Hey guys I decided to start a new fic considering I've hit writers block with Dragon's Due. I'm unsure if I will return to Dragons Due now that I've started here though hopefully you'll enjoy this.

I own nothing.

No one knew who built the Skyforge or when they built it. It had stood in the vast plains of Whiterun since before it was known as such. It had been there before the Companions built their mead hall, Jorrvaskr. It had been there before the snow elves ruled over Skyrim. No one knew what kind of power it tapped into or how it bestowed such legendary potency on all weapons that were birthed in its flames.

A lone figure worked the forge. Night and day he toiled before its mighty flames. He paused not for rest or sustenance, he no longer cared. No longer cared for the warm blood his vampiric nature cried out for. No longer cared for the dazzling sun as it sent searing agony across his sickly pale skin. No longer cared for the joyful laughter of his two daughters for they died painfully and brutally at the hands of the Thalmor for his actions. No longer cared for Serana's loving embrace for she had abandoned him, heartbroken at the deaths of their children and the monster he had become. He no longer cared for the thoughts that tormented him.

The Dragonborn had become single-minded in his hatred and grief. He was forging a sword. A sword that would be baptised in the blood of elves and would be feared by all who followed the twisted ideals of the Thalmor, second only to the one who would wield it. The Second Great War was raging and he was to travel south to The Imperial City to lead the combined armies of the combined armies of Skyrim, Orsinium, High Rock, Morrowind, Black Marsh and what was left of the Empire in order to retake the White-Gold City. Then he would wipe Tamriel clean of the Thalmor and their filth. Through the fire, blood and anguish of war would they learn the pain that they had wrought and the monster they had unleashed.

Painstakingly he hollowed out the ebony blade and filled it with heartstone he had mined on the island of Solstheim. Meticulously he carved runes in Dovahzhul into the flat of the blade, the heartstone causing the markings to glow ominously. He placed the blade into molten stalrhim, the enchanted ice solidified along the edge of the blade all the way to the tip. Every so often placing the blade into a trough of blood from a daedra heart to cool. He mounted a single heartstone core at the centre of the hilt fashioned out of gold that took the shape of dragon. Its jaws clamped at the base of the making it look as if it was protruding from the beast's mouth. Its wings outstretched, formed the cross-guard. The grip fashioned from ebony to suit his hand weather one or both and a spherical chunk of stalrhim made for a pommel stone.

As he worked he chanted in Dovahzhul. He remembered not the words of power he spoke as they imbued the hand-and-a-half sword. In this mighty weapon he placed his very essence. His dual nature of dragon and man. His desire to dominate and destroy his foes utterly and his will to protect and care for those he dear to his heart as well as his equal capacity for both compassion and cruelty.

Holding his newly birthed sword aloft, he gazed southwards. He felt the call of war. The Thalmor would hear his voice and despair.

He looked upon his sword, the Dovahzhul writing saying Dovahstrum. Dragonstorm.

Arya Dröttingu rode atop her noble white horse with her two guards and closest friends and companions, Glenwing and Faolin, flanking either side of her. Her mood was grim.

Once again the sapphire dragon egg had refused to hatch for anyone. By now she no longer cared if it hatched for either elf or human. If they were going to have any hope of overthrowing Galbatorix they needed a Dragon Rider. Not only would it be force to be reckoned with but it also act as a rallying cry for those who wished to see end to the Black King's tyranny.

What was worse was word that the human rebel group the Varden had been infiltrated. Supplies lines had been disrupted, messages intercepted and agents executed. As a result Faolin had become increasingly worried for her safety. His concern moved her as it always did but they could not shirk their duties. She had to continue her vital task of ferrying the egg between the elves and humans in the vain hope that the dragon inside would choose a rider.

Sighing heavily she pressed on with Faolin's presence a constant comfort. As long as he was there she would be safe.

The trio continued on their journey.

Bringing Dovahstrum down in a savage arc, The Dragonborn cleaved an elven soldier in half. His dragon soul was laughing in delight at the clamour of battle. The white buildings of the Imperial city had become stained crimson as the two armies clashed.

"For the Empire! For Tamriel!" The legionnaires took up his battle cry. All he needed was for them to fight. He did not care for the Empire or Tamriel anymore, all he wanted was to watch the Aldmeri Dominion burn.

The Thalmor warriors turned their attention to him and charged as they sought to eliminate the driving force behind the Imperial assault. Let them come. He thought grimly as he ignored the destruction spells that hammered into him and the elven blades that glanced off his dragon scale armour. He roared with a fury that was more akin to the dragon than the man.

Soon their arrogant jeers were replaced by howls of pain and terror as he ripped them asunder with his sword, blasted them to ash with his magic, tore out their throats with his fangs and annihilated them with his voice. He looked upon the sea of gold skinned and pointed eared faces with unadulterated bloodlust and hate. Their expressions had morphed from mocking sneers to wide eyed horror as he left their comrades in a sea of broken corpses at his.

"Fus Ro Dah!" He surged forward as his thu'um cut a bloody swath through their ranks. There would be no retreat, no respite, and no mercy.

"Die! All of you! Die!"

Eragon leaned the scythe against the wall of his uncle Garrow's farm house. It had been a hard day's work as they sought harvest the remaining crops before winter set in. Entering the house, his back ached and his muscles were burning, Garrow was busy preparing stew before he once more prepared to leave for the Spine for he was the only one in Palancar Valley who would dare hunt in those cursed mountains. Roran was nowhere to be seen so he quickly came to the conclusion that his cousin had snuck off to Carvahall in order to court Katrina behind Sloan's back, again.

Entering his small bedroom he gathered his supplies. A hunting knife, his yew bow and a buckskin quiver with a set of arrows. As he packed his supplies he found his mind wondering, as it often did, to his mother. Why did she leave Carvahall in such a hurry? Who was his father? Soon he began to think of life outside of Palancar Valley. He recalled the exciting and fascinating tales of Brom the story teller. Tales about elves, dwarves, kings and warriors of a better age. Best of all were his tales of the Dragon Riders.

Eragon sighed dejectedly. What he would give to be a Dragon Rider. Dismissing the thought as a child's fantasy.

Alinor was once the greatest city in the Summerset Isles, a monument to the pride and glory of the altmer and the jewel of the Aldmeri Dominion. Now it was smashed and burning. Its once mighty walls were now ripped asunder and the very ground was tainted with broken forms of man and mer alike. The air was filled with the stench of smoke and death and the sounds of a nightmare echoed across the once proud city. Blades ringing upon one another, terrible spells discharging, roars of fury, howls of the dying and people screaming as fled in terror from the monster that had come for them.

The Dragonborn was that monster. He cut down all that was in his path regardless weather they fought or not and paying no heed to their cries for mercy nor their mournful wails as he killed their loved ones. He rounded a corner to find two more wretched elves, an altmer male and a bosmer female. The altmer rushed at him only to have his head severed by a vicious slash from Dovahstrum. The bosmer shrieked in dismay and tried to go to her altmer companion but she quickly found herself on the end of The Dragonborn's blade. He sighted a third figure cowering behind the bosmer he had just slain. He lunged forward and the tip of his sword found its mark. A little girl that looked no older than ten.

When her emerald eyes locked with his vampiric orange The Dragonborn was struck by her innocence. He dropped his sword that fell to the paved roadway that ran red with the blood of his sins, clanging like a bell that tolled for souls of the damned. He stared in horror at what he had done. The child collapsed backward and his hands darted out catching her, falling to his knees as did so. He cradled the little elf child as he would have his own daughters. His mind reeled at the memories of Lucia and Sofie hanging by their necks from a lamppost in Solitude, their limp bodies bruised and bloodied. He gazed around in revulsion at the carnage he had wrought. His soldiers were rushing about, butchering all who stood before them. His eyes once more locked with the little girl's. Her breathing was so calm, her face so serene it looked as if she was merely resting in his arms. This is not justice, he thought this is mindless bloodletting. He tilted his head skywards and let his anguish explode.

"Niid!"

Everyone stopped and soldiers all at once became wide eyed in horror, dropping their weapons and falling to their knees. Thalmor and Imperial alike. All had lost the will to fight as they realised the full weight of the suffering they had wrought. He looked down at the child and brushed a stray ebony lock of hair from her face and gently tucked it behind her pointed ear with a gauntleted hand.

"Where are your parents?" he tried to speak softly, shocked at how his voice broke. Her eyes drifted to the prone forms of the altmer and bosmer he had just slain. He felt his undead heart clench when he saw that the bosmer had put her hand on the altmer's as she passed away. "I am so sorry."

Slowly he raised his hand and prepared to cast a healing spell. He gasped as a tiny hand found his. Her emerald eyes bored into his tainted soul and she shook her head slowly. Understanding what the child wanted he let go of the healing spell and curled his fingers around the elf child's own.

"Everything is going to fine," he desperately tried to comfort the little girl "you will be with your parents soon."

She looked up at him with pity in her eyes. Why did she pity him? Why did she pity the monster that had murdered her parents before her very eyes, had murdered her? He did nothing to stop the tears from falling as his head dropped and he wept. His tears did little to wash her dress that had become drenched in her blood. He did not thirst for the liquid that seeped from the wound on her abdomen. He felt only guilt. Guilt at the child he had killed and the family he had destroyed. Guilt at all the other children he had killed and all the other families he had destroyed. Guilt for being a poor father and not protecting his own children as well as being a poor husband and driving Serana away. Guilt as his dragon soul still called out for blood but was feeble as his all too human conscience came to terms with what he had done. Guilt that he would have committed genocide against elven kind had it not been for the child dying in his arms.

He felt a weak hand brush against the side of his head. He turned to see a wondrous smile on the girl's lips a she had seemingly become fascinated with the fact that he had round ears. He found himself wishing with every ounce of his being that this sweet and wonderful child was his own. Slowly her arm drifted downwards, her fingers that he held grew loose, her eyes closed shut, her breathing stopped and her heartbeat ceased to be.

As man and mer knelt in shame the very air shattered with The Dragonborn's mournful keen. He wanted out. He wanted to go far away. He wanted to shut himself from everyone else so he could never hurt another Tamrielic soul ever again.

Unkowingly, his cries unleashed his thu'um and his father would answer. A bolt of lightning fell from the heavens and struck The Dragonborn. There was a blinding flash of light and then he was gone.

The little elf child lay on the hard bloodstained ground. A contented smile on her face as if she was experiencing a pleasant dream.

The Shade that was Durza shifted uncomfortably. If the information was correct then the elven ambassador would be coming along this road and straight into his trap. Over forty urgals were with him and he had made sure to enchant the arrows of those who possessed bows in order to bypass whatever wards the elves would undoubtedly have. He had taken every considerable precaution. The king had tasked him with the retrieval of the dragon egg and he would not fail else he would suffer greatly.

He shuddered unexpectedly. The spirits that possessed his body had suddenly grown restless. Something momentous had just occurred and could not shake the feeling that it was about to come crashing down upon Alagaësia with the fury of a god.

The Dragonborn felt himself be pulled apart and remoulded. He felt energy fill him with new life and his ever gnawing thirst for blood vanished. His once cold undead heart burst to life as boiling blood began to circulate his body. He was blinded by golden light and felt an immensely powerful yet familiar presence. His dragon soul sung in recognition of his father Akatosh.

His vision shifted to see a land he had never seen before. He gazed down upon this new world wondering what his father wanted of him.

SAVE MY CHILDREN.

The words of his father resonated within his with very essence, never before had he felt a being so powerful. He had no time to contemplate what Akatosh had said as he felt a surge of energy and began to plummet. His heart filled with joy as he entered a new world.