User blog:Apollo42/A Throne of Ash: Part III

It had been nearly two weeks since the Boy Prince had unleashed his wroth upon Bruma, and the political landscape had changed so much. Those who declared for the White were coming in fewer and fewer, and they remained primarily on the fringes of the Empire, out of the reach of dragons.

Emperor Tarin I, in the north, had been launched into a frenzy, attacking cities and taking them as quickly as he could, before it could turn into a full-blown war with dragon fighting dragon. Markarth, Dragonstar, and Evermor had fallen, with a tyrant Silver-Blood being propped up in Markarth. Morthal, Dawnstar, Whiterun, Solitude, Winterhold, and Jehanna remained firmly under Tarin’s direct control, and his army was swelling as men from all over Tamriel streamed in to serve him.

Emperor Daenar II, in the south, had been galvanized into action, to prevent himself from losing face. As Maerys’ father, he was forced to make it seem as if he had been in control the whole time and had sent the Prince to parley, instead of being perceived as so weak that he couldn’t even control his own son. From what Maerys had heard, from Bruma, his father was marching North as they spoke, bringing with him all the might he could muster.

Maerys himself had remained in the city of Bruma, keeping the Count and his family under a close eye. He was directly supervising the reconstruction of the city, and had forced every nobleman and noblewoman in the city to come forward and swear their fealty to the Ruby Throne and his Father, or risk being cast into the dungeons or even executed.

The Count himself struggled to maintain his own hold on the city, having to keep the smallfolk from having his head. Maerys knew that, the moment he left the city, the Count would lose everything, and probably would be replaced by one of his infant children.

Of course, if Maerys left the city, he would be forced to face the wrath of his family. Daenar, Pyron, and Serra would be horrified by his actions. Aaron and Bryn would be more or less apathetic, unfortunately, and would do nothing to save him if his father wanted him executed.

Maerys had, technically, committed High Treason, and he knew that, but he was an intelligent young man. He was not worried about losing his head, as he was the most talented dragonrider they currently possessed, but he did not want to be forced to sit out of the War.

For now, he was content, essentially ruling the city of Bruma. The smallfolk and the noblemen alike feared him enough to not risk disobeying him, so he currently held the County with an iron fist.

It would not last very long, he mused, in an almost prophetic way, as he sat on the Lion Throne of Bruma. He glanced up as he heard a dragon roar, and, knowing the way that dragons worked, he figured that Makar was greeting another of his kind.

He went to the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the Argon’s Keep, and was not surprised to see two dragons wheeling in the sky. Both were larger than Makar, and one was a pale beige and the other was a deep blue. Erys and Arax, the dragons of his brother Aaron and his uncle Bryn. It was not difficult for Maerys to discern that they were the heralds of an army, most likely led by his father.

Prince Maerys Morgan moved back to the throne room, lounging on it lazily as he awaited his fate to come for him. It took less than an hour for it to descend on him.

The doors flung open and four figures strolled in, followed by a contingent of guardsmen bearing the black-and-white flags of House Morgan. Maerys almost sighed with relief when he realized that none of them were his father.

Pyron, his older brother, led the way, flanked by Aaron, Bryn, and Pyron’s friend, Vedin. Although Maerys knew that the pair were fairly inseparable, he was surprised to find the whipping boy with so many important figures. Behind them, two members of the Dragonguard led the contingent of soldiers, bearing the golden armor and the pale pink cloaks, representing Maerys’ father’s pale pink dragon.

One of them was nearly nine feet tall, so huge that he towered over everyone else present, and the Morgan line was fairly tall. His face was hidden behind his blue helm, but Maerys had grown up in the palace and knew who this was. The silent Knight of Stars, who never spoke or ate, had accompanied the Princes to get their wayward brother. The Paladin’s blade, Chrysamere, was strapped across his back, but he bore the enchanted shield, Spellbreaker, in his hand.

The other was Corvus Lux, the Lord Commander of the Dragonguard. He was a fairly talented swordsman, although nothing close to Pyron, but he was getting old and slow. Despite this, Maerys knew he couldn’t take the man if it came to a fight.

“You’re an idiot, Maerys, has anyone ever told you that?” Pyron demanded, striding forward. Vedin trailed him like a shadow, looking just as furious at the prince, but Bryn and Aaron remained silent, taking up positions behind the pair.

“So I’ve been told.” Maerys replied, casually. “But I did what none of you had the balls to, and no one will dare to raise the White in Cyrodiil over the course of this war.”

“People died, Maerys. Thousands and thousands of men and women and children.” Vedin said, staring angrily at the man. Maerys was slightly surprised that he was talking. Generally, the boy knew his place and did not speak unless it was around Pyron or their father. “Do you not even care what you did to them?”

Maerys blinked at him, not feeling like responding to such a ridiculous question, but Pyron stepped forward. “Answer the question.” He growled, not liking the disrespect that Maerys was affording to his ‘pet.’

Maerys opened his mouth to speak, hesitating. The truth was, he did not think about the smallfolk at all when he had decimated the city, considering more how what he did would affect the Count and the rest of Cyrodiil. “They would have died anyways, when the war actually begins.” He said, after a moment’s consideration. “Being incinerated is a much quicker way to die than if an army ravages the town.”

“You’re evading.” Corvus mused, quietly, and Maerys made eye contact with Bryn for the briefest of moments, and the pale man gave him a slight smile. At least, that’s what it looked like. It was difficult to tell with the High Chancellor.

“Where is the Count and his family?” Pyron asked, coldly, one of his hands gripping his sword tightly. “Did you burn them, too?”

“No, Your Highness.” Maerys said, his voice oozing with sarcasm at the attempted slight. “The Count, Countess, and their three children remain in their royal apartments, as does the Oracle.”

“The Oracle?” Bryn asked, finally stepping forward and speaking. That simple statement must have caught the Sorcerer-Lord’s attention. “House Argon of Bruma has no Oracle, my Prince.”

“No, she is of Rimmen.” Maerys agreed, finding himself amused at how easily he had distracted the entire room. “She was summoned to meet with her relative, the Count, just before I arrived and took the city.”

“Burned the city, you mean.” Pyron grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. Bryn, however, seemed to care less about the Heir’s statements, finding himself far more interested in the Oracle herself.

“Bring her out, Your Highness.” Bryn stated, coming over to stand by where Maerys sat on the Throne. “She may have useful information regarding the coming war.” The Prince nodded, waving his hand. Men wearing the lion of House Argon frantically rushed to fulfill his orders, scared to bear his wroth. Not that he had unleashed Makar since that night, but it served him to keep the rumors abound.

The men quickly returned, bringing with them a young woman, dressed all in white. She wore a white hood fringed with silver, a white half-veil, and a white robe. It was traditional dress for the Oracle of Rimmen, the second child of the Lion-King there. Curly platinum-blonde hair peaked out from underneath her hood, but the most striking feature about her was her pure white eyes. Like all of the members of House Argon of Rimmen, she had completely white eyes, devoid of pupils and Iris. It was a strange genetic twist, and it was a wonder that any of the family was capable of seeing at all.

“Your Highnesses.” The Lady said, stepping forward and curtsying. Her voice was like the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the wind through the trees. It was a beautiful sound, but also haunting. A potentially deadly lady was she, and they all knew it. At the sound of her voice, everyone in the room stopped in their tracks. It did not help that, as she moved, it was as if a blurry afterimage was imposed in the air behind her, like a spirt struggling to keep up with her. “I am Gemina, the Oracle of Rimmen. Come, seeker, and ask of me what you will.”

Bryn gave her a narrowed-eyed look, which Maerys took to say that he was attempting to search her mind with his telepathy. He continued to frown in concentration, his eyes narrowing ever-further, as if he was prevented from seeing what he wanted.

“Tell us what you will of this war, my lady.” Pyron offered, stepping forward after a moment’s silence. “Give us your advice.”

Gemina turned her head to look at him, the blurry afterimage hanging in the air for a second before it disappeared. “Prince Pyron Morgan, Hero of the Sands.” She mused, quietly. “I will not discuss your fate, for it is something you already know. Your brother has told you, I believe.”

Pyron frowned, stepping back, before Bryn turned his beady-eyed gaze once more on the Oracle. “My lady, tell us what the coming war with Tarin Blackfyre will bring to our House.”

“That is simple, High Chancellor.” The Oracle said, and her voice deepened slightly. White mist curled about her feet. “Devastation. Blood will rent the skies, and dragons will fall like arrows upon the grasses of Skyrim. Monsters and men dance about the fields, and the world over will suffer for the follies of your forefathers. Every dragonrider in Tamriel will be drawn into these wars, and few will live to see the next. Only Aristos Imperion, a member of your House, will slay the White Dragon and carry the day. But be wary, for the White Dragon will rent his heart from his chest and shatter Aristos Imperion into pieces.”

Aristos Imperion. It meant “Best of the Empire,” in the Underelf Language. Slowly, all of the eyes in the room, including Maerys’ own, slid to Pyron, his older brother. He was the best swordsman in their family, and a warrior renowned for his strength.

“Beware, seeker.” The Orace continued, her voice beginning to rasp. “The Fate of Tamriel has long been sealed, since long before any of us walked the earth. The outcome of this War will decide how Tamriel will survive in the darkness to come. Dark gods-“

“That’s enough.” Bryn said, stepping up to the woman. The moment passed, and the Oracle shivered slightly, the mists around her feet disappearing.

“Forgive me, My Lord, if I said too much.” Gemina whispered, her voice returned to its normal tone. “It is hard to control, sometimes.”

“You are dismissed, my Lady.” Bryn said, coolly, his voice sounding like nails on a chalkboard as he lifted his hood to cover his silver hair. “Return to your rooms.” The Oracle curtsied, graciously, and turned to leave, the guards following her.

“So…” Maerys offered, not sure what to say after that prophecy the woman had offered them. He put no stock in the foretelling of the future, but even knew that some people were gifted. His own brother, Rallan, was said to have brief glimpses into the future and past.

“We all recognize who Aristos Imperion is.” Vedin said, stepping forward. “There’s no point in bandying words. Pyron is going to kill Tarin, and the war will end. We must march on Skyrim.”

Pyron’s face turned bright red as Vedin spoke, but he did not step in to say anything.

“I agree.” Maerys stated, from his seat on the throne. “Pyron is the Hero who will save the Empire.” He paused, deciding to take his opportunity. “But it is foretold that all dragonriders will be required to participate in this war, one way or another. That means I must partake, despite what my father will want.”

Aaron and Corvus both glowered at him, but Bryn was nodding his assent. “The hour is late, your Highnesses, and I’m afraid that we all must take to bed to consider this information.”

“I agree, Lord Hassildor.” Vedin said, stepping forward before anymore strife could be had. From what Maerys knew of the man, he was fairly gentle and kind, not given to infighting, although his nobility and honor had pressed him into reproaching Maerys.

“I will have rooms for you set up in the eastern tower of the Keep.” Maerys offered, waving a hand. The men of Bruma scurried to fulfill his wishes, doing what he wanted as fast as possible. “Your men may stay in the barracks, unless they would like to return to your War Camp outside the gates.”

“They will stay in the barracks with the men of Bruma, Your Grace.” Bryn said, before anyone could contradict him. “We will march on Falkreath in two days’ time. I ask that you prepare yourself.”

“Of course.” Maerys said, giving a nod to show that the discussion was over. He was reveling in his newfound power; for a boy of sixteen, sitting on a throne and ruling a city was a bit of a power trip, and he was certainly enjoying how he was revered and feared by the citizens.

The men in the room began to trickle off, slowly. Corvus accompanied Bryn to his rooms, presumably to guard him outside. The Knight of Stars followed Aaron, and Vedin and Pyron headed off together. The pair of them were such talented warriors that it was rare for them to call on the Dragonguard.

Maerys sat up for a few more hours, given orders to couriers to instruct any men of Bruma who would like to join the war to make ready. He offered heavy rewards and amnesty for anyone who had previously raised the White, and by morning he knew that he would have a sizable force.

“You’re Aristos Imperion, Py, we all know it.” Vedin said, from his spot on the floor in their dark room. As a prince, Pyron was due the best comforts, and, despite the Prince’s protests, Vedin had dutifully taken a bedroll. Always the stubborn nobleman, the Prince had taken a bedroll, not willing to play the rich ponce. “You’re going to be a hero for the ages.”

Pyron remained silent for a moment, not moving. There was only a single candle in the room, and it was nearing being spent. It cost a strange, otherworldly glow about the bedroom, as if the pair of them had stepped out of the normal world into this realm of safety. Pyron sat on the bedroll, with Vedin laying on his own and gazing at the ceiling..

“I’m not sure I want to be a hero, Ved.” Pyron murmured, quietly, staring down at his lap. Vedin scrunched his eyebrows, staring up at the handsome face of the oldest Prince, the heir to the Empire. He would sit the Ruby Throne one day, Vedin knew.

“Why not? Your name is going to be legend, and men will tell their children stories of how you tore down the White Dragon.” Vedin said, with a faint smile, although even as he said it, the young warrior knew that it sounded ridiculous.

“Name one hero who was happy.” Pyron said, his head snapping up with a strange intensity. The pair locked eyes as Vedin began to think.

Maria Dawnbreaker experienced the genocide of her kingdom. Julie Tyrantkiller had to live on alone after her one true love died. Eilonwyn and Nish died. The Crimson Archer of Taneth lost his wife and children. The Nerevarine had to abandon Tamriel. The Eternal Champion was never the same after his adventures. Diana the Mother fled cruelty and died for it. Isis Two-Eyes walked the world for centuries, after her entire family had crumbled to dust. Ragnar the Rebel died. The Black Adder died. Set of the Blight was corrupted and died. Fyra Morgan was fed to a dragon. Aegis the Dragonknight died in service to a king who hated him.

“I can’t.” Vedin whispered, gazing at the prince. Heroism meant pain.

“You can’t.” Pyron agreed, his eyes filling with a look that was so intense it was almost ferocious. “If I’m to be a hero, I’m going to be the first hero who was happy.”

“What makes you think you can promise that, Py?” Vedin asked, quietly, although in the empty room it sounded to him as if his voice was echoing off of the stone walls.

“Because of-“ Pyron started, but then his voice died. The silence seemed to fill the room, enveloping them. The candle was starting to die, but still Vedin and Pyron gazed at each other, one from a bedroll fit for royals and one from a dusty floor.

Vedin had known Pyron for years, almost ten. They had grown up with each other, and long had there been this unspoken tension between them. They had kissed, once, when Vedin was thirteen, but they had gotten caught and Vedin had had to bear not only his punishment, but also Pyron’s, as his whipping boy. They had never spoken about it again.

Vedin took him in, the curve of his neck, the cut of his jaw, the way his eyes tended to narrow ever so slightly whenever he spoke. But there was more to it, than simply his attractiveness. They had years of memories. The way Pyron’s head shook when he laughed after being pushed into a river by Vedin. The way that he never really talked down to anyone. The way he would stop a royal progress to buy bread from a struggling baker. His joy. His honor. His love for life.

Pyron seemed to guess at what Vedin was thinking, because he broke eye contact to look out the window. He had always been more dutiful than Vedin had, and Vedin never kept how he felt a secret, at least, not well.

“We haven’t left the Imperial Palace together in many years, huh, Ved?” Ser Pyron Morgan whispered, almost into the night, as he stared out the open window.

“No, we haven’t. And we always had your brothers with us.” Vedin gave him a small smile, remembering the days when they had to travel with the Emperor

The silence crept on for a moment, with Pyron staring out the window and Vedin gazing at his hands. Moonlight streamed in, almost illuminating the Prince.

“My father can’t see us here.” Pyron mused, suddenly, turning his brown eyes upon his younger friend.

“Pardon?” Vedin asked, with a slight frown, as Pyron laid down on his bed, and Vedin laid on the stone floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“My father can’t see us here. No one can.” He whispered, sidling up beside him. In that moment, all Vedin could think of was the sound of his breathing.

Vedin realized he had frozen, almost seized up. He had not looked at Pyron yet, afraid to ponder what he was saying. “Are you pleased by that?” He asked, quietly, whispering it into the air as if he could not bear the answer.

“Yes.” Pyron murmured back, and they sat there in quiet silence. The silence grew, and Vedin closed his eyes and waited for the telltale signs of his breathing to grow heavy and for the man to fall asleep.

After several long minutes, Vedin decided that Pyron must have passed into slumber, he turned on his side to gaze at the man. To his surprise, he found that the man had turned on his side and was looking at him.

“Oh.” Vedin said, quietly, gazing into his liegelord’s eyes. Brown eyes met brown, and just like that, it was as if a match had been lit beneath them. Pyron’s lips crashed into Vedin’s, and the pair dove hungrily at each other like they were nervous schoolchildren doing something against the rules. They drank each other in like it was the first breaths they had ever taken.

Vedin was almost trembling, not wanting to put the man to flight. He did not know what the man wanted of him, but they were together now. He knew the curve of Pyron’s tanned skin, the crooks of his elbows, the way his body moved. Their bodies cupped each other like hands, like they had been made for this.

Pyron pulled back after a moment of this passion and gazed at the boy. “Ask me again.” He whispered. “Ask me again why I’m going to be happy.”

“Why?” Vedin asked, his breath coming almost ragged after what had just happened. He was almost winded, but the grin that was spreading across his face made it plain to see how he felt about it.

“Because I have you.” Pyron murmured, putting the feelings of the moment into words and letting them drift across the night. Vedin leaned up and pressed his lips to Pyron’s, and the golden glow from the flickering candle faded, leaving them in darkness.

After a bit, the pair lay side by side, staring up at the moon. Vedin had no words to describe what had just happened, the bliss of the moment. He did not want to speak, to break the air of comfort that had descended upon the room, like a warm blanket. They were in a realm of safety and love and good things, separated from the outside world, and the young warrior did not want to say anything for fear of breaking the veil.

As if Pyron had heard him, Vedin felt the Prince’s hands reach for his own. Vedin did not need to look; the Prince’s hands were etched into his memory, slender and calloused and strong and quick and never wrong.

“Vedin,” The Prince whispered. He was always better with words than Vedin.