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The winds were howling as Sjodolf climbed the mountain, snow barraging him and freezing him to the bone. He pulled his cloak tighter around him in some semblance to get warmer, but the thin material was made for Falkreath weather, not the harrowing snowstorms of Hjaalmarch.
He continued on, though, needing to get to the Shrine where Silus Vesuius was waiting for him. The broken pieces of Mehrunes’ Razor felt heavy in his satchel, separated for centuries but finally together once again, soon to be whole.
He reached the Shrine, the large stone structure blocking most of the snow hurtling down at him. He climbed the stairs up, up, until he got to the top. Resting atop it was a single ceremonial alter, empty, the statue of Mehrunes Dagon looming menacingly over them, a door into the shrine below it.
Silus turned to him, his long black hair blown all over his face. “Good, you’re here. Place the pieces of the Razor on the alter, and Dagon should speak to us.”
Sjodolf opened his satchel and pulled the pieces out, the shards of the blade wrapped carefully in linen. He placed them on the alter, and stepped to the side to allow Silus to speak.
He stepped up to alter and placed his hands on either side of the pile of shards, and closed his eyes. “Mehrunes Dagon, the Lord of Change,” he said, tipping his head up to the looming statue, keeping his eyes closed, “we have brought your Razor to you. We beg you, please bring the blade’s full glory to Tamriel again!”
They stood there for a minute, everything silent except the howling of the snowstorm that was blocked by the large statue in front of them.
Silus swore and stepped away from the alter. “It’s not working. Why don’t you give it a try? Just put your hands on the alter.”
I know what to do, Sjodolf thought, and took Silus’s place at the alter.
As soon as his hands touched the alter Mehrunes Dagon’s booming voice echoed across the stone structure, louder than the snowstorm.
“You. Mortal. You are worthy of speaking to. You have claimed the pieces of my Razor. It has been an amusing game to witness. But Dagon does not declare a winner while there is a pawn on the board. Kill Silus. He and his family have served his purpose.”
A cruel grin spread over Sjodolf’s face. “As you wish, Father.”
Silus’s eyes widened in panic as those words sunk in, and he stumbled backwards, towards the edge of the stone structure. “Y-you’re his son?”
Sjodolf unsheathed his sword from his back, the hilt glowing with an unnatural light. Syneele had been mad at him for taking her mother’s sword, but he had earned it fair and square, and he wasn’t going to give up a perfectly good sword because some spoiled brat wanted it. But that’s not important at the moment. What was important was Silus was cowering as Sjodolf raised Dawnbreaker above his head, his cruel grin begging for blood.
It was a quick death, if anything. Gruesome, but quick. His blood pooled under Silus’s dead body, seeping into the cracks of the stonework, spreading across the stone structure.
“Good work, my son,” Mehrunes Dagon’s voice echoed again.
Sjodolf turned away from the corpse, and took the Razor with glee.