By Adventurous Putty
“Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutamus!”
It was so very, very cold.
With a shiver and a cough, the Emperor wrapped his robes tighter around his body, his breath visible in the air in front of him. There was a dead silence in the room – an ironic turn of phrase, perhaps, given the circumstances. Yet with that silence came an ethereal peace, a calm that he needed right now. And so, resigning to the uncomfortable temperature, he waited.
The only light in the chamber was a small candle that had extinguished itself hours ago; indeed, the Emperor had long lost track of just how much time he had spent in this place. Time, it seemed, was cyclical here, an illusion at best. For, in this dark labyrinth, there was no past, present, or future to think of, nor any plots, enemies, or a legacy to consider. There was only silence and darkness, a mystical totality; and the most powerful man in all the world, huddled in a corner, rendered senseless with that basest fear of death.
The room was a library – for the first time in several hours, Uriel stepped out of his trance and realized that. It was a grand and complete collection, at that, the kind that even the most pompous of academics could call paradise. Lining the walls for as far as the eye could see in the darkness were books: histories, biographies, memoirs of Emperors past, and even the occasional ancient tome of forbidden knowledge. All of it locked away in this small little chamber, a room rendered completely unimportant by the infinitesimal amount of space it occupied in the grand Imperial Palace.
The wizened Emperor logically concluded that he had never entered this room before in his life – and surmised that he would probably never see it again.
He was seated in a small, wooden stool in front of an antique mahogany desk. It was certainly not the Red Diamond Throne; but then, comfort would hardly be a reassurance on this most accursed of nights. Before him lay open a book called Downfall: A Treatise on the Geopolitical Instability of the Eastern Provinces During the Reman Era, utterly ignored since a few seconds after it was originally opened. It was the sort of book most men read to educate themselves, not to relax…yet, because of Fate’s apparent contempt for him at the moment, Uriel could not even do that. Blurring the ink of the pages was the faintest hint of a teardrop.
Uriel Septim VII knew who he was and where he stood. He was a man utterly devoted to his duty, voracious in his pursuit of a truly united Empire, and incessantly concerned for the welfare of his people. He was also a terrible, scheming man, a maker of endless plots, ruthless in his treatment of those who would stand in the way of his goals…and a broken shell of his former self.
Jagar Tharn had seen to that: as Imperial Battlemage, he had instilled in the Emperor a desperate sense of paranoia, of danger, of a need to use loved ones as a crutch against the horrors of his work. And then he had betrayed him, and sentenced him to a hellish prison in which there was no hope, from which there was no escape, and of which there was no chance of forgetting. Perhaps the gods saw it fitting, that the mighty should fall and be broken by such cruel methods – but Uriel was just a man, and there was only so much that a man could take.
Eventually, of course, the plot was uncovered and he was freed…yet not without cost.
And it had been at that moment, when the Eternal Champion stepped over the mangled remains of the Tharnatos and freed the Emperor from his shackles, that Uriel Septim knew, with a cold, factual certainty, how he would die.
The Emperor’s musings were interrupted by the muffled sound of soft footsteps on the carpeted floor. As they approached, so too did a tiny light, which to Uriel was so blinding as to cause him to cover his eyes as they adjusted. A high voice called out, ever softly, yet magnified by the palpable silence: “Your Majesty, is that you?”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Septim, trying to rouse himself from his stupor and gather some air of majesty. “And who – ah, yes, Ocato. Dear, loyal Ocato; what news do you bring me?”
The Altmer stepped forward, his small lantern illuminating only his face and casting a silhouette against the wall. His features were young and smooth, with the otherworldly glow of the High Elves, and betrayed a lack of that certain jadedness and deceit that one would expect from a politician. The Imperial Battlemage and High Chancellor of the Elder Council leaned in to observe his Emperor, eyes glowing with earnest concern. “We searched for you in your quarters,” he explained, “and in the Throne Room and hallways. I never expected you to be here, though, of all places,” and he added, a weak smile forming on his lips: “Catching up on your midnight reading, then, I suppose?”
The Emperor did not laugh at the attempted joke. “Ocato…” he intoned, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m going to die today.”
There was an awkward silence. Ocato shifted nervously, trying to see if there was some way of consoling his liege. Yet he was a mer educated in the ways of myth and magicka, and he knew that if the Emperor spoke with such certainty in his voice, the terrible statement was fact. “How do you know?” he asked gravely.
“I had…a dream,” responded Uriel, speaking more to himself than to Ocato. “I was in a meadow with Caula Voria and my sons. They were just boys, all three of them; the happiest boys I’ve ever seen. And she…she was beautiful.” Against his best efforts, a tear escaped his eye. He turned away from Ocato, ashamed. “I saw the stars and their movements, clear as if it had been the firmament itself I was gazing at. I saw the Serpent consuming all the other shapes, and a darkness settling upon the meadow.”
A pause. “And then they were all dead.”
“Caula Voria has been dead for years,” retorted Ocato, trying to counter the omen. “You saw to that, when you put her in that institution after the Simulacrum. She never loved you, my lord, I’ve heard it from your very lips – she manipulated you to gain a position of power, alienated you from your sons, and was a bigger traitor than Tharn. Do not interpret the dream as – “
“Do not,” interrupted the Emperor in a dangerously caustic tone, an angry fire in his stare. “Do not lecture me about my family. I know my sins and those of my wife against me, I know that I was not made to be a father! But I loved my sons, Ocato – I loved my sons, and my sons are dead. You are a mystic by trade; it was written in the stars, and this is the day of their vengeance against me.”
Ocato was silent.
Uriel stood, bones shaking from the cold and from fear. Yet he controlled himself, not allowing his movements to betray his frailness, and he gazed into the Battlemage’s eyes, searching for answers. “There is no news of them, then?”
The Altmer paused, obviously choosing his words carefully. Finally, he spoke, without wavering: “We received reports that Prince Geldall’s train was intercepted en route to Hammerfell, on the border with County Chorrol. A party of robed men seems to have ambushed them on the Black Road, though the last report we’ve received from the region is woefully outdated.”
“I see.” There was a sad matter-of-factness to the reply, as if the news had been inevitable.
“We have not heard from your other sons, though we assume they remain unmolested,” continued Ocato, trying to reassure the Emperor. “Enman’s diplomatic sojourn to Morrowind has faced no troubles, and no harm could possibly come to Ebel while he remains in Skingrad. They are men grown old and grey, with honor guards the size of your own; you’ve no need to worry about them, Your Majesty.”
“No,” muttered Uriel hoarsely. “No, they were men grown. Men grown without a father to guide them, grown to be spiteful and selfish and cruel. So very…cruel…” There was pain in the old monarch’s voice; his sons’ contempt for him had struck a blow that would never heal, and he knew he would die before they ever had the chance to forgive him.
There was another long silence, the expression on the Emperor’s face concealed by the shadows. Then: “And what will become of me, Ocato?”
The Altmer waited once again before speaking. “My lord, your enemies gather their forces against you as we speak; this is not the time for -- “
“Not of my enemies, Chancellor; what of me?” repeated the Emperor, eyes becoming glazed as a thousand memories fluttered past his vision. “For sixty five years I have ruled this Empire – sixty five years. Generals and kings have knelt at my command; I have ordered good men to their deaths; and I have caused the deaths of a hundred thousand enemies. I have twisted time itself to my whims, and commanded an agent by whose hand gods have been slain. Yet I have seen the gates of Oblivion, beyond which no waking eye may see. I have seen my death.” He paused; the meaning of that statement was not lost upon him. Then: “It is unbecoming of a man such as myself, to fear my death with such fervor. Yet I am not some wild swine, to be hunted like an animal and gutted! I am an Emperor! I cannot die, not like this, not now!”
Ocato opened his mouth to speak, but the Emperor interrupted him, saying, “And no, do not give me your hollow reassurances of my safety. I have seen my fate written in my dreams, and you know as well as I do what that means. The gods have seen fit to mock me in this life; to give me everything in the world, then take it away in bits and pieces until there is nothing left. I am empty, dear Ocato, empty! A shell of a man! And now I will die, in darkness, alone, the tool of some prophecy that I will never understand. How I resent destiny, now that its threads have been taken out of my hands.”
The desperation was written clearly on Uriel’s face – rawer than Ocato had ever seen in the man before. But then, the Emperor had never been just a man before.
Ocato’s candle began to flicker and weaken, and the dimming light warped the shapes on the wall. Uriel began to feel the cold overwhelm him again, and against his better instincts he once again began to shiver violently. The darkness was closing in; his time would come soon, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His legacy would be an unfinished one, and the Empire left broken and contested in his wake. How ironic that the Great Reformer, the grand Emperor Uriel Septim VII, was now a frail old man, squirming like a child because he was a afraid of the dark.
Suddenly, Ocato’s voice broke through the unbearable stillness. “If we are speaking candidly, Uriel, I believe you should consider yourself fortunate,” remarked the Altmer, in a thoughtful tone that epitomized the wisdom of a master mage. “You have lived a long, fruitful life, one that has touched many others for the better. Men are but flesh and blood; they know their doom, but not the hour. In this, you are blessed, for now you can face your apportioned fate…then fall.” He stared boldly into Uriel’s face. “You say that you will die a pig, hunted and then gutted. But I say that you will die an Emperor, with dignity and strength, a symbol to your people. You will be able to stare your killers in the face and forgive them, for you knew your fate was inevitable and a part of Tamriel’s destiny. Your life was sown long ago into the tapestry of existence, and your death will be naught but the final stitch in that thread – nothing more, nothing less. What you make of it is your own will.”
Uriel blinked; the Altmer had never spoken so bluntly to his liege before, yet there was a resounding truth behind his words. “I don’t want to die,” he conceded quietly, in a voice that could have been mistaken for a whimper. “I…I have seen beyond the veil, and I do not want do die.”
“If, indeed, you have seen your death written in the stars this night, then your death is a necessary end. It will come when it will come.”
The Emperor sighed, his breath a mist before his face, and a shudder running down his spine. Yet he gathered his robes tightly around his body and stood straight, face stoic, and an air of regality about him as Ocato had never seen before. And, in that single moment, as he stood tall in a cold, dark library, Uriel Septim VII looked more like an Emperor than ever he had in his life. “You came to me with news; what say you?”
Inspired by the power of the moment, Ocato bowed his head, heart full of compassion for this man who would so bravely face his end. “Your Blades await you in your chambers and have outlined your escape route, my lord; you shall be escorted through the Prison catacombs by Captain Renault and two knight-errants. After reaching Lake Rumare, you will be escorted – ”
“What are their names?” interrupted the Emperor.
“Pardon, sir?”
”I want to know their names; the men under Captain Renault’s command.”
“Oh,” replied Ocato, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Their names are Baurus and Steffan, I believe, but that’s really not important, Your Majesty, and I really must – ”
“The Blades can tell me about the escape plan themselves,” interjected Uriel, a hint of a smile on his face. He continued towards the door to the rest of the Palace. “You have already done too much for me on this night. I will meet my Blades personally, and then we can proceed forw –”
This time, the Emperor interrupted himself. He had just pushed open the wooden door to the halls of the Palace and stood there, gazing outward. The corridor was pitch black. He then turned to face Ocato, one last time.
The Altmer spoke for him: “If we never meet again, my lord…godspeed to you.”
Uriel gave a nod, then turned and marched resolutely into the darkness, his robes fluttering behind him in his wake. Before long, the footsteps receded, and there was nothing but silence in the empty library.
It was so very, very cold.