Work Text:
The first time he has the dream, he wakes thinking of Jauffre. Will Jauffre understand the horror of his dream? Will he be able to find a way out of it? He lays there then with the White-Gold Tower buzzing around him in its usual din and he tries to understand what he saw. A great creature towering over the city, blood dripping from the fingers of four hands on four arms. A young man he has long turned from his mind and a Redguard girl, the shattering of an amulet and the scream of a dragon as it hurtles into the waking world. A knife in a shadowed place and an hourglass counting its last grain of sand, forever to be stilled and empty. His life is coming to its end, the hours running from him on a track unstoppable. This he sees now. What will Jauffre think?
The second time he has the dream, he wakes screaming. Fire raining down on the Empire. Countless lives circling the end. Then the darkness of his chambers returns to him and he lays there panting. Is now the time to tell Jauffre? He lays there thinking, turning the question around in his mind. What would Jauffre even say? He knows how Caius would respond. The spy would give him a lopsided smile and tell him it’s just a dream. Go back to sleep, old man. No, he had better not say anything.
The third time he has the dream, he knows it is a truth. It is the future and he is hurtling toward it like a dancer reaching the end of a tune. There is no stopping it such as one cannot stop the sun from setting. He feels the evening of his life closing in upon him and it clutches him in such a grip that he can feel the ice of it digging into his flesh. He sits up in his bed and knows now that if he does not tell Jauffre, he will never be able to sleep.
He leaves his bed and dresses himself quickly, willing his shaking hands to move. Then he leaves his chambers, nodding to the Blades guarding the doors and heading down the hall to where he knows the Grandmaster certainly sleeps, safe in his own rooms. If only the White-Gold Tower was as safe as everyone believes, as he believed once. He misses those simpler days when the shadow of death did not hover over him with its rancid breath hissing at his ear. He misses the days where his sons were young and their laughter echoed down the halls like their own special song, lifting his heart and clearing his mind. Soon the cries of battle will echo these halls and no more will laughter reign. He lowers his eyes and hurries to Jauffre’s room.
There is a small, warm light glowing from the crack under Jauffre’s door as he arrives and he wonders at what the Grandmaster could be up this late for. Then he checks himself. The man must have many a thread to untangle in his role. It should not be a surprise that he is awake. He pulls his robes tighter around him and then raps on the door with his knuckles. One knock. Two knocks…
Soft blue eyes peer up at him as Jauffre opens the door slowly. He turns to look up and down the hall before ushering him into the room. Inside, he can see Jauffre’s desk with a candle glowing lustily upon it and papers upon papers around the top. Clearly the man was working. Perhaps he had better head back to his chambers and fight this monster alone.
“Are you quite alright, my lord? You look pale.”
Were anyone else to question his health, he would wave his hand and play it off. It is not wise to show weakness in his position. Yet… yet… This man makes him feel like he can say anything. He takes a seat at the desk and folds his hands, resting his chin on the backs of them. He watches as Jauffre approaches and begins to clean up the papers, folding them away where his wandering eye might not reach. There is nothing here to hide from the Emperor of all Tamriel, but there is naught to afear him with either.
“What I tell you must not leave this room.”
“Of course.”
There is a strength to Jauffre’s words that comforts him, warms his heart. He places his hands on the desk, straightens his back, and looks the Grandmaster of the Blades in the eye. Jauffre matches his gaze for a moment and then moves to bring him a glass of wine. He takes it and swirls the red liquid in the goblet before speaking:
“For some time now… I have been dreaming. Dreaming a scene so foul that it stops the blood in my veins and holds the breath in my throat. At first, I thought it merely a figment of my nocturnal imagination. Perhaps a vision sent by Vaermina to stay my hand from that which matters.”
He pauses. He takes a sip of his wine despite his shaking hand and tries to allow himself to savour the taste. Sweet. Vivacity. Life. All this and more does the wine invoke upon his lips. Yet his doom soon turns the drink to sour. Will he ever be able to truly enjoy it again?
“Yet I fear that which I see is true. Nay, I know it to be true.”
Jauffre doesn’t interrupt where a lesser man may have asked him what he sees. Instead, Jauffre draws up his own chair and sits next to him, watching him as he speaks. It is comforting to be listened to as a friend rather than as a king. How rare these days.
“My sons and I are going to be killed soon. How soon, I cannot say. I… I am…”
“I understand, my lord.”
Ah, there it is. That comfort. That certainty that only Jauffre can give. He smiles lightly, letting Jauffre’s quiet words soak into him. Always, always does Jauffre comfort and reassure him. He had acquiesced to the taking of his son to a faraway village and had brought proof that the boy was safe back without question or demand. The man had listened to and reaffirmed his belief in the prisoner sent to Vvardenfell. He had been there after Jagar Tharn had almost burned it all down and had simply offered his hand in rebuilding. Yes, the man was always there.
“I fear I am not ready to face my apportioned fate. I fear what is about to befall Tamriel.”
Jauffre reaches out a hand and takes one of his. Raising it, Jauffre presses a gentle kiss to his shaking hand and then releases it. The kiss leaves an echo that has him wishing his Grandmaster would take him into his arms. How many years have they spent at each other’s side? How many nightmares has Jauffre calmed for him?
He thinks on how proud he was when he bestowed the role of Grandmaster upon Jauffre. The man had looked so beautiful as he kneeled before the Ruby Throne, whispering his vows. He had looked beautiful later as well, in the arms of his Emperor with the privacy of the royal chambers around them. That had been a good day. Would that those days were here again.
Jauffre purses his lips and whispers, “Uriel, I will do everything in my power to protect you and the heirs. It is my life’s mission to ensure your safety. Nothing will happen without my own heart ceasing to beat in my chest.”
At the sound of his name, the Emperor breaks.
The tears come in a way he has not allowed since his childhood, many moons ago. He feels like a boy of four again, afraid of monsters hiding in dark shadows. His shoulders wrack with the force of his grief. Then there are two warm hands on his shoulder, sliding to pull him forward and into waiting arms. The heat of Jauffre’s body penetrates the thin robes he wears and he craves that security. Jauffre rests his chin atop the Emperor’s head and then he strokes the grey-white hair that curls there. When did they get so old?
“Uriel, Uriel… Tell me how you see it happening so that I may prevent it.”
Swallowing, he nods his head and then answers, “They will come in the night. They will take my sons from me when we are at our most vulnerable, during the hours of rest. I will be caught alone and will fall…”
“Then I will double your guard and ensure your sons have shadows. You will never be alone. I will always be at your side.”
And he knows that isn’t true. There will come a time where Jauffre will have to step forth without him and that moment is hurtling toward them like a comet. Yet, despite this sad truth, Uriel bends his face upward and catches Jauffre for a bittersweet kiss.
“May I stay the night here? You always chase the nightmares away.”
“Of course, my friend.”