This is my entry to the Writers Anonymous 10 Year Challenge. It took me forever to think of a fandom, much less what it revolved around, but I knew I wanted it to be someone thinking of the past. Enjoy!

Edit (10/20/15): Added a paragraph, changed words and sentences, and fixed some typo and grammar mistakes.

Edit (2/12/16): Added some more words and a paragraph, changed more sentences, and fixed even more things that come from editing a single page until you can barely see straight.

Edit (7/26/18): Only to change the cover photo and remove the credit. Any last minute editing was done on the site and may make minor changes to the entry.

A single moment. That was all it took.

I ran through the streets, helping where I could spare my sword arm, but my ultimate goal was to safely escort Martin to the temple of the One. I glanced behind me to see the fear in his eyes, but there was also determination. Despite everything that had happened, he was still with me and hadn't backed down. He was a true emperor.

Details were sharpened from the adrenaline and fear but at the same time images blurred and shifted as I bolted almost blindly between Gates as Deadra poured out, my sword slicing through the ones directly in my way.

As we neared the temple I looked back at Martin again to be certain he was still with me when suddenly he grabbed my arm and forced me to stop. I almost shouted at him to keep running but when I saw the terror in his eyes I thought twice, looking in the direction he was to see a giant, crimson, thing standing before us, his size dwarfing everything and making even the white gold tower look small.

Mehrunes Dagon.

Reacting quickly, I managed to bolt underneath Dagon and close the remaining distance to the temple, prying open the door and practically shoving Martin inside, slamming it closed behind me. I took a few seconds to breathe, the sounds of war muffled by the stone walls.

It had almost worked, but we were too late. I was too late.

Leaning against a pillar, I spoke for the first time since the battle began, my voice barely concealing my shame. "I failed."

He looked at me, but I couldn't read his expression. "No, you haven't. We still have a chance."

As I looked at him incredulously, the shattering sound of stone breaking erupted behind me. The avatar of Mehrunes Dagon stood in the ruins of the temple, both inside and outside, defeat looming over us. I jumped back, sword out again, as I went to stand in front of Martin protectively. He'd almost died alone, once. I was not going to let his end be that way.

But as I raised my shield, a hand gripped my shoulder. I looked at Martin.

"Goodbye, my friend."

I awoke with tears in my eyes.

At first, I wasn't sure where I was. It was dark, and still. I felt cold air outside the cocoon of what felt like fur around me. I reached for my sword, not wanting to be vulnerable as I stood and inevitably made noise that would attract anything around me.

My hand hit empty air, and then it fell to my side again.

I was safe in my bed, in my home. The air was from outside, cool with no sun to heat it.

I swung my legs out of bed and moved the blanket off of me. I stumbled around in the dark until I hit my desk, where I moved my hand around until I found the candle beneath it. The light I struck on it chased the darkness away in a small circle around me, and I lit all the torches and candles, as well as the fireplace.

I sat in the chair in front of it, staring at the flames. They reminded me of that day, when all Oblivion broke loose.

One moment I was standing in front of Martin trying to protect him from Dagon as long as I could, and the next he was standing in front of me, protecting me in a golden dragon form: the god Akatosh.

And then it was over; in his dragon form, Martin had turned to stone, gone forever from this world. For hours I shouted in rage, sobbing and cursing. He was gone. I had only known him for such a short time, but still, he was my best friend.

It wasn't fair. I was the strongest female warrior in Cyrodil; every enemy I had ever faced fell at my blade, even if just barely. All my training, all my preparation to keep him safe, my promise, all of it broken in a single moment.

I stood and walked to the window, opening it and breathing the fresh air, the tears fresh in my eyes. I looked up at Masser, cursing Martin all over again. I hated the beauty of the night – how dare it be anything but bleak and gray, on this night of all nights. The stars seemed to mock me in their light, their safety in the heavens.

I then turned and walked over to the wall where I kept my sword. I studied the dust that had gathered there, the slight rust that had crept over it in the ten years it hung there, disused.

Every year, without fail, I looked at it, tempted to take it down and clean it, maybe even use it. The adventures I had, the stories I told, the treasure I found. But I never did.

After that day, after I went hoarse from shouting, after I could barely walk from exhaustion and dehydration, I stumbled almost in a trance to my horse, ignoring the cowering people, the shaken guards. Some called out to me with questions about the statue while others only stared in sympathy.

I rode from the Imperial City all the way to Chorrol, dismounting my horse and walking like a ghost to my house, dropping every item I was carrying on the floor and collapsing on the bed. I stayed like that for what seemed like days, fevered visions of Oblivion and Martin in his last state haunting my dreams. The long hours I spent there I barely remember.

When I finally conjured the will to rise, I picked up my things and put them away. My sword I picked up last, a Glass weapon. I put it on its holder, the last time I touched it.

After everything had died down a few weeks later, I chose not to be still any longer, and I took up blacksmithing. I handled many weapons, many shields, many swords; but never that one.

Now, after a decade, standing in front of my sword in the small hours of the morning, I stared at it. My hand reached up, hovering in the air just in front of the hilt, bordering on all the insanity I had felt lying within that sword, my eyes riveted to it.

As I stood there, as still as the statue of Martin himself, a thought struck me.

Ever since that day, that horrible scarring day, I'd never stopped mourning. I'd smile and laugh with my customers, I'd make conversation and tell jokes. But at the bottom of my mind, my innermost thoughts, the searing pain I had hidden and pushed down tugged at me, whispering for me to give up completely, to follow the path of my best friend and be reunited with him. I never truly let go of my grief.

The thought was a revelation, the knowledge that the pain I felt and the memories I desperately held onto were slowly killing me inside. The guilt that I carried with me everywhere, the fear that everything that had happened was my fault, the doubt building slowly over time until I was little more than a shell of who I used to be. With that thought, that knowledge, a light went off in my head, brighter than the flames in of my fireplace, brighter than the flames of Oblivion.

Forgive.

No matter what happened, I couldn't change the past. I couldn't have changed Martin's decision. Even if I could have gone back to that moment and change the outcome, still he would have chosen the same path. Every single stupid time, he would have sacrificed himself.

But it wasn't my fault. None of it was.

I did what I could. I fought to the best of my skills, and I protected him until the very end, putting his life before mine and in that moment he put mine before his.

I had to let go of my grief. I had to stand up and dry my eyes. I had to look away from the past and the choices I had made. It would only hurt me in a way I couldn't come back from.

Before I knew what I was doing my hand reached up and gripped the hilt, taking the sword from its holder and twisting around until I held it at arm's length to my side. Dust swirled around me and the floorboards squeaked beneath me. It felt so familiar it hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.

I brought it up to the light, inspecting the blade. The rust was slowly taking hold but I knew I could clean it. I took the plaque off the wall, all but running out of my room and almost tripping down the steps to the cellar, rushing to my work area at the end. I opened an old cabinet and pulled out everything in it, all the tools and supplies I would need.

I worked for hours, carefully and slowly using every tool at my disposal to rub the rust away, cleaning the dirt and dust, and slowly, ever so slowly, I could feel my anger melting away with it. I finally finished cleaning it, and I was dusting off the plaque as the sun rose from beyond the horizon.

I stood up and held the newly polished sword to the light of the high window, the emerald tinted blade gleaming in its old but still-sharp beauty, the magic of the Glass never fading.

In that moment, I realized that I had a renewed desire to use my sword again. I wanted to go on more adventures, and gather more stories, but I knew I couldn't just yet. I still had to rub away my own rust and finally forgive Martin, whether it took another decade or several. In time, I knew that I actually could forgive him, but I could never forget. He was my best friend, who saw me for what I could do, not who I used to be.

I walked up the flight of steps again to my bedroom, tired but content. I replaced the plaque, and then I carefully put the sword back on the holder. I stood back, admiring how the Glass caught the light on the wall, the very reason I chose its place. I smiled as birds chirped outside my window.

My sword had served me well all those years ago, and I knew it would again.

One day.