Chapter Text
Along one lone road, a large and organized party was in pursuit of their prey. The party, elven guards with ornate armour of moonstone, quicksilver and iron bound with leather, were combing through snow-swept bushes and trees.
"Find him, " exclaimed somebody behind the screen of soldiers. "And curse this Oblivion defiled Skyrim wasteland." Shaking mud and snow off a thick robe, the one commanding the search team examined the area with eyes both shrewd and furious. It was a Thalmor Justicar, standing clearly in sight of an unarmed Breton staring down from one nearby hill.
Karakuren, 30 years old and recently out from Hammerfell, a province in the northwesternmost corner of the Continent of Tamriel. Passing through the border to escape an assassination contract which had been placed on his head, Karakuren had stopped at one shrine to Talos to rest. After dozing for some time, one loud alarm and half a dozen arrows shook him awake, resuming the rat-hunt for his life.
Karakuren ducked low and carefully slid backwards on his stomach, a snake in the grass. SNAP A twig behind the Breton broke the silence. Unmoving, he prayed in a lower whisper: "Akatosh, Arkay, Dibella, Julianos, Kynareth, Mara, Stendarr, Talos, Zenithar, I bees—"
Agony pierced his shoulder. An arrow transfixed Karakuren to the ground, then—flames enveloped him; an excruciating end to the hunt. Jerking around, biting against the searing agony, the Breton got on his side when another half-dozen arrows transfixed him to the ground. Seconds passed as the Thalmor encircled him, none approaching until the lead Justicar strode up with an elven sword in one hand.
Instead of rising it, the sneering Altmer hefted the weapon aloft, admiring as Karakuren slowly felt life leaving his body. "Be gone, to the indignity of death, for giving to the falsehood of Talos the accursed."
"Ak..Akatosh-" Karakuren hacked out, glaring up, defiant even in death. "condemn you, spwa--…" The light of his eyes grew dim in what remained of the night.
0……………….0
Beyond the realms of Oblivion or Mundus, the chief over the nine Divines stood witness to the events in Skyrim. Akatosh, Lord of Time and Father of the almighty dragons, witnessed the Thalmor pursuing Karakuren, Akatosh's chosen, his blessed, the one whom he'd made Dovahkiin. Now bristling with rage, Akatosh witnessed the assembly of Altmer standing over the burnt corpse of whom was intended to be the world's saviour, as the last of his lifeblood and magicka slipped away.
At his will, immediately, Akatosh no longer stood alone. Further among the Divines had assembled before him, Julianos, Stendarr, and Talos. Together, all conferred over what had been witnessed, particularly between Akatosh and Julianos. Days, nights, a moment, a millennium, time did little to touch the Divines, for they held little care for it, as neither could they directly shape or reverse the same across separate realms.
"We are in accord," spoke Julianos, "yet by what means can this ensue?"
"Alduin's return stands with the horizon," Akatosh proclaimed, "and I lack the method or means to bless a new Dragonborn."
"Mundus shalt not be turned away." Proclaimed Stendarr.
"We have little to nothing available to directly intervene," Talos spoke up, "so our answer lies in convening with those who do." Two of the assembled four rounded on the god whom at one time was a man. Words, curses and reason passed between them, and like a sharp wind, they passed as reason took the reins. Julianos spoke in favour of Talos. "The Oblivious Princes eternally meddle and mind, and I am loath to approach even one for the disorder, chaos and more they are wont to wrought. Allying with them lies the foremost option via logic available to us."
Hence, the Divines appeared on the Shivering Isles and strode forth into the palace of the ruler of this realm. "Hohohoho, tatzy, titzy, tartzy. What plague is encompassing thou, to pass through my halls of madness?"
"Sheogorath, test, my patience no further," rumbled the ruler of time. Opposite to the mightiest of the Divines, the Daedric Prince of Madness fell silent. The one who was once known to four as a mortal strode forward.
"Mayhap, I provide answers against the cloud of mad fury which has besot you, Akatosh?" Silence, colours and even windows dissolved around the immortal beings. A reflection of this particular Sheogorath, which even Julianos could tolerate. The Divine could recognize how the one who had restored order to a sacred pack with kings may lend his talents and will to a grand design once more.
"Inside of Mundus, the Altmer whom call themselves Alderai, Thalmor, have slain the one I had made Dovahkiin. Slain him on the eve of the return of my first child."
"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world, When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped, When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Mountain trembles, When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne and the White Tower falls, When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding, The World eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."
Striding forth clad head-to-foot in armour, a new Daedric Prince, an uninvited one, had spoken the words of prophecy. It was a new arrival to the present madness. Akatosh, Julianos, Stendarr and Talos had no reaction to his intrusion, and their host was troublingly silent.
"Jyggalag. More than my realm, or the puzzling minds of men, of mer, and more. All is in upheaval and turmoil whenst I welcome you to these halls with reason,” Sheogorath addressed his opposite. “Thou agrees, in accord with my guests, foreshalst we must directly shape the lives of Mundus."
"Aye," the Daedric prince of Order responded, to the one whom had overthrown him from the seat of Sheogorath centuries past. "The Divines seek our means to follow their directive and shape a new figure's soul to become what mortals acclaim as Dragonborn."
"No./No." Thundered the deep and powerful call of Akatosh, and he was not alone.
"Madness is within my purview and permeation, Jyggalag," Sheogorath spoke, "Should Akatosh impact a fragment of his soul to a mortal, to do so directly, I shall fear madness beyond that of Pelagius or Dagon would ensue."
Opposite to him, the Lord of Dragons and Time drew his head low. "Indeed. That, would without question destroy any mortal, be they beast, Khajit, Argonian, man, or mer. Worse, should another be blessed to carry my power, they would lack the means to speak, let alone fight back against my worst mistake."
Wisely, nobody voiced their worst thoughts towards whom Akatosh spoke. Nobody….present at least. A pocket of written words and writhing limbs erupted forth between all the immortals. "Hermaeus Mora." Out of the disruption appeared one letter, floating in the air to rest upon the floor. Snapping his fingers, Sheogorath summoned a peon to retrieve the paper, open it, and read aloud. The words incised the Divines, then struck worry into those with a conscience.
The Daedric Prince of Fate and knowledge wrote of Miraak, of designs he anticipated from the first Dragonborn, and of a fresh proposal for those assembled. "He speaks of separate gods. Of separate worlds from which we may draw a new candidate to replace the Dragonborn killed by the Altmer."
"The Alderai Dominion," Talos spoke evenly. "With the Thalmor Justicars at their head." He had heard prayers and curses of those who prayed to him levelled against the figures who had slain the most recent son of Akatosh. "Do we hold any viable alternatives?" Jyggalag decried, with resignation in his tone. The rest of those assembled conveyed that their efforts were worth all for nought.
"Hermaeus Mora, would have the means to identify a suitable one, from one world or thousands spanning the—"
"No need!" Sheogorath was walking through his doors. The Daedric Prince held his favourite piece, Wabbajak, in one hand, with a table or more than a dozen various orbs following in his wake. None had noticed him leave, and each marveled in various states as they recognized what and where he had been up to.
Beyond the doors, monstrosities with various tenacles were attempting to tear into this realm, with torn book pages surrounding them or torrents of misplaced opaque in the background. The Divines readied themselves, and Jygallag drew blades from his armour, yet within a few winks, the intruders to this realm of Oblivion were beaten away by others. Other figures whom now hovered on the edge of the Shivering Isles.
"Are you mad Sheogor---curse it, of course you are." Akatosh breathed. "The overabundance of madness may yet be heights of sanity," their host replied, not sparing a glance behind him, "and the most mad of all may witness and answer life with the obvious and not what they believe it should be."[1]
More than a few bristled at such an answer and let their opinions be heard as the new arrivals congregated within the palace. "My house my house, my realm my realm, trend and tickle and trickle abound." Multiple Daedric and Divines stood in assembly: Arkay, Dibella, Kynareth, Mara and Zenithar were now in assembly, some forward, others subdued, yet still ahead of the Daedric Princes.
Among the assembly stood Azura, Clavicus Vile, Hircine, Mehrunes Dagon, Meridia, Nocturnal, and Sanguine, arranging themselves in a loose circle under the direct eye of the Divines, surrounding them and carefully silent. All as Sheogorath desired within his domain.
Save for Ithelia, whom was at the right of Sheogorath and shuffling to be out of sight of Arkay or Julianos.
"Why have you all come?" Proclaimed Akatosh, with a voice and might which drew the Daedric Princes to hang their heads low before him. Many were testy, incised and part of their minds desired to run. However......
"The opportunity, Divine Lord of Time," Arkay answered. "The ones whom have slain the youngest Dragonborn see themselves as striving to attain immortality via the destruction of all Mundus. Such hubris, even from Altmer, I believe to see answered."
"Because you need us," Merida arrogantly responded. "Should two Princes of Oblivion stand to attempt this plan, it is rendered a gamble. Our combined might turns chance into an assurance. To bring light among a large realm, as well as battle or bless those whom fall within our purview."
"And the fall of Alduin is what we too desire," Hircine spoke. "His actions across all of Mundus, would eradicate all those whom worship, invoke or carry our power and pass unto our realms." Ever unpredictable, the Lord of the Hunt raised his head to meet the eyes of the God. "To select and bless one, and set them upon the hunt for dragons. Akatosh, I held my eyes upon your son, and I glare heavily at those who cut down the young prematurely; as one would slay a wolf pup, or throw the untried and untested to run and stalk under the moon unready. I would lend my power to draw another here, and stand as my champion to hunt amidst the pack with my blessing."
Silence answered the ruler of the Hunting Grounds. One immortal with the antlered head held their gaze with the immense Dragon. The source of all Dova continued looming over the one who could deliver blessings of lycanthropy, until…
"So be it."
"Serendipitous. My guests, take up the mantles." Sheogorath was clapping as several pedestals he pilfered from Apocypha swept forth. Atop each pedestal stood a dense orb, tools which could be transparent as glass and yet contained various shades of dark and swirling clouds. One came to a stop before Arkay, another to Mara, and to Zenithar, to Azura, to Talos, to Hircine, to Meridia, to Nocturnal, to Sanguine, and finally to Sheogorath in a ring surrounding Akatosh. Dibella, Kynareth, Julianos, Mehrunes Dagon, Clavicus Vile, and Jyggalag did not possess one, which some took as a slight. A powerful roar erupting from Akatosh silenced them, and their host clapped for their attention. "My guests, my guests, pick and select. Search forth through whatever words you find or fancy. Present any and each figure to Akatosh, hence his judgment will be made."
"So be it," the Lord of Time conceded, with a deep resignation and strength in his tone. "Your recognition of my role is, appreciated, Sheogorath. Julianos and I shall witness and weigh you all and your candidates. My strength, to impart another fragment of my soul, my power, and more, will consume my full attention. Hence, why I am not able to join."
With no more, the Daedric Princes and the Divines dove into their task. Silence ensued, even as each one could feel Seekers and Lurker's battling to enter and retrieve what the Prince of Madness had stolen.
Time mattered little to any at this task, and gradually all would present their respective options to Akatosh. One by one, he declined; from a scared and volatile warrior with a blade of blue, to a figure of mighty strength forgiven for the blood of his children, and a once mighty prince eager for glory gone by that was lost to a lie, or a charming rogue consumed by his convictions. So too was a figure whom had seen too many battles, costing him his heart, his arm and his sanity, was declined. Or a tattooed man of fire with the initial "D." propelled by righteous vengeance across wild seas. One, by one, by one, more and more came forth from separate realms of a universe. Three Daedric Princes, Sanguine, Nocturnal and Sheogorath, heavily pleaded for a figure atop a ship's mast who carried the name 'Sparrow,' yet even he was declined.
"Here," Merida loudly proclaimed. Drawing attention to the orb she held, through which the assembly witnessed a world of snow and ice and honour behind one massive wall. Atop this wall stood a youth who held the eyes and thoughts of a man, clad in leather and beside him stood a wolf the colour of fresh snow. "A dragon, a dragon and a wolf in one. I spied this world under threat of abominations I would desire to see exterminated in my name. This youth stands alone, with reason among selfish madness, and within his heart he treasures his kin."
Akatosh, Nocternal, Hircine, Julianus and Sheogorath combed through the life of this youth. What they witnessed, they answered with approval or disgust. Some grew irate towards the nature of fools, at the destruction man could wrought upon each other, and yet the more they saw, the more they grew in approval. The attention of all the Divines and Daedric Princes panned out to encompass the life, actions, and character of one…Jon Snow.
"I approve. Proceed!" At the command, the assembly joined their will, some with conviction, some with separate intentions, to reach across realms and snatch this chosen Champion for Akatosh to bless.
0…………………………0
In a world, in a stagnant world where magic could wax and wane and erupt, stood a a continent known to ordinary and exceptional people as Westeros. The destiny, fate, and dreams of all and especially of six specific children, changed. All six were under watch from a man confined to a tree. A man who could see and fly across the vastness of space, minds and time.
He saw what the future held, and within a blink, everything changed. The figure, who in decades past was called Bloodraven, witnessed the entire board of this world upended so fast that a scorching pain tore through his eyes and mind.
Forces unknown were battling, competing, causing an impossible storm to erupt. This gale of dark winds and erratic wills swept over all Westeros. Within Winterfell, confined and isolated within their rooms, six children who called this place home were taken. Two boys aged 14, a girl of 11, another girl of 9, and two boys of ages 7 and 3. All of them fell, swallowed by holes torn through the fabrics of the universe.
The power and scale of the tempest sweeping through Winterfell prevented anyone from learning of this. Sheets of lightning with deep, booming thunder, winds forcing trees, stables to bend unnaturally. The tempest terrified all of Westeros, the worst falling over the North, with people, sheep and cattle swept up skywards into empty air, or the least lucky souls forced over the edge of a massive wall.
Then nothing. The storm broke apart with the same speed it had come.
And within Winterfell the residents discovered who was missing. Servants, guards, other small children, and the Lord and Lady of the Castle were beside themselves. Tearing through each room, calling out louder and louder for the missing ones by name. Before long, people on foot and on horseback came streaming from the fortresses with torches in hand and fear in their hearts.
All of this was witnessed by Bloodraven. Turning his gaze further unto the future, what he found now shook him through his bones and roots. Everything was changed, nothing was the same, and an impending doom which hung over Westeros was now destined to fail.
Even the Old Gods, even the one called Rhollor, and more deities which co-inhabited this plane, were shaken beyond the collective belief of the millions who worshipped them. They had been robbed of six by conflicting immortals whom missed what those assembled had intended to commit.
0…………………………0
Immediately, when the assembly of Daedric Princes and Divines on the Shivering Isles extended their reach to Jon Snow, everything went wrong. "Not, not at my—AHH!!" Dagon and Clavicus Vile had attempted to steer the ritual askew, yet instead the blade of Jyggalag met each of them. The only one whom was not surprised was Sheogorath, in-tune with the opposite of himself whom he had cured.
Even worse, with all assembled in their full commitment, a familiar force collided with their task.
"Power. Power, death, yes, Yes!!! Suuuucchhhh, succcch chaos, and plunder, and plots, and murder, and rape, by so, soooo, mannnyyyyy."
"Feind, abomination!"
"Keep, on your, goal, Molag Bal. Or does, this aid, and favour, from me, carry nothing."
The unwanted ones had intervened. Molag Bal, King of the Rape, the Schemer Prince, the foulest of all Daedra, and the unpredictable Hermaeus Mora.
"Fiends!!" "Halt them!!" "They wish to steal another, to compel my power to be blessed upon!!" The final words were from Akatosh. Indeed, Molag Bal had his infernal attention on one called Gregor Clegane. Hermaeus Mora eyed an embittered half-man and a rotund boy, both of whom he could ensnare in his realm with ease. Some of the Daedra channeled their wills to counter-disrupt the disrupters, whilst the greater Divines could barely sit back and witness, lacking the same means and skill to counter the interlopers.
"Hircine, Merida!" The strength of those two was wavering, steering towards five who they could see were close to Jon Snow's heart. Talos and Mara shifted to correct them, except the Divine of Love and Family faltered. 'He values his kin and against the horrid actions of one who tried to shape their opinions.'
Now all of the Daedric Princes jockeyed against each other; each could spot one they desired to take and name their champions, then unleash on the plain of Nirn. Boethia licked her lips towards a haunty figure with silver hair whom stood fondling the chest of his sister, or a fanatic with flaming red hair keeping her true age obscured by trinkets. Merida spied ones with convictions of love and righteousness: a trout paired to a wolf tamed by his time among falcons.
With all the Daedric Princes competing with each other and their own interests, complicated by further intentions from the Divines, powerful storm clouds were building in the heavens above the continent.
Then the source of one power ceased; Stendarr plugged a blade through Molag Bal's efforts by answering prayers to those who appealed to him among the realm of Mundus. Answers which the grateful one replied by turning their attention against figures whom followed the darkest of the Daedric Princes. Such loss of strength, mixing with the opposing wills of multiple Daedric Princes, and Molag Bal's commitment faltered. With him, so too did the presence of Hermaeus Mora dither. The Demon of Knowledge withdrew his presence, content and satisfied.
Out of the original 19 within the Halls of Madness, all now desired to draw some other figure to name as their champions. "I desire to see them regain my Skeleton Key." "All are accompanied by wolf pups." "Family and Light, they all strive to bring and hold these with each other." The last words, out from Merida, swayed the Divine Mara to her side. Akatosh grew impatient and incised. In the corner, one eye he spied one whom he now held responsible for such mad corruption; Sheogorath, who answered the silent accusations with a smile.
"All shall come, then." Akatosh Proclaimed. "Select your champions amongst the Starks and Snow. Silence your opposition, take no others, and those whom you select shall be set upon a path to realize their potential for you all. And they shall stand near Jon Snow as he will confront Alduin."
The proclamation was, sufficient. Six children, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, and Jon Stark, along with six familiars tied to each one: Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, an unnamed one, a poorly named one, and the exceptional Ghost, came tumbling through the tunnels from their world into a new one, together.
Hircine made his choice, Nocturnal her own, Merida singled others, Azura set her pick, Mehrunes Dagon picked, Sanguine withheld his with a patient and leering grin, Clavicus Vile rendered so many that Jyggalag and Sheogorath intervened to lift them. Thus, the six assembled became deposited before Akatosh, arranged in a line with his chosen forward and apart from the other five.
Each was dazed, or awake, and all knelt awed by the supremacy, majesty and nature of a God.
Surrounding them, the Daedric Princes collapsed, while Sheogorath himself snatched the tools he'd pilfered and set them to Jyggalag to see them returned. The Divines immediately caught certain company they favoured, while others met solid ground with no such aid.
Julianos kept watch over all present, and under their attention, next to no one took notice of the measures Akatosh invoked. Curling before the mortals, mortals whom were already undergoing unexpected change, the Lord of Time sat in final judgement of his candidate. His judgement made, the Dragon reared his head with a single mighty breath, imparted his soul, his power, with not one but multiple Thu'um, into Jon Snow. Once he was done, the source of Dragons and sponsor of all the efforts on a scale unseen before gave a nod to the source of such mad measures.
Sheogorath stood satisfied and deeply, deeply impressed. Recalling a past life, the man made some bewildering decisions on where to deposit the charges. Charges, whom had been altered and marked in ways none could imagine, and would need extremely serious degrees of motivation.
His decision made, Sheogorath conceded to link with Akatosh, Talos, and Julianos, and thus dumped the Stark Children and their direwolves upon the realm of Nirn.
For the Divines, from the youngest to the most capricious, to the foremost of them all, each held deep love for Nirn. They held such love that they would see those under threat from the worst of the Altmer and the implacable and unrepentant Alduin, saved. Despite their wish, such measures could not be imposed directly unless either invoked on an impossible scale, or to answer an injustice and counter to the natural order so horrid that even the Daedric Princes would cooperate.
Sheogorath was thrilled, and from a separate realm another Daedric monitored all with glee. Hermaeus Mora hummed with pride at the success of his gambit, and the timely return of each trinket he knew would be stolen, and which said thief was aware he would steal the moment Akatosh petitioned to him. Both had their own designs, designs they would see realized through the Dragonborn.
End.
[1]=Author Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. “Demasiada Cordura puede ser ocura y la mayor locura de todas es ver la vide como es y no como deberia ser.” (Too much sanity may be madness. And the maddest of all to see life as it is, and not as it should be)