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The target wore red. Oddly fitting: even painted by blood, it would retain its original color. A shame, almost. Even the most vigilant ones do not expect enemies to lurk in the silent shadows. One strike was more than enough for the kill.
Another soul was sent to Sithis.
It’s been a long time since he sheathed his blade and turned to his tongue as the weapon of choice. He could very well be of service while he Spoke, of that he was sure.
Thus, whatever his target was carrying must have been important enough to warrant the Night Mother’s attention and to appoint him, of all the Dark Brothers, as the one to carry it out.
He expected papers: documents, correspondence, something incriminating, dangerous, delicate. Instead of rustling, he heard clanking and felt the cold of the stone and metal.
When he fished the object out of the corpse’s pocket, it glinted gold and red at him, ruby and blood red.
Then, he felt something within the Amulet stare. He squinted back at the presence, and roaring fires licked the cold blackness at the edges of his consciousness.
He hid the amulet and let Shadowmere disappear into the thick of the forests with him on her back.
He needed to think.
***
The Blade was… thunderously loud in her approach to his residence in Fort Farragut. Destroying every skeleton guarding the Fort, making a mess of his traps, and oh, the clinking of armour carried far by the echoes bouncing off the stone walls.
When she entered the room, she found a blade at her throat. Apparently, the only daggers she carried were hidden in her glare.
“You stole the Amulet of Kings,” the Blade said, paying no mind at all to the sharp threat about to take away her ability to breathe and to lie. “Where is it?”
Oh, that he could answer, and answer well. He slowly raised his hand and pushed the collar of his robe aside, revealing the golden chain and the glint of red.
Her eyes widened in response. His smile did as well.
He was a murderer, yes, but no thief.
One strike would be more than enough for this kill, too. If, within mere moments after the last breath left her lungs, her eyes would not flutter open.
“I might be harder to get rid of than you’re used to, assassin,” she smirked. “So let’s talk.”
She left alive that night, carrying the Amulet in her pocket, under layers of leather and metal. As long as it wouldn’t leave her side, it would be safe, he thought. A shame she cannot wear it, too.
He did not need the Ruby Throne. His Empire was right there, in the cellar of a long-abandoned house in Cheydinhal.
He was so certain it would stay that way until the very end.
***
A heavy boot kicked down the door of Applewatch. He turned around, unarmed.
He expected the Black Hand and his cruel price for so foolishly losing sight of his Silencer. His judgement and execution. He was ready.
It was the Blade, instead, panting and tense. He took her in: the stained armour, the ruffled hair, and the freshly split cheek, right across what looked like an ancient scar in comparison.
“You’re not safe here. You need to go with me. Now.”
When he didn’t move, she grabbed his hand, pulling him outside with the urgency that surely should have been reserved for deeds like closing the Gates.
“I said now!”
How did she find this place, he wondered. With no connection to the Brotherhood, no awareness of what they could have been up to, of what he would have occupied himself with. Didn’t she have her hands full with the discovered heir, the humble priest of a far more popular god?
She explained when they got far enough, in a tiny hut that, by all the laws of nature, shouldn’t have been able to keep its roof. They lost the priest (or rather, she lost the priest, she admitted through gritted teeth), and didn’t it prove handy that her ‘associate’ had been tracking him the whole time somehow, now saving a whole Empire for the price of his life?
Because, should ‘the others’ not find the other heir, Dagon would not stop until he ravaged the whole plane. Unless he lit the Dragonfires and, of course, took upon himself all that would follow.
With the alternative being her leaving him at the mercy of those who were surely already on the lookout for him as they spoke.
And he had until dawn to decide.
He prayed vehemently that night, hoping for an answer in his dreams.
He had duties already, duties decided more than half a life ago by fate itself, and he would not turn them away.
The fires and the blood red came to his dreams, and the blood was shimmering red within the finely cut stone, and the fires were a circle lighting up columns of white marble-
Despite his thoughts, his heart was not heavy when he woke.
“Made up your mind yet?” she asked, bright blue eyes piercing into his soul.
(Whatever she found in there would be deep cosmic blackness as long as you can see and beyond, he thought.)
Instead of that, he said, “It appears I did.”
***
He wore red. Blue and gold as well, but he only saw red, the silken velvet blood he could grasp with both palms and let it run over his fingers. Oddly fitting, for his hands have been painted with blood very, very long ago.
The High Chancellor was beaming when he saw him, ready to kiss the very fingers that would sing with his demise should Sithis will so.
He was Cyrodill’s salvation, he said. An unexpected gift. Their future.
She shifted from foot to foot behind him. “All due respect, Chancellor, let’s get this over with. I have an increasingly bad feeling about all this and would very much prefer to deal with it before it becomes like last time.”
Jauffre, averting his eyes, conceded that yes, this would probably be prudent. Good enough that they didn’t have to ride all the way from the Cloud Ruler Temple, however, he would certainly have appreciated it if she let him know about her lead beforehand…
She rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, inflicting him with a peculiarly tingling feeling of deja vu.
“Gods damn it. Let’s go. Now.”
And then, turning her head from the stone door, she looked like she wanted to bark at the other two Blades, but simply shook her head and dragged him out the door.
He knew the way to the Temple district just as well as she did, and yet she seemed to be getting increasingly more tense with each step they took. The confusion of the people gathered by the sides of the road to gawk seemed just as infuriating to her as it was amusing for him.
“Let’s call it a hunch,” she told him when the guards were opening the gate to the district for them. “The more these pompous arses stall for their ceremonies, the more time they have to make a move.”
Which he definitely did not want to witness or take part in, he finished in his head instead of her. It was quite enough to escape one mortal danger by a thread.
Once upon a time, he had planned to live a long and eventful life. Something in him saw no particular reason to cut it short as of yet, Wrath of Sithis notwithstanding.
And so they ran. It would have been easy for him to keep up if not for the long, long red-and-gold hem of the robe he was forced into. (As soon as the opportunity arose, he would have it trimmed or copied into something more suitable for day-to-day wear, he thought idly. Surely they wouldn’t object to the new Emperor wanting to protect himself when the previous one had failed in this very department?)
It felt surreal and so certain at the same time. Not so easy to stomach the fact that he would be Emperor very, very soon, but surely he would implement a few certain changes to the order of things in the Empire…
A Gate intercepted their path just as he let his mind wander into what exactly these changes should be. Daedra came storming out, threatening to circle them. She shoved him out of the way just as he covered himself with Chameleon.
“Run!” she shouted and swung her sword high. He heard her shield cracking a scamp skull, gathered the bloody red hem, and ran.
The sound of the second Gate opening greeted him just as he closed the door to the Temple behind him.
They discussed it only briefly, but the licking roaring fires in him already knew what he had to do. The Amulet came alive in his hands, burning bright and beautiful, touching, singing in unison with the central brazier of the temple.
And for one delicious moment, for just a few heartbeats, he felt every pulse in the Empire. The people, and the land itself, took a breath with him. He inhaled — and with the exhale, fire came out.
The circle of the fires lit up around him, catching onto, latching onto the dragon breath he-and-the-amulet let out in painfully beautiful unison.
One by one until the circle closed.
He kept standing there, mesmerized and contemplating and alone, until she stormed into the temple — just like in the fort — just like on that farm — covered in blood and panting and laughing, and grabbing him in a hold almost worthy of Gogron.
And right there and then, with the fires on the white marble and the fires in her surrounding him, he found the void in his heart finally starting to give way.
What a terrifying and beautiful way to live, he thought briefly, and then the High Chancellor was already upon him, congratulating them both on stopping the invasion and the Crisis at last.
***
He wore red. Oddly fitting: the Amulet’s presence clinging to his soul was shining bright red, too.
Like the ones before him, his oath was to protect the land and its people, whatever it took. Several threats were looming on the horizon, but if they prepared well, just one well-calculated strike should be enough to quell the storm.
The Blade stood behind his throne, her right hand never leaving the hilt of her sword — as if he needed protection. The attention, though, was almost flattering for a change.
Whatever he and his Empire would face, he was ready to take up the challenge, and he had a sneaking suspicion he would not be left alone on this path.
He expected a foe when he first met her. When she dragged him out of the farmhouse, he saw someone ready to fight tooth and nail for him without even being a part of the family. And if he had learned just one new thing during his life, it went thus: loyalty is not to be discarded.
Another meeting with the Imperial Watch awaited him later in the evening. Earlier, he noticed that some (quite helpful) additions found their way to his notes’ margins. This mysterious confident hand wrote about how precisely one would go about starting to push for fair treatment and justice for all the Empire’s people.
Perhaps he should invite his new guardian for a more… private discussion later.
He needed to think.