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JERAULD pushed open the oak doors to Cloud Ruler’s great hall, shaking his head as the rain followed him in. The bladesmen at the door snapped to an even straighter stance. One grabbed the door and held it open for him.
“Grandmaster. Let me get that.”
Jerauld patted his cloak and hemmed, turning around. “Oh. Thank you.”
The young Blade pushed the door and it groaned; Jerauld’s eyes drifted to the hinge that caused the noise. He’d ask Peraltus to have a look at it. With winter coming soon they couldn’t afford to have the great door sticking. His gaze dropped down to the thin crack between the steel sidings of the doors, to the grey pre-dawn world outside. He hadn’t been able to see the Imperial Palace from the walls through the fog, but he knew it was besieged. He couldn’t see the Dominion’s armies on Rumare’s southern banks, but he knew they were there all the same.
When the Imperial City proved too great to fall, they would swarm north over the lowlands and up to the Jeralls if the Legion couldn’t stop them (and he was beginning to doubt they could, even with his aid). They would come to Bruma, and then to Cloud Ruler.
All the more reason to see that the doors didn’t creak.
The door swung shut and reverberated, but the walls stood firm. Jerauld patted his cloak one last time and walked down the main aisle toward the fireplace. He kept his eyes on the carpet. It was well worn - they hadn’t replaced it in years, despite being on a list of improvements. Everything else was more important. Getting agents food, and lodging on assignments. Paying to have people eliminated, or people ‘eliminated’ and secreted elsewhere. Making sure there was enough iron and steel to work to keep the katanas sharp and the armor free of rust. Making sure the drafts in the dormitory were gone by winter, even though they always returned in the spring.
A short-lived ray of sunshine caught the row of katanas enshrined on the upper walls. Jerauld looked up, even though he missed it, hoping Magnus would shine strong again. He frowned, looking up at one sword in particular. Was that rust or a cobweb? And there was another dark spot on one by the banister...
He’d have to have a recruit polish them. It wouldn’t do to have the swords of the Dragonborns’ protectors looking shabby when a bladesman needed inspiration.
Jerauld’s brows stayed furrowed as he took his seat - his chair and no one else’s - by the fireplace. They would need more firewood, and with all of Chorrol and Bruma scurrying like squirrels for any scrap of wood that could keep them warm or bar their own gates and doors, finding more for themselves would be troublesome. They’d just started having woodsman encroaching on the grounds last Tirdas. They would have to watch out for poachers hunting more than just timber in the coming months. Did they have enough game-?
He flicked his gaze away from the fire for a second. “Speak bladesman. I was just thinking of sprucing up the sanctuary, nothing that can’t wait.”
The girl stopped dead on the creaking boards that had given her away, a rosy tint to her face that meant she probably hadn’t noticed the sound. Those boards were one thing he was loathe to fix: an early warning to pause his thoughts and prepare for conversation.
Jerauld steepled his fingers and gave her his full attention, doing his best to quiet his mind. She was one of the few agents they’d gotten back alive from Valenwood. Talara’s former protégé, now secret lover. Not so secret, from the rings he’d seen the pair sporting a few days before their separate assignments. He forgot her name but his mouth twitched as the rest of his memory came back. They’d lost the Vinedusk village she was stationed in, the one outside Falinesti. Thalmor torched it after the ill-fated attempt to murder the Silvenar. The attempt probably lost them the Rangers entirely, if there were any of them left.
Talara was still alive though. Undercover. Hylendal died, but the cell he was handling survived, or at least was not counted among the heads ‘gifted’ to Emperor Titus. Talara. Korranar. Qorion. Minthelion. Nalanse. All Altmer. All some of the best agents every sanctuary had to offer. All hopefully still alive, undermining the Thalmor and the Dominion from the inside. There was no need to recall them, if they were in place, if they hadn’t been discovered, and to that end keeping their possible existence a secret only he knew would keep them alive longer.
Yes, it meant not letting this agent know her wife was alive, but there was always the chance he was wrong and they were in fact dead - perhaps the heads were too mangled to be identified, or they had died earlier, or later. There were a myriad of ways they could still be dead and giving her and others false hope of ever seeing those agents again was cruel. He could do many things and knowingly send people to their deaths, but he didn’t like playing with heartstrings.
She cleared her throat and blinked several times, glancing back to the east wing before looking him in the eye.
“Loremaster Ravel asked for you.”
Jerauld raised an eyebrow. “Did he now?”
Now she pushed her arms flat against her sides, palms bunching up the hem of her robes. Jerauld craned his neck, an inch or two, and listened. Raised voices. The girl heard them too. A few bladesmen nearest the wall shook their heads and started moving to quieter quarters. Jerauld watched the far wall empty as his eyes narrowed.
“It’s Esbern. They’re fighting again.”
Jerauld sighed. “I swear...”
Nonetheless, he stood up, taking off the cloak to let it dry by the fire. He already felt his mood souring as he thought about the two archivists. They were both a little touched but living saints of whatever Divine or Daedra patroned knowledge (Daedra was one subject he stayed purposefully ignorant on: that was Naemeros’ job). Esbern specialized in obscure lore - Akaviri and Blades history, Nedic symbolism, Ayleids, and of course the Nordic Empires - while Tarethys Ravel mastered the general subjects. Both could point any agent, no matter their intellect or lack thereof, to whatever tome held the information they needed in a timely manner.
Of late, they were rarely not at each other’s throats, either loudly (as he could hear now from the eastern side of the great hall) or silently, which was worse.
Jerauld walked down the corridor past the kitchen and alchemy areas, ignoring how his stomach grumbled at the smells of sausages and eggs and fresh bread. Eggs. They would need more chickens in case the poachers killed too many hind or wild ewes in the forests around Cloud Ruler. Eggs weren’t proper meat but they could keep the agents going if it came to that-
“-then where is the Last Dragonborn?” Esbern’s voice resounded through the halls. “If this has all come to pass as you say, then the Last Dragonborn has come and gone-”
“Martin Septim-!”
Something heavy smashed on wood. A book - or a fist - on a table. Jerauld clenched his teeth.
“It cannot be Martin Septim! The Imperial Simulacrum, the Dragon Break, the crisis in Morrowind with the Tribunal: those all happened in the twilight of the Septim Dynasty! Martin Septim was the Dragonborn Ruler-”
“He was never crowned! I remember!”
Jerauld slammed the sliding doors to the archives open, demanding the attention of the two loremasters in the center of the room. They both stood there, staring at him as he glared right back. The junior archivists looked from the Grandmaster to their loremasters, and quietly returned books to shelves before slinking out the far door.
Jerauld took a deep breath and exhaled out his nose, pinching the rheum from his eyes. He hadn’t lost his temper, he was just very, very... very tired of their antics. The past three times they’d argued, they’d either taken it outside or fought silently, refusing to speak to each other or anyone accused of helping them. He had asked them to stop. He had asked them politely. He had ordered them the last time to settle it, and they still hadn’t.
He had other duties to attend to, but this was becoming a menace to morale, and he would not have it, not with winter coming on. If he had to drag the two of them to some sort of reconciliation, it would be a shorter ordeal than waiting for them to sort it out like adults. Jerauld pulled the sliding door shut, walking into the archives.
“Bladesmen: this is a library. Let’s keep our voices down.”
“Grandmaster Jerauld. Thank you for coming.” Tarethys said cautiously, nodding as he tucked his hands into his robes.
“Tarethys.” Jerauld said, returning the nod, then giving one to the other loremaster. “Esbern.”
“Grandmaster.” Esbern said, nodding curtly.
“He demanded to speak with you.” Tarethys spat, pulling a hand from his robes to point it in Esbern’s face.
Esbern scowled at him and stepped forward, deliberately avoiding Tarethys’ hand. “Because, Tarethys, I know the futility of trying to convince you of the danger we’re in.”
Jerauld heard them but ignored them, taking a seat at the table. He sat there, his back to them, until they took the cue to sit beside him. The archives were quiet - muffled, almost, so the scrape of wooden legs against stone and rugs broke his concentration on how to procure hens. He looked between them as they cleared their throats and adjusted their robes. Eggs could wait until after.
“Bladesmen, I am done waiting for you to settle this yourselves, so let’s have it out and be done with it. One final argument: let it all out, and then let us never speak of it again.”
Tarethys blinked, red eyes growing wide, but he nodded that he understood. Esbern’s gaze flicked from the far wall to the rugs. He nodded as well. Jerauld resisted the nagging voice in his head to make them sign a contract; he could trust them to keep their word.
“Good. Let’s get this over with.”
Esbern stood half out of his chair, picking up a worn thin book from the table’s far end. Tarethys sighed, shaking his head. Jerauld’s face went placid as he saw the book’s cover, the emblem of the Septim Empire stamped and stained silver into the bound leather. The Book of the Dragonborn. It detailed the notable lineages of Dragonborn Emperors of old: all men that the Blades had failed to protect when it counted, and the lines were ended. All they were left with were Colovian warlords, refined though they were by a century and a half of ruling the metropolitan capital. Not the legends of old, but mere men, a little better than the rest.
Esbern flicked the pages to the end, and Jerauld knew the passage he intended him to read without looking at it. It was one of the first things Blades memorized, despite not being required to do so. He couldn’t say off-hand how many agents were recruited over the last century with the hopes of one day serving a Dragonborn - or dying for one and having their sword enshrined with all the others in the great hall.
It was a hope neither he nor his predecessors could bring themselves to dash, as it did bring in recruits and keep even aged agents in the service now and then.
There were no dragonborns left. There were Septims left - the royal family of Shornhelm among several other cadet branches - but none that could be called dragonborn. There was no need for dragonborns, with the Amulet of Kings an empty husk since Martin Septim’s day. The Empire, such as it was, was on its own, but admitting this would question the very existence of their order - what was the point of a Dragonguard with no Dragonborn to guard, to guide them?
He hated that book, and the mental circles it made him run in that always ended with him throwing his arms up in disgust and changing nothing.
“You are familiar with the Dragonborn Prophecy?” Esbern prodded.
“Yes, Esbern. He does read.”
Jerauld snapped his fingers and pointed to the Dunmer archivist. “Tarethys, speak when I ask you to. Esbern is talking, you will go after him.” The flustered Dunmer went through several facial expressions before settling on ‘miffed’ and folding his arms over his chest. Esbern and Jerauld ignored him. “Please continue.”
Esbern cleared his throat and handed the book to Jerauld. Jerauld glanced down at the pages before setting it down. He knew the words already. He noted that Esbern seemed particularly pleased to be discussing this, or perhaps it was just the euphoria of being listened to for once. The man had a tendency to ramble about the oddest minutia of ancient times, sometimes without even being prompted. It irritated more than a few other bladesmen, but they were wise enough to realize he was wiser and stayed polite. Usually.
“There are many interpretations of the Dragonborn Prophecy, but there are very few that actually take into account the perspectives of those in the Skyrim of the First Era - and the Akaviri - who wrote it.”
“And... you do, I take it?”
“I try to, Grandmaster. I don’t dispute the Dragon Break or Red Year verses, but the majority of interpretations read the last three verses entirely wrong.”
Jerauld raised an eyebrow. This was what they were fighting over? This was what they were disrupting his sanctuary over? This was what prevented them from doing their jobs and helping bladesmen find information they needed for their assignments? A centuries old prophecy about people that no longer mattered?
He was careful to keep his feelings on the subject - or lack thereof - masked and feigned slight interest. He’d sometimes found if Esbern was allowed to prattle on - the man simply wanted to be listened to, and he couldn’t fault him for that - that was enough to ‘un-ruffle his feathers’ as Bernard would say, and things could return to normal.
“Do tell.” He said.
Esbern read only the interest and continued. Tarethys rolled his eyes and rested his chin in his palm, the glum purse of his lips muted by his fingers.
“The fourth verse deals with the Oblivion Crisis, yes, but the Imperial Palace never fell during that battle. Tarethys can attest to that personally.” Another timely eyeroll from the Dunmer and a wave of the hand. “Additionally, there was no crisis in Skyrim, certainly not enough to leave the kingdom ‘sundered, kingless, bleeding’ as the Prophecy implies. No more than the rest of Tamriel. And there has not been any incident of that magnitude that since. Therefore, the only correct conclusion is that the fifth verse has not yet come to pass.”
Esbern looked down at the book, part with dread, part for reassurance. Jerauld could almost feel something stirring at the young Nord’s solemn words.
“We are still in the fourth verse. The Imperial Palace hasn’t fallen, but it will. The time of the Mede Dynasty is coming to an end, Grandmaster, and Skyrim will not be far behind the rest of the Empire. We must send as many agents as we can spare to Skyrim, to prepare for the World-Eater’s return and the advent of the Last Dragonborn. All of them, if we can.”
Rain pattered on the roof. Jerauld could hear the fabric of Tarethys’ sleeves chaffing against itself as the elf rubbed his face and shook his head.
“Esbern.” Jerauld said slowly, putting his hands palm-flat against the oak table. “Esbern, I know you believe this is important, but we can’t just abandon Cloud Ruler or- or Storm Talon and the rest of the sanctuaries because of a vague prophecy.”
Tarethys drummed his fingers on the table. “Thank you, Grandmaster-”
“This is the opposite of vague, Grandmaster. The prophecy is very clear. We are in the middle of the fourth verse - between the Dragonborn Ruler losing the throne and the White Tower falling. The capital will fall-”
“Or the White Tower refers to Cyrodiil itself - which did fall when the Daedra attacked and the Emperor Uriel was killed.” Tarethys interjected.
He looked to Jerauld for permission (it was given, as Esbern had obviously made his case and was now defending it) before continuing. “There was a- a squabble over succession in Skyrim when High King Valdimar died in the Gate outside Solitude, which of his twin sons would claim the throne. I don’t know that I would classify it as the chaos you’re implying, but it was the darkest time in Skyrim’s history for centuries. It was certainly ‘kingless’ when Emperor Uriel died.”
Esbern glared over at Tarethys, ice blue eyes flashing murder. Unlike most Nords, he was versed in the arcane arts, and Jerauld noted his fists opening and closing, ice crusting over his knuckles and the wrinkles of his wrists. Jerauld stood up, putting his hands back on the table. Enough.
“Esbern. Martin Septim was the Last Dragonborn. He was the last heir to the throne, the last of the Septim line, and the Wheel turned.” Jerauld swallowed. “It killed him, but the world goes on.”
Esbern clenched his teeth so hard his beard trembled. “The World-Eater-”
“Is Mehrunes Dagon, not some Nordic ‘evil Akatosh’. We’ve discussed this a thousand times-”
“Alduin is completely different from Mehrunes Dagon!” Esbern yelled. His hands went to his hair. “You know this, Tarethys! Grandmaster-”
“Esbern-”
Esbern jerked back from the table and walked away, running his hands over his face. Jerauld exhaled, focusing on a bust of Reman. Esbern looked back at them and ran a hand over his face, tugging at his beard. There was an angry glint in his eyes.
Jerauld dropped the pretenses. No, he did not believe him or even feel this was important enough to need his attention. They should not be having rows in the archives over a minor scholarly dispute, a dispute over people who only mattered in history books nowadays. But Esbern’s temper concerned him, and Tarethys’ inability to keep his mouth shut was - well, that was normal, but less than helpful.
Perhaps it would be better if the two were separated. That meant sending Esbern away, as Tarethys was on general matters more useful. Esbern would have to go to another sanctuary, where his skills would be most useful. Jerauld stroked his chin. Master al-Farad was desperate for any means of stopping the Dominion, as the Alik’r Desert wasn’t proving deterrent enough. Esbern specialized in Akaviri and ancient Blades history, and Wind Scour was one of the older sanctuaries. He might even brush up on the Alik’r or the Ra Gada while he was there.
If Esbern could come up with another masterful plot like their attempt on the Silvenar at Falinesti (the failure there was... not his fault), that would be a miracle. Giving him another project to focus on might distract him from this Dragonborn prophecy. It wasn’t a guarantee, but al-Farad could use anything Jerauld could spare these days.
“I understand that you have your differences with Tarethys. If this... disagreement is interfering with your ability to work together, I can see that you’re reassigned to another sanctuary. I know the Master at Wind Scour could use someone of your talents.”
“A kind notion, Grandmaster, but his reputation precedes him. He takes issue with everything-”
“I take issue that you refuse to heed the signs! What use is prophecy if no one listens to it?!” Esbern cried, waving his arms in the air.
“A prophecy that is over and done.”
The Nord’s eyes flashed blue fire. “You-!”
“Esbern!” Jerauld snapped. It was enough to quiet him and Tarethys, long enough to listen. “Esbern, I know this is important to you, that the dragon lore and the dragonborns - all that, is your specialty, but...”
He struggled for the words to concisely state the argument he’d had time and time again in his own mind. It was the first time actually voicing these thoughts, and somehow, that made what he had to say more concrete. More depressing.
“Martin Septim raised the barriers permanently so we wouldn’t need another Dragonborn. There will never be another Dragonborn Emperor. We don’t need one.”
The words hung in the air, only the faint patter of rain on the tiled roof and even that was muffled. The two loremasters were silent. Shocked. Jerauld exhaled out his nose and shook his hands. He had said it. He’d admitted it. Maybe now they could move on to more practical uses of their time, like stopping the Dominion somewhere south of the Jeralls. It had been a century and a half, nearly two: it was high time all of them moved on.
“You’re wrong.”
“-Esbern. Tone.” Tarethys chastised quietly. If anything his words strengthened Esbern’s resolve, and he stood up straighter.
“The capital will fall, and the Mede Dynasty with it. No one will want to follow them if they lose the capital - Skyrim certainly won’t. The dragons will return, and the World-Eater himself. There will be another Dragonborn. We have an opportunity our predecessors did not- we know exactly where the next Dragonborn will be, we just have to wait in the right place-”
“Esbern! There are no more Dragonborn!” Jerauld yelled, standing up. He gestured with his arms as if that could cut through the stubborn belief of his loremaster. “And even if there were any hidden somewhere, we have no way of confirming them.”
Tarethys averted his gaze at that. It was true. Previously, they had the Amulet of Kings to prove for certain that a candidate was Dragonborn and worthy to sit the Ruby Throne. But it was gone: shattered, drained - he had heard it all. The conclusion was the same. It would not help them prove to outsiders if someone was Dragonborn. There were other methods, but they were less sure. Some easily faked, and others required ingredients the price of small towns, or circumstances that only occurred once a century.
Jerauld shook his head. He needed Esbern on his side - both of them, as he’d begun to worry about the disbelief on Tarethys’ face. “Our efforts are better spent sabotaging the Dominion, the Thalmor, and protecting the Empire, as we always have.”
That was their duty. Even in the days of the interregnum, before the Septims, the Dragonguard’s purpose was to watch and wait for a Dragonborn, yes, but to ensure an empire could be peopled, and had enough wealth to last a war or two. There could be no Emperor of the races of men if there were no men left to be ruled.
“If you chose to stand with the emperors that have forsaken us, you will die along with them” Esbern said slowly, “... and you will take all of us with you.”
Jerauld looked him in the eye. Esbern stared right back. His eyes were younger, but wiser in some ways, though not the ways that mattered. Esbern couldn’t see the big picture: that the fate of Nirn hung in the balance in this war. All he was thinking of was dragons, and dragonborns, and fantastical fantasies that belonged in the books he spent (honestly) too much time with.
He hadn’t blinked yet. Jerauld suspected he wouldn’t for another minute or so, but the point was made. Esbern had made up his mind, and keeping him here or at another sanctuary could disrupt the other bladesmen. Jerauld couldn’t have that. Everyone had to be focused, putting their best efforts toward stopping the Dominion, not... chasing fantasies and prophecies.
And he suspected that Esbern now would not be moved from his position, now that he was convinced the world was against him. Fine. It was a heavy blow, but the Blades would survive. They always had. Jerauld shook his head and rubbed his hand across his face.
“Esbern, if you disagree this strongly with the way I run things, then you’re free to leave. You can even take the dragon books if you want.”
The Nord stared down at the table a moment. Considering it. Jerauld wasn’t a hard man - it was an offer only and if he felt any regret was sincere, he would find a way to keep Esbern. But he couldn’t have him causing trouble. Not with winter coming, not with the Empire losing ground to the Dominion.
“Fine.”
Jerauld nodded. So, he... it would be for the best. If Esbern could not do his duties without dragging this dragon, Dragonborn obsession into everything, it would be better if he was gone. It would be better if all those books were gone. The last holdout of the dragons was slain in Tiber Septim’s day: what use could they possibly be in the Fourth Era? They were more mythology than actual accounts on dragons and how to fight them. The idea that dragons could use magic with just words and- and cast down walls brick by brick or eat away the years of an entire race was beyond absurd, even for a child’s bedtime story.
Tarethys rose from his chair, his face still shocked but his eyes unfocused and moist. Jerauld almost felt angry at him, but he smothered it. What did either of them expect to happen, with their ‘discussions’ constantly disrupting everyone else who used the archives? While he had hoped that Esbern could simply relocate to another sanctuary, this was bound to happen eventually.
Esbern did not wait to be dismissed - which Jerauld allowed because technically, he no longer answered to him, or anyone else in the sanctuary. Esbern stalked off down the rows of shelves, pulling books and tomes down with an eagle’s eye. Tarethys glanced over at Jerauld - his eyes still moist and wide - and walked quietly over to Esbern.
“I can help you pack them-”
“I don’t need your help.” Esbern hissed, jerking his armful of books away from the older Dunmer. He turned back to the shelves, throwing a wary glance over his shoulder at Tarethys then Jerauld. “It would appear I’m no longer welcome here...” He muttered.
Jerauld shook his head. “You are welcome, Esbern. But if you feel this... ‘dragon threat’ is more important, perhaps you should pursue it on your own time.”
“I will. Thank you.” Was the curt reply. Jerauld nodded and turned to leave- “I pray you are more receptive when the Last Dragonborn comes. He will need our help, not our skepticism.”
Jerauld stopped. He was facing away from them so he felt safe closing his eyes. He wished he had that simple, stubborn faith. It had been so long - decades - since he had believed in a dragonborn, before he learned the truth. He wished there was a way to unlearn it, to have hope again. He felt his heart lifting at the thought of a man of Tiber Septim’s cloth stepping onto the field of battle, turning the tide against the Dominion and rallying the races of men under his banner.
But just as quickly as the fancy came, so too did he cynically pick apart the rose-tinted blurring around its edges. Tiber Septim was a man - a god - without equal. These were no longer the days of the gods, or if they were, the gods were no longer listening.
“If he comes, Esbern, he will have it.” Jerauld said.
It was little more than a dream, but it gave the others hope and he swore to himself to never speak of dragonborns again. Jerauld turned half back to them and nodded, then left the two loremasters alone to bicker mutely over books. Jerauld walked the long walk back past the kitchens - which no longer boasted smells savory enough to hold his attention - to his chair by the fireplace. One of the bladesmen had left a pot of hot water for him, and enough tea to make a brew strong enough for his liking.
Jerauld mixed it with his spoon, watching the leaves swirl inside the pot. He worried about Tarethys. The mer had been shocked at the outcome of their discussion, he still wasn’t sure why. He honestly had expected the loremaster to be glad his ‘rival’ was leaving, even if he was allowed to take books with him. Tarethys hadn’t expected it though. Maybe he would in the future; maybe one of them could learn to control their tempers or at least their tongues.
The minutes passed and Jerauld spent them staring into the fire, mulling over chickens, door hinges, worn carpets and rusted swords. He kept coming back to the archives, in his mind. He wasn’t sure if the pit in his stomach was guilt (maybe he had been a little too firm, maybe he was a fool for letting Esbern leave) or something more, but he tried ignoring it with more tea.
They would have enough chickens by winter. The door hinge was easily fixed, and carpets while expensive could be repurposed into smaller ones. The swords he already spoke to Damien about: two recruits would see to it before supper.
And perhaps after some traveling, soul-searching, Esbern would come back to Cloud Ruler. A little older, a little wiser, and hopefully less stubborn. He would make a note of speaking to the master of the watch that Esbern was welcome to return at any time. He could travel as far as he liked, but the Archives were his home and he would not be turned away. A mind as brilliant as his would be a waste to turn away.
Jerauld sighed, holding the cup to his greying mustache. Things would work out in the end, prophecy or no. They always did.