider this piece of advice I found on my own path to redemption. You were once wrong in the past, and now have considered much to avoid repeating the same mistake. In doing so, you consider a concept so foreign that most would castigate you for even giving it some time. They may be wrong. You may be right. And unless you accept that, your conscious will always be susceptible to tearing itself apart.” Martin brought the fire down, and looked up at the stars. “It is late. I think I should sleep. The spellwork has been a little taxing on my body.”

I nodded. “Aye, that’s a good idea. Good night, Martin, and thank you. I believe I have some pondering to do.”

***************************************************

Personal Note:

For those interested in being the agent Viguri sends (and getting a chance to meet Awtwyr in Morrowind, whilst simultaneously proving the supremacy of the shoe-wearers in that game), I direct you to the long-time work of my friends, who are responsible for creating the story that allows this to occur. The mod is called "Balanced Scales," is available at the Planet ElderScrolls site.

It can be found here.

GAAAAH! I haven't installed Morrowind yet! Nice mod, really love that the mod inspired the story! Great Write!

’Martin sent a small stream of energy into the fire, causing the flames to grow larger and hotter. Weakness to fire. It strengthens the effect of flame. The emperor and I sat like that for a moment, facing each other with the fire between us, the flames growing to consume our vision. Soon the twisting yellow light was all that I was focused on.’
I love the evocative image this creates!

A warm campfire, some male bonding and touching on the subject of non-hereditary rule with a man bound to be Emperor because his father was Uriel Septim. Provocative and neat!

Nit: “Duke Dren lied,” said Martin. “I am sorry. Doe he still govern?”
Oops, missed an ‘s’ here.

Wrapping up the fireside talk with the concept of a republic was an interesting surprise. Martin and Awtwyr covered a lot of ground, and there is more to discuss later, as Martin said. The journey to Weynon Priory is so important, I'm glad you're showing us the relationship between Martin and Awtwyr as it develops.

...

*Tries desperately to say something that covers what he just read...*...

Er...

Wow...

...

All: Eight months. Too long. Time to fix that.

Malx: Bit of the reverse. I started this same time as the mod was underway, and knew IXth Crusade personally. B read my first draft, and asked to use Awtwyr in the Mod. I said yes. Never realized how important it'd be.

Acadian: Well, I've said what I can say after a long absence from your work, so that's for that. But yeah, the juxtaposition of the idea of the Republic with an Emperor's Heir-Apparent has a Zen quality you can't pass up. If you can't bring up 'Republic' with a future emperor, then how can you believe it's worth your life?

Grits: From somebody whose trip to Weynon was one of the best I've ever seen (Standing Stones, lice control, lessons on the proper consistency of Jerric's Juice), that means a lot to me. Thanks.

McBadgere: Breathe in, breathe out. Glad to see you're still hard at work, even if I have more catching up to do for you than you do for me. Story of my life.

All: We find ourselves, after unreasonable delays, returning to the off-road 'Road to Weynon Priory.' I can't emphasize how much it means to be able to pick this up again, to write again. As always, nit-finding for my picking is appreciated, and errant nits will be dealt with using the most extreme prejudice.

**************************************



“It’s actually not all that problematic. The ceremonial duties of an emperor include being the chief priest of Akatosh. All we do is make that the primary role of the emperor, and given my own past and the current situation, there shouldn’t be too many complaints if I spend more time focusing on the maintenance of the Dragonfires than my…predecessor.”

I finished chewing on a piece of venison, courtesy of a young buck and some combination of animal misfortune and benevolent interdiction by Kynareth. I finished chewing and swallowed, before turning to look at Martin over ‘Slevin,’ as Martin had decided to call the horse. “Look, I get the whole ‘chief-priest of Akatosh’ thing, but what we’re doing runs against the principals of creating a republic. The system relies on the fact that there is no single point of weakness to bring it down. And yet, now, I am trying to save the one man absolutely necessary to save the empire. And all of Tamriel while we’re at it.”

“The necessity of the Dragonfires remains. It’s a matter of political power. The one who lights the Dragonfires doesn’t have to be the one to lead the army, appoint rulers, set taxes, all the rest. But there’s still the matter of determining those things. Who sets the taxes? Who appoints the counts? Who do the generals and admirals acknowledge as their superior? Even appointment to the Elder Council still requires the emperor’s consent. Do we allow them to choose their own number? Tyranny by committee is tyranny without productivity.” He spoke of the emperor in the third person. Referred to previous emperors and empresses as predecessors. The unspoken agreement that had developed between us had grown. All this was hypothetical, to him.

“Members of the Elder Council are appointed to represent the provinces, aye? A portion is chosen for their expertise, but the majority is sent from across the empire, ‘to give voice to all the provinces,’ or so we’re told. We simply make that true.” I smiled at him, inviting.

“That’s still the kings, dukes, counts and whatever lords have enough sway to determine who gets sent to the Imperial City. Oligarchy, and enough unofficial power in the right councilor, or wrong councilor, and the problem returns. Jagar Tharn returned, and the heroic use of the Staff of Chaos doesn’t stop him.” Martin’s eyebrows were raised, his face partially turned towards me as he spoke, glancing out of the corner of his eyes.

“It goes from the bottom, upwards.” It had taken a few days to get back to this topic. A few for him to bring it up, a few more for me to accept talking about it. Or rather, it had taken those few days for me to accept that I wouldn’t necessarily be executed the minute Martin was on the throne just for talking about this with him. I hoped. He seemed to take it in good stride, but such flippant radicalism could get a man noticed. Speaking out in a tavern, drunk, was one thing. Not bothering itself with it was part of how the empire solved it. An authority that could not allow for such freedoms of speaking would explode from the built up pressure. But this was different.

I kicked a rock out of my path before I continued. “The emperor, in his vast wisdom, decrees that any village or town over a certain size elect an official council. Most already have a body, one that settles petty disputes between bad neighbors. If they don’t already have it, these councils become responsible for managing common resources. The amount of cattle that public pastures can support. Damming rivers for mills. Choosing land plots for tanners’ shops. They continue, and are expected to exist with more uniformity.”

“Fine, but that still leaves the matter of the counties and the provinces.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. “It extends upwards. In my home, the village council is elected every year, but the mayor is elected every other year. The mayors from mine and the four closest villages, along with the first chair of each council, meet to handle matters that extend beyond one village. How a larger river is to be dammed, and what the flow has to be. Limits on hunting out the deer in the common forests. Bridge and road maintenance. But they also nominate the magistrates. King Malcolm of House Lariat appoints our magistrates, but all that means is he chooses the preferred names from the list he gets, and then makes sure taxes get paid, thieves get punished, and murderers go to the headsman.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Martin. “What you’re talking about is a tiered system of representative democracy. I don’t know how you could expand that, though, beyond the village councils and mayors’ council you describe. And it wouldn’t receive wide acceptance amongst the nobility. It won’t work, Awtwyr.”

“It can work, if the emperor decides he wants more accountability from top to bottom, and demands councils be made that one day gain the full formal power that some of them already exercise. Village councilors serve one year terms. Larger assemblies can serve two or three year terms. In Morrowind they have a Grand Council, a smaller version of the Elder Council that oversees the whole province. Mandate one for each province, but require that each seat be filled by direct election.” I stepped over another rock sticking up, and then continued. “The kings and queens won’t like it. The dukes won’t like it. Neither will the counts, or the lords and ladies. It won’t matter. Eventually, they will be replaced, their offices exercised by elected individuals. Members of the Elder Council are elected indirectly, by provincial assemblies before being sent to the Imperial City. Provincial governors can be nominated, to exercise executive authority. But in this way, every citizen of the empire becomes responsible for their government. And no idiot with a violent mind becomes ruler of a land simply because their parents ruled the land.”

“And how long do you think this would take?” asked Martin. “These are not reforms that could happen overnight. And if the process is too rapid, strongmen and warlords are more likely to come of it than any other outcome.”

“Which is why it will take years. Maybe two decades. Think in terms of the entirety of the reign of a young emperor, one who comes to the throne shy of his fortieth year. It may have to be left to that man’s child, but the inertia of such a movement would be unstoppable.”

“I see,” said Martin. “Tell me, what will you do?”

“What I was going to do. I’ve completed two tours as a legionary. I didn’t have what it took for knighthood. But I do have what I need to become a combat duty battlemage.” I surprised myself, saying that. But I had been whispering to myself about this more and more the closer we got to Weynon Priory. Inside another week, and Martin would be Emperor of Tamriel. And hopefully, I could abandon Kvatch and the Imperial Sewers to be washed in the tides of time.

“If that is what you wish. For what you have done, fame could be yours in great amounts, Awtwyr.”

“No. I couldn’t get the politics of the legion when I was a soldier. I wouldn’t last a month maneuvering in Court. I go where I can do the most, where I have the best chance at paying off the blood in my book. I’m able to live with what I’ve done. Doesn’t mean I have to skip out on the penance I still owe.”

“Then serve in your own fashion. But I do not think the empire is done with you, Awtwyr mac’Thairrom mac’Ragnall O’Cinnidh Draghoyn. Nor are you done with it.”

“Only a few hours to Weynon,” I paused, “Sir.”

It was silence for much of the rest of the way. The last of the venison was consumed, a water bag emptied, Slevin allowed to graze a bit. I was determined not to get myself into anything deeper. Take Martin to Jauffre. Allow the old spymaster to convince the priest to become emperor. The trip back to the Imperial City, depending if Jauffre wanted me along. The re-lighting of the Dragonfires, and once it was all finished, I would be done as well. Battlemage training beckoned, and with it, a new start.

***************************************

Night was falling, and in the distance, I could make out the top of the belfry of the chapel house. We had gotten on the road, turned around a bend, continued until I spotted the grey stone, and then I saw the Dunmer shepherd, what was his name…Erthor, come running towards us. “Help! You must help! They're killing everyone at Weynon Priory!”

“Erthor, slow down, what’s going on?!”

“I don't know! I think they're right behind me! Prior Maborel is dead!”

Oh, I thought. Oh no. “They!” I barked. “Who’s ‘they’?!”

“I was in the sheepfold when they attacked. I heard the Prior talking to someone. Looked around the corner to see who it was. They looked like travelers, ordinary. Suddenly weapons appeared in their hands and they cut the Prior down before he could move! They saw me watching and I ran.”

Oh hells! “Jauffre?!” I asked. I was already moving. The reins of the horse were in Martin’s hands, and I moved around to force him to the horse. Why? Why now?!

“I don't know. In the Chapel praying, I think. You must help us!” cried the short Dark Elf.

“Martin, on the horse. If you see them, or I shout ‘Doom,’ you flee. Back the way we came, go past the bend in the road, then turn off, use the contours of the hills for concealment, and ride this horse to death.” Mara grant us Mercy, for this is truly going nits up!

“But I,” began Martin.

“NO! Take the horse, and ready to run! Say it!” I was barely cognizant of it, but I could not let Martin think this an argument.

“Take the horse, ready to run,” said Martin. He put his foot in Slevin’s stirrup and hoisted himself up as I turned and ran towards the priory. My shield came down from my shoulder, my left arm through the enarmes to grip the handle, fingers briefly outstretched to allow me to tighten the cords that wrapped through the handle’s loop, then around the palm before being gripped to prevent loss of control.

The doorway was open, an armored figure with a mace in its hand turning from something inside to face me. My longsword was out, my shield forward as I advanced. The first swing went wild. Amateur, but motivated. Likely to take risks. I deflected two blows off my shield, stepping and pivoting to let the motion glance off at angles, then probed once, and touched him with my blade, the magicka of the shock spell doing more than a light tap of metal on metal.

He reacted well. My next two strikes missed entirely as he danced backwards, but on the third, he pivoted forcefully, bringing the mace around heavily, striking the blade before I could pull it back. The sword went tumbling from my outstretched hand, the mace came back for a return strike, and my shield came in as the blow hit hard. It hurt, and I could tell the shield had probably been compromised. Still useable, but another blow like that would crack it too heavily for use.

My right hand came to my hip as I stepped back, dodged once, blocked lightly again, and came up with the mace I had pulled from a dead Dremora in the Oblivion Gate. I stepped forward and stabbed with the head of the mace, knocking my enemy in the chin, and he went backwards a pace, surprised. I took another step forward, caught his mace with my own, locked our arms up, and brought my knee up into the fork between his legs. The armor on my legs met no resistance, and he crumpled. No codpiece. Good for me. As he tried to stand, my mace came across his temples. He collapsed, tried to rise again, and once again my mace came down on his helmet, hard. Metal crunched. The man collapsed. There was a swirl of magic. The armor and mace on him vanished. I could see where I had crushed the skull.

I stepped into the doorway of the chapel, and paused, forgetting myself. Jauffre was battling two of them. Handling, in a better sense. A long, two handed blade, slightly larger than the one I had seen on the Blades with the emperor, seemed to dance in his hands. The support pillars jutting from the wall made an alcove that limited paths of attack. One came in, only to be turned into the path of the other. The other swung, and received a cut that put more scarlet on Jauffre’s sword. He saw me, flicked his eyes to the closer of the two, and squinted at me again.

I moved. When the one had indicated attacked again, it was blocked, driven down, and then the sword twisted through the legs, causing the attacker to stumble. The other seized the opportunity, but Jauffre was already coming up inside the second one’s reach. Jauffre caught the assailant’s upper arm against his chest, wrapped it with left, swept his right foot around the enemy, grabbed across the torso, and threw him down across a bench. Or at least, that’s what I thought he did. The old monk clearly knew how to fight without weapons. He wasn’t a brawler, or an artist. Just quick, simple efficiency, as though it were nothing more than cutting meat for the cook fire. The first assailant, my target, was stepping up when I slammed into him, the shield forward and bodily shoving him against a wall.

His arm came up, to meet the simple expedient of my mace colliding with his elbow. The other hand, a frost spell discharging, came forward. I smacked with my shield edge, and it grazed my side. Needles of pain and cold discomfort caught me, surprising me, stealing my momentum. The left hand, another spell of frost ready, came forward again. Only a bare hand in a brown sleeve caught it. Jauffre stood, gripping the arm, and then tensed his body. I heard the sharp clap of the spell, and my enemy fell, twitching as the armor evaporated in a puff of reddish mist, leaving behind a middle-aged brown haired man, Colovian by the look. Behind Jauffre, the third attacker was still, a woman similarly absent of armor, a tall, dark skinned Redguard.

“You're back. Thank Talos! They attacked without warning. I was praying in the Chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout. I had just time to arm myself.”

“I saw Erthor. The others?” I asked, catching my breath. Jauffre was retrieving his sword.

“Just Piner. Come!” he said, starting for the entry way. I followed, out past the man I killed and towards the priory house. I heard more ringing of steel. When Jauffre and I rounded past a large oak tree, we saw two more of the armored figures facing a tonsured man in a brown robe, a slightly curved sword sweeping aside attacks in his right hand. And to the left, a rider on a paint horse in traveling garments, approaching the fight and then turning the horse. Martin. Bloody ashes curse that man’s obstinacy. Martin stopped the horse, raised his left arm, and a swirl of magicka flowed down his arm, the air in front of his hand fogging and surging towards the combatants.

It impacted on the ground, enveloping the two in armor and just touching Piner. A look of concentration on his face, he continued without pause, stabbing at the one on his right while stepping sideways to minimize the target available to two assailants. He needn’t have worried. Jauffre had charged forward, letting out a sharp yell that caused the second to turn away from Piner…and Martin. This one had a short blade, and swung at Jauffre’s head. The frost covering the armor slowed the strike, but Jauffre simply blocked with his fore-arms…which glowed suddenly and sharply as the assailant’s sword was pushed back. Shield effect. Dragonskin. Only very highly developed. Have to look into that.

The enemy was more surprised, failing to move as Jauffre’s blade cut and sliced, first the hamstring, then the left elbow, then the right, and then the neck. Piner’s opponent dropped to meet him, the younger monk planting a foot to draw his blade out of the man’s armpit. Red mist and dissolving armor accompanied both deaths.

I looked at Jauffre, but before I could ask, his eyebrows shot up as he turned to stare at the priory house entrance. “The Amulet of Kings! I fear that was the target of this attack. I kept it in a secret room in Weynon House. We need to go see if it is safe.”

“I can go,” I began, but was cut off.

“We'll go together. But I fear the worst.” I followed him in, hearing a man getting off a horse as I overtook Jauffre on the stairs. I went to his office, and there one of the bookshelves had swung forward, revealing a bare, concealed room behind. Inside was a chest, much like the one’s publicly visible, but open, and empty. Jauffre joined me, looked into the chest, and dropped his head in despair. “They've taken it! The Amulet of Kings is gone! The enemy has defeated us at every turn!”

“Not every turn,” I said. Martin appeared in the doorway to the office. “Grandmaster, may I present Martin Septim.”

“So it has not all gone against us. Thank Talos for that! We gained Uriel's heir, and lost the Amulet of Kings. My lord, forgive me for my failure.”

“I…I cannot say if there is anything for me to forgive. Though this defeat cannot bode well,” said Martin.

“Nonetheless, we cannot stay here. We have driven them off, but they will be back once they learn of Martin’s survival. Which they will.”

“You know of somewhere secure?” I asked.

“Nowhere is truly safe against the power arrayed against us. But we must play for time, at least... Cloud Ruler Temple, I think. The hidden fortress of the Blades, in the mountains near Bruma. A few men can hold it against an army. We should leave at once.”

“The bodies?” I asked. “What about the bodies?”

“Brother Piner is a priest, though it seems his path to Weynon was necessary after all. He can take care of those matters.” He paused, sniffing at the two of us. “On second thought, a brief stop is not completely out of the question. You both must wash. Sickness can kill an emperor as easily as a blade.”

“I don’t think we have time for a bath,” I said. I had smelled worse. Though I hadn’t felt my best from it.

“How good is your skill at Restoration?” he asked.

“Expert,” said Martin. “Mages guild training when I was younger.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jauffre. “And you, Awtwyr? I understand you have some skill?”

How did he…? No, he’s a spymaster. Don’t worry about that right now. “Journeyman,” I responded. Jauffre raised a single eyebrow. “Patch yourself up enough times and you start to understand a lot about your own body.”

Jauffre nodded. “Follow,” he said, leading us both to the far side of the office, where more books were stacked on shelves. He snatched one out, opened it in the middle, flipped three pages back, and set it on the desk. “Memorize this. Go out, pour buckets of water on yourselves, and cast it. It will clean you.”

I looked over it. Simple enough, it touched slightly on Alteration and Mysticism, with a slight construct that seemed to speed drying by way of Destruction’s Weakness to Fire effect. “What is it?” I asked. Simple, but useful for one that could cast it.

“Hygiene spell. Simplified version of a beauty spell called ‘Bloom’ that noble ladies, dandies, and courtesans use. This is slightly more efficient. Unless you want to smell like Lavender,” he trailed off.

“This will be fine,” said Martin. “Awtwyr and I shall wash. Do we have mounts?”

“I’ll see to that,” said Jauffre. “Go, clean yourselves, eat, and pack for a cold journey. And don’t shave.” That last was said with a stern, demanding look. My now respectable beard would grow more respectable.

I followed Martin out back, where a flume for irrigating the garden and several buckets worth of water succeeded in drenching us both. The spell in Jauffre’s tome dried us once cast and, I was pleasantly surprised to note, left us smelling like civilized men. It wasn’t a steam bath and a dunk, but it was effective. My armor was clean as well, a very pleasant surprise that would save time each night.

We went back inside to pack, grabbing gloves, woolens and cloaks for snow. We met Jauffre out front, where Slevin was waiting with a dark mare, while Jauffre was saddling a reddish stallion. “Awtwyr, take Prior Maborel’s horse. Martin, take the mare.

Piner came out to us as we were finishing. “Brother Jauffre, friends, the Prior is prepared. Will you join me?” Jauffre looked to us, then nodded briefly. “This way, please,” said Piner, gesturing to the rear of the chapel.

I expected a graveyard. Instead, it was an open space, and then a stone pyre, Maborel upon it, the scent of oils and spirits about him. Piner went to Maborel’s head, Jauffre his feet, and Martin to the right side. They waited, and glanced at the vacant left side, not saying anything until I realized I was supposed to occupy the remaining space.

“Can you sustain fire?” asked Piner.

“Aye,” I said. Cremation was the standard practice for dead bodies in High Rock. After so much time in the Legion, I had simply not expected to see it as the standard method of funeral rights, but the lack of headstones here spoke otherwise.

“Arkay, Guide of the Dead, Maborel of Weynon Priory passes into your care.” Piner intoned with solemn resolve, though I could see tears in his eyes. “We commend his spirit to you, and ask that you look with favor upon him, for he was a true servant of the Nine, an honorable and good man, devoted to the Order of Talos, for whom he has given his life. In the name of Talos, and of Akatosh, we seek and invoke your blessing upon his soul, to be freed from this body and to pass safely under your mantle. By the flame, and the power, and the knowledge you have given to Men, Arkay, we invoke your Law upon the body of Prior Maborel, conferred by the Path of Fire, Forever Free from the reach of the Dark Arts. In your name, and in the names of the Nine, and present to all powers that observe, we invoke you Arkay, and pass our brother into your care.” Piner paused, and breathed heavily. “Make ready your flames,” he said to us. I concentrated on the sigil of flare, and opened my hand as fire sprouted from my fingers. Jauffre, Martin and Piner matched me with their flames. “Immolate him.” Fire leapt out from us, in towards Prior Maborel, caught, and spread, consuming his body in seconds. We stepped back to watch the flames rise, then fall back, turning the once living flesh to ash.

Jauffre motioned, and we left, each of us shaking Piner’s hand as we departed, he standing vigil as the pyre continued to burn. We got to the horses, and mounted. “We ride on the Black Road,” said Jauffre, and set off. “To Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Just read through from start to finish this morning, and damn was that a good read. The start was a little shaky, I'll admit (I had a gripe with the combat there simply being 'then I killed this Mythic Dawn guy, then this one, and fought and defeated another') but you really hit your stride by the time you reached Kvatch. Awtwyr is an interesting character whose backstory, now that it's coming to light, is particularly interesting and gives him a great deal of depth, and there have been some real gems in here too; his dismissal of the title of the Hero of Kvatch was an interesting move, the cremation of Prior Marobel, and the recent discussions that he and Martin are having over the subject of building a republic out of the Empire are an inspired touch indeed. It's well detailed, engaging and exciting, and I'm looking forward to more sometime within the next six months!

Interesting discussion about the Empire’s future political direction. I see Awtwyr disagrees with the idea that democracy is simply two wolves and a sheep passing a vote to have mutton for dinner. Or that such a government can survive politicians courting votes based upon the promise of ‘free stuff’. One hopes the representative republic that Awtwyr urges can withstand such foibles. Yikes! I hope the population of Cyrodiil never grows large enough to require deer hunting licenses!

I loved the adaptation of SubRosa’s personal hygiene spell into ‘Bloom for Men’.

A well-rendered and intense bit of dueling with the MD agents at Weynon. It was neat that you took the time to detail Maborel’s funeral ceremony afterwards.

And it is off to what we hope is the safety of Cloud Ruler Temple until that pesky amulet can be located. Alas, battlemage training for heroes must wait it seems.

I’m so glad to see some more story.

I like how Martin calls Uriel his “predecessor,” and Awtwyr’s thoughts about it.

“And how long do you think this would take?” asked Martin. “These are not reforms that could happen overnight. And if the process is too rapid, strongmen and warlords are more likely to come of it than any other outcome.”

An interesting prediction from Martin. The return to Weynon Priory had a great end-of-journey feeling, with the emptied water bag and plans for the future. That made the familiar scene at the Priory as fresh for me as it was for Awtwyr and Martin.

I love every bit of the fight, especially Jauffre’s calm badassery. I was not surprised to see Martin step in, despite what he had been told! “If you see them” indeed.

The “Bloom for Men” (Bud?) spell was a great touch, as was the funeral. I could imagine the pyre still burning as they headed down the road. A satisfying sendoff for the prior as well as for Martin and his escort.

Well, it's been forever and a half since I've gotten to this. There are reasons. Not good ones. Valid, aye, but not good. I'm leaving it at that for now.

Mustard: Well, it wasn't six months, but hey, I figure better late than never. Glad you enjoyed it, hopefully you'll have to wait less from here on out.

Acadian: Empires and Emperors have fallen to the same issue. Honestly, one of my favorite authors was Robert Heinlein, and his idea of meritorious citizenship open to all. Not necessarily military service, but his later remarks about adding national service like the Peace Corps or the programs like City Year. Few things are as limitless as the drive and motivation of idealist young adults. And here in our world, hunting restrictions have existed for almost as long as there have been governments. There's a reason they call it the King's Forest.

Grits: Yeah, Jauffre's a font of endless badassery. I have a feeling that if he were to go looking for the Amulet with full gear and a good lead, the Oblivion Crisis would have been called the 'Late Oblivion Complaint,' with all the understated humor a Brit could muster. Pay attention in later chapters. I've got plans for him.

Lastly, all, the spell. I thought long and hard about this. I wanted to call it "The-Man-Your-Man-Shall-Smell-Like" spell or the "Cologne of the Lumberjack" spell, but those take too long to type. I'm going with 'Cleanse,' and it leaves a man smelling of pine trees, good tobacco and Bourbon. Since that's what my grandfather's hunting cabin smells like. It's awesome.

*****************************



It wasn’t until the third night of travel that I began to truly appreciate my hirsute nature. I had been far too young to grow a respectable beard when I had joined the Legion, and hadn’t wanted to invite the ridicule of being a scraggly-cheeked sapling. By the time I had gained a critically dense follicle count, I had been shaving daily out of habit and had already decided on taking a second term which would put me in Hammerfell. Keeping a beard in the dry climes of that province was a fool’s errand, and I was wary of taking on another foolish act after leaving Morrowind behind.

All this, it transpired, meant that for the first time in my life a small brush was becoming necessary below my ears. When we entered the colder air of the mountains, I began to appreciate the warmth it offered my face. It was during the fifth night of our travels, when I was grooming the growth of hair on my face, that Jauffre approached me from across the fire. Martin was praying to the side, and Jauffre held a bucket out for me to take. “Come with me,” he remarked, “There is water to be had.”

This put me on edge. Understand that there are certain phrases soldiers learn during their legionary service that have specific meanings. Orders that include “keep bright the Empire’s name” are used if the public backlash for a botched job is a concern. If volunteers were requested for “Seeing to Arkay’s duties,” it meant that an execution detail was needed and we’d have a priest of that god with us. “Come with me, there is something to be had,” was the phrase you used when you needed to talk with a subordinate, alone and out of earshot. Jauffre was asking me to go with him and talk, in a place where we wouldn’t be bothered. The unwritten rule stipulated that it would be poor form to refuse.

I stood, took the bucket and said “As you desire,” with a slight nod. He headed off towards a stream, Jauffre in front, in silence. Determining a sufficient distance from the campfire, and thus Martin, was left to Jauffre. Once we reached that point, he gestured for me to walk up next to him so that he would not have to turn to speak.

“I understand that you’ve been speaking to Martin about political governance,” he said. “Illuminating conversations, to be precise. I ask because I have to know whether we’ll have a chance to crown a new emperor. Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re asking the wrong man.”

“Oh?” asked Jauffre, pausing as we came to the stream. “How so?”

“If Martin does not wish to be ruler over an empire, no power of Nirn can force him. Talos and Akatosh, perhaps, but no mortal power is capable of making him want to be emperor. If he wishes to rule, he will find a way to rule, and bring prosperity or poverty as he is able. If he does not, then your loyalty to his throne and the Empire will require you to let him disassemble the monarchy. Ask Martin where his thoughts lie. Those are the thoughts that matter.”

“And how do your thoughts lie? Do you sleep well at night?” asked the old spymaster.

“Well enough. Certainly less disruption has come from philosophy than other parts of my life.”

“Morrowind and Viguri?” asked Jauffre. The man was a master of swordsmanship. His mastery apparently extended to debate. An icy bolt of surprise and dread claimed me. Jauffre clearly knew about my history. I suppose he had done some digging. “Your reasons for disliking the games of nobility are understandable. But I ask you, do you allow your tragedy to color your outlook? Do you consider how your rage may blind you?”

It was the softness in Jauffre’s voice that surprised me. My father had used that voice on me twice in my life. The first time, I had lied about finishing the weeding while my mother was in bed from the birth of my youngest sister. When the herbs that we grew for reducing inflammation were nearly choked out, my father had waited until after he had spent two nights out harvesting before asking me to explain myself. The second time, I had allowed my brother to break his arm in a fight which I had avoided. This time, I was ready.

“I have already told Martin that story. Its prejudices and its merits are for him to decide, as they would be for all to hear, were I not sworn to still uphold the secrecy on the matter.” I bent to the stream and filled my bucket.

Jauffre stood unmoving in his brown robes, empty bucket still in hand. “Did you not violate that oath already?” he asked.

“No,” I said, standing, bucket now heavy with the cold mountain water. “I have told the events only to three people. My superior, to ensure that Duke Dren was properly informed of the Fetch-Up, a retired Redguard legionary and philosopher-priest of Zeht, whose function allows for such things, and Martin. As emperor, he is, by Elder Law, to be answered and informed of any matter he wishes, should it have involved the well-being of his subjects, or the involvement of any official, legionary, sailor, or agent of the Imperial Will. Is there anything else, Grandmaster?”

“One item,” said Jauffre. “How stand you with the Crown of Shornhelm?”

“In good faith and legal loyalty,” I said. “At least as much as the Lariat family stands in loyalty to the Septim Dynasty. I could care less about their claim to the Ruby Throne, but not by much. You should look into my name.”

“Draighoeinn,” said Jauffre, pronouncing my name with the proper native fluency. “The ‘Dragon’s Own,’ in Old Highland Brettic.”

“Some of Tiber Septim’s support came from a few Breton clans seeking to settle old scores or end their feuds in blood. Including us. My uncles and forefathers have been serving under the Dragon’s Banner for five centuries. So have I. I swore an oath to protect Empire and Emperor once before. You shall not be the one to make me question it now.”

Jauffre did not move for a whole minute, simply looking at me. Then, he nodded, and bent to fill his bucket. He stood, put his left hand to the bottom of the small wooden pail and dumped it over the bottom of his robe and boots. Then he kicked my bucket, knocking it from my hand.

“What in Stendarr’s Name was that for?” I asked, grabbing the now empty pail by the rim and shifting my feet. I didn’t raise the pail to strike, but I wouldn’t let him kick it again, either.

“To see how you act,” said Jauffre, returning to fill his bucket again. “Also, to explain why we took so long. Old men are more likely to lose their footing and require assistance.” I filled my bucket from a few feet away, and was careful to follow him on the way back, casting the Cleanse spell while I fumed.

Martin looked up when we returned, still seated from where we had left him. “What took so long?”

“I soaked myself and Awtwyr dropped his bucket,” said Jauffre, only now casting the Cleanse spell to dry his soaked garments. “Entirely my fault.”

“His footing was rather slippery,” I added. “If you need to tread our path, have a care.” I added my water to the kettle and set it near the fire. In the morning, it would be hung directly over the flame to boil more quickly.

“Indeed,” said Jauffre, adding the water in his bucket to the skins. "You two should sleep. I'll take first watch."

Hey, I remember this. It was a story, which had...events. And...characters. And things...

OK, it's been ages, and it's probably a good idea if I reread this after posting this comment, but I did enjoy this last chapter; I'm really liking the way you're characterising Jauffre in this as a sort of badass mentor figure, and I enjoyed the dialogue between the two, especially with some of the untangling of Awtwyr's motivations here.

An excellent read, and I look forward to August 2014 for the next part

It was the softness in Jauffre’s voice that surprised me.

This suits him so well. I went back and read to remember who Viguri is so I would understand Awtwyr’s dread. It was chilling to realize Jauffre had been riding along with that knowledge the whole time. He’s the guy who makes you lean forward to listen when he speaks softly.

It's great to hear some more from Awtwyr!

Welcome back to you and this story. This was a thoughtful and intriguing episode of possible futures and loyalties.

I like the game NPC Jauffre because he can be spun in differing ways. As you may recall, his initial rudeness permanently soured Buffy on him and he was assassinated before she could ever more fully evaluate or appreciate his character. I do expect, however, that he didn’t get to be Grandmaster by being a fool, or based upon his good looks. He takes well to the role of quiet mentor.

Grits, Colonel, Acadian: You've all pretty much identified the same theme in this last chapter. Jauffre is a total Bad@ss, with the M.F.B.A. degree (Mother-Frakking-Bad-A$$!!!!) from Awesome University.

There's a reason. I like Jauffre. He reminds me of my grandfather.

Which brings me to my extended absences. My grandfather died before the 2011 holidays and it hit my mom pretty hard. She said all the things about knowing that it was his time but really, it hurt her because my grandfather raised my mom and aunt alone from middle school through college.

While I could get past that, the subsequent death of a much younger member of my family early this year was not something to "get past." I found myself in a position of wanting to simply destroy stuff at the injustice and in an absolute zero-percentage inclination to create something.

I don't want sympathy. I don't want condolences, public or private. Such gods as they exist are officially on my Sh!t-List, and if I die in the next year then paradise, for me, is finding the supernatural entity responsible and bashing his or her face into the hardest object I can find each morning in a Prometheus-level indictment of His, Her, or Their judgement. If you have something to say about the divine, say it elsewhere.

I can and will return to this more as I am able. With things starting to settle down again, I find the keyboard a D@mn decent form of therapy.

Awtwyr's story, such as it is, will be preserved as best I can. It's not that what happened won't affect me, it's that plodding on is part of my Giant-Middle-Finger-To-The-Universe-And-Whatever-Gods-May-Be project that I've started in the immediate aftermath of this cacat-filled tragedy.

So, no more mentions. No more words of sympathy, or empathy. Curse out the divine? Be my guest. Contemplate whether the rejection of existing morality and becoming the Ubermensch, fulfilling for yourself the concept that "God is Dead" is a worthwhile life goal? I'm behind you all the way.

But that's it. It's out now, It's done. I remain exceptionally grateful to the cadre of readers that have returned time after time for me to start moving again and it was your faith in me that made me realize I need to keep going.

So I shall.

********************************************

Previously: Jauffre revealed that he knew about Awtwyr's past during an evening talk by the riverside. To wit: Awtwyr, while working on a 'paperless mission' under the authority of Duke Dren during his legion's posting in Morrowind, participated in a raid against abolitionists at the behest of a former legionary and mentor-figure named Viguri. Awtwyr and a few other legionaries wiped out a hideout of Argonian refugee slaves, thinking that they were taking out a "Twin Lamps but with Plenty o' Violence" cell in Vvardenfell. As a result, when talking with Martin during the trip from Kvatch to Weynon Priory, Awtwyr revealed that he supports a Democratic Republic form of government to Martin, the next hereditary monarch of the Empire. Jauffre asked Awtwyr about this and his past, before finally drenching them both in water.



The next day, night, and most of the following day were spent in the grey cloud and fog that was the high road of the Jerall Mountains. Jauffre had seemingly spent more and more time in silence as we progressed, until he finally pulled his mount to a stop and turned it to face us, midway up a valley wall with the opposite bank close against the sky. “We are here, and shall enter by nightfall. My lord, I ask that you understand my next question is for your safety, and that you not object.” When Martin nodded his assent, Jauffre turned his gaze towards me. “Awtwyr, what you see next is a secret known to few and carefully guarded. Your actions have earned you a great deal of trust, and your discretion is something that may be relied upon. But I would first test your honor. Are you willing to proceed under the oath of secrecy, that you bind yourself before we take another step, to see that Martin Septim is crowned Emperor of Tamriel?”

“Aye. Not much choice when survival is on the line.”

Surprise barely registered on Jauffre’s face, merely a slight tilt as if considering my words. “Then would you bind yourself knowing that a single misplaced word from you, and I would kill you myself in the most demonstrative manner available?”

“Jauffre, enough. He has been on my side since you sent him to rescue me.” Agitation played out across Martin’s face. “If you can’t trust him now then you might as well…”

“Yes!” I said loudly. “If it means the lives of my family and every other family of parents and children on Nirn, then yes.” I looked to Martin, and nodded. “Don’t think I’ll just sell my life cheaply, but I can understand that, yes, you may find it necessary to try to have me killed if it threatens your purpose. Though it may require that you personally come for me, since I doubt you’ll detach your strongest from protecting Martin until this is finished.”

Jauffre nodded, and then sat straighter in his saddle. “Good, that will suffice for now. Watch closely.” He raised his left arm, magical energy swirling into a Light spell that was cast at the opposite side of the valley, in a cleft of rock hard to see and seemingly hidden from the valley mouth. It wasn’t one ball of light that went out, but three, two in quick succession before a pause, and then the third. “Now, look above us, and tell me what you see.”

The trick, I knew, was to let my gaze absorb without focus. Otherwise, concentration on the wrong area would produce phantom images while my mind ignored what was really there. And then I saw it. Blazing against the rim of the valley wall, three lights came into existence, almost as stars from the position we were in, but in a distinct sequence: left, right, center. Closer to the valley floor and we probably wouldn’t see it. This high up, they barely differed from the stars. One would need to be higher to see it properly, but with the steep walls and icy build-up you’d be lucky to see it without breaking your neck.

“The lights,” said Martin.

“At the valley’s top,” came my follow-up.

“They know we are here and wait for us,” said Jauffre. “Memorize this place. What we do next must be done with care.” Jauffre turned his horse up towards a stand of shrubs and pine trees that had found a foothold in one of the few flat plots not trampled by travelers. His horse picked its way up next to it, went to the side, and then slowly behind the stand as we followed. Instead of coming around the other side, we found the beginnings of a goat track, which led deeper into the valley, climbing up and then bending around at the shoe-end of the valley and proceeding along the opposite bank. Before us now was a more defined path that was concealed from below by the rock formation. I stopped with Martin and observed the switchback ahead that seemed to run back around the valley’s shoe above us, leading to the source of the lights that was now clearly visible.

There, illuminated with fires, it sat upon the western shoulder of the valley like an anvil sunk into a boulder. It was grey, seemingly of dense granite stone with a distinct prow shape that contoured to the land and an overhanging roof with eaves of strange design. It exuded at once both a sense of stolid immobility and proud arrogance as though it had chosen its position as the only place suitable for its purposes, daring any and all to find a reason why it shouldn’t be where it sat.

“Cloud Ruler Temple,” said Jauffre, sending another signal towards that rock cleft that, I realized, was all but invisible to others but easy to observe from the structure. What must have been a man or mer on the walls responded with a signal in kind, and Jauffre motioned us forward once more. “They are expecting us.”

We proceeded, silent. Jauffre sat his horse exuding confidence and relief, a faint smile on him visible now and then as the light allowed. Martin didn't say anything, nor did I. Reality has a way of doing that to you, informing you of some important truth while waiting patiently for your mind to work its way up to the basic understanding of what was said. No, sorry, this isn’t some hypothetical. It’s not a thought-experiment of philosophers. It’s real, it’s here, get used to it, because there’s more and I really need you to at least demonstrate a grasp of the basics since there’s more coming.

After crossing beneath it and taking one final switchback, a part of the design that simply screamed with redundancy but made it painfully obvious that you would be seen approaching this place long before you saw it, the horses plodding through the packed snow, two torches emerged from the gloom to frame large, ornate, and distinctly massive doors. They were slightly open, an armored figure standing in front with his sword held in his left hand, point down with the right hand cupping the hilt. He stepped forward, allowing the light to dance off the plates and scales that bore the enamel-work indicative of a member of the Blades.

We dismounted and approached, slightly out of file, Jauffre, then Martin, and finally me. The Blade looked at the three of us, his mouth dropping open for moment before his resolve returned and he found his voice. “Grandmaster Jauffre, is this, I mean to say, have you brought…?”

“Yes, Cyrus,” said the grandmaster, gesturing to Martin. “This is the Emperor's son, Martin Septim.”

“My Lord!” said Cyrus, bowing deep. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years!”

“Ah, well, thank you,” said Martin. He hesitated before adding, “The honor is mine.”

“Come, Sire,” said Jauffre. “Your Blades are waiting to greet you.”

Jauffre led us inside, and Cyrus even graced me with a nod of the head as I passed him. What is going on here? A pair of grooms took our horses, one for Martin, the other for Jauffre and myself, leading them to stables set near enough to the gates, which closed without any creak but with a distinct CLACK! as they were brought together. Jauffre led Martin up sets of stone stairs towards the great roofed building, constructed in a style I had never seen before. Now it was my turn to hesitate, but Cyrus put a hand to my back and gestured with his sword-handle that I should follow. When I had climbed the stairs I could see that walls of the fortress, for it was surely a strong and well-built redoubt, made a distinct open parade square in front of the entrance to the building. Filling it were at least fifty or so Blades, parted in two groups to allow Jauffre and Martin to pass. As they did, the assembled Blades beat their right fists to chest, the loud thumps of the armor progressing to one beat. Cyrus pushed me through as well, stopping at the front of the gathered members of this brotherhood but pointing for me to go on. “Next to the fire bowl,” he said, “And facing the Dragonblood.”

I went forward as indicated, Cyrus joining in the first rank of the Blades as they filled in the aisle to stand in formation, their continued chest-beating ending in one final beat. Jauffre stood before them with his left hand lowering itself, Martin next to him and myself off to the side. “Blades!,” He said, his voice carrying with clarity. “Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope.” Jauffre stepped aside and turned, allowing Martin to take a half-step forward. “Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!”

As one, the Blades drew their eponymous weapons, raising them in salute along with their voices. “Hail, Dragonborn! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail, hail, Emperor of Tamriel!” Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons, brought their left hands into fists to their chests, right hands overlayed, and bowed deeply for all of nine seconds before straightening.

"Sire," said Jauffre, "The Blades are at your command."

“Jauffre. All of you.” Martin seemed at a loss for words, then resumed. “I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days. That's it. Thank you.”

“Well, then. Thank you, Martin.” Jauffre addressed one of the Blades in the front rank, the one next to Cyrus, that had been standing in the center position during the homage. “We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?”

“Aye, sir.” He took two paces forward, bowed slightly this time, then turned to face the Blades. “Blades. Assembly of Honor, Dismissed. Attend to your duties.” And with those simple words, the assembled members of the Empire’s elite dispersed to usual obligations.

With little else to do, and still kicking myself for what felt like continued intrusion, I approached Martin and Jauffre. Well, Martin, really. Jauffre saw me, nodded, then simply walked over to the Blades captain in what looked to be a private conversation. Martin smiled with a rueful regret as I approached. “Not much of a speech, was it? Didn't seem to bother them, though. The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim.” He sighed, his eyes seeking the stars that had now come out in their splendor, Masser and Secunda moving in their strange patterns. “I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you. But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea...”

“Well,” I said, “We’ll probably have to start with getting the Amulet back.”

“Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we...” he stopped, as if catching himself. “So I...can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion.”

“And become Emperor. With all that we talked about. “

“The Emperor... that's still an idea that will take some getting used to.”

“I’m sorry, Sire.” Martin looked up at me, sharply. It was the first time I had used that form of address since the conversation where I had agreed to avoid using it. But my end had been fulfilled, and now Martin seemed to accept that he was going to become the Emperor. “I’m sorry for any doubts I may have caused. These men and women believe in you. I didn’t want to cause you additional stress. But if you wish me to depart, say it and I will go.”

“No, you spoke only Truth and outlined why it seemed acceptable to you. Emperor I may be, but the Empire still defends freedom of one’s speech. I don’t want you to go. In any case, we need the Amulet first. Maybe Jauffre will know where to start. Until then, I’m going to get myself some food, and then rest.” Martin clasped me on the shoulder as he headed indoors.

I watched him go, then turned to find both Jauffre and the Blades Captain before me. They moved surprisingly well for an old man and an armored warrior. “Awtwyr, this is Captain Steffan. He is my Second here, and commands in my stead whenever I am away.”

“An honor, Captain,” I said, trying to work up a smile. Trying, and failing.

“The honor is mine. Jauffre tells me you went into an Oblivion gate, closed it, rescued Martin from the ruins of Kvatch, and then saved the Grandmaster’s life at Weynon Priory. I hope you find our hospitality a welcome respite.”

“That would be nice. I have not slept in a bed or had a proper bath in a month.”

“The Main Hall contains our primary dining area. Due to the nature of the watches, we serve meals at almost all hours of the day. The East Wing contains an alchemy lab, leatherworking and tailoring workbenches, a small library, a set-aside dining table for quick meals, a sparring area, and other necessary resources for daily duties,” said Captain Steffan, gesturing as he did so. “The West Wing contains sleeping quarters. Ours are downstairs, Emperor Martin’s and the Grandmaster’s just above us. They are separated by sex, you enter the female quarters at your own peril. There is a lower entrance in each section to the basements. Under the Grand Hall is our cisterns and store rooms. Under the East Wing is our forge and a spell practice room. Beneath the West Wing you will find the commodes, sinks and bathing facilities for your ablutions. Again, there are separated areas, but there is one large bath that has set-aside hours for each sex in mornings and evenings. Otherwise, it is a communal facility, and we expect and give each other a decorum of respect during those times.”

“Am I being put upon for the leering Legionary stereotype?” I asked the two.

“No,” said Jauffre. “We are simply warning you about what to expect. If you find a Knight Sister in there when you go to bathe, remember she is a Knight of the Blades first and foremost. As our guest, she is expected to offer you the same.”

“Understood,” I said. “And now I think I will have that bath. Grandmaster, Captain,” I said, turning and heading towards the west entrance.

“Oh, and Awtwyr,” called Jauffre.

“Yes?” I turned and replied, waiting for what he wanted.

“No razor to your face or head. Retain your hair till tomorrow, please. I assure you it is important.”

“Stendarr help me,” I swore under my own breath. “Aye, sir. One more day of hirsute savagery.”

The arrival at Cloud Ruler Temple is such a landmark event in the game, and you’ve done it great justice here. I enjoyed the way you handled the issue of how a huge, ancient fortress can be a secret.

A bath but no shave. I guess we’ll see what Jauffre has in mind in the morning.

I absolutely loved this little bit of description, and I really liked some of the ideas you had on how Cloud Ruler Temple is a hidden fortress that is actually, y'know, hidden. The entire sequence up to the temple was a great read, and was damn evocative as well, and you made one of the key sequences of the game even more memorable and portentious than Oblivion did.

Now I wonder what Jauffre wants Awtwyr's hair for...

I love the details involved in hiding Cloud Ruler Temple from prying eyes. Stone, steel, fog, secrecy and a bit of magic work powerfully together to comprise a mighty fortress.

So, a long and perilous journey culminates with a powerful and touching arrival that sparks fond memories from the game. Your own rich details were most welcome here, particularly some of the very real but mundane considerations relating to bathing and such. These details help really bring CRT to life. I confess I love the in game ‘feel’ of the place.

So, Jauffre wants a furry Awtywr for the next day. What an intriguing ending here!

Nits?
- ‘Martin did {didn’t?} say anything, nor did I.’
- ‘...an armored figure standing in front with his sword held {in?} his left hand,’