Imperator

The wind blew a bone-chilling breeze as Steffan Rogers tried to shield himself from the night. Heartfire had finished, which was something of a blessing given its tumultuous events but Frostfall brought its own challenges, one of which was colder skies.

Given his rank, he was entitled only to know minor secrets but he knew enough to piece the truth together. The Emperor was going to make peace. It was a relief to know that years of combat would soon be over and yet it irked him. To Steffan it felt like capitulation, a surrender of everything they had sacrificed just to give the Elves more time to plot their downfall; and these days time was in short supply. Just days before, his closest ally, Burcanius, had been taken from him, falling into enemy territory as they scaled the colossal walls of the Imperial City. A childhood shared, an adulthood gained through blood and death, lost in an instant to a Thalmor arrow. He had scoured the city for hours, desperately searching the dead and the injured for a man with a shaft sticking out of his left arm. How we'll laugh, he had said to himself, when I find him round the corner. Eventually, there were no more corners to turn and the Emperor had summoned him personally.

So here he was, the great Imperator, a war hero, an ordinary Imperial willing to undergo life-threatening magical and alchemic experiments to better serve his people, stuck halfway up a mountain with hours of travelling yet to go. His heightened senses could see the blue fires burning despite the distance; enough light for twenty or maybe thirty soldiers, nothing he wasn't prepared for. The fort had to be taken back, that much was certain, it had sat vaguely in enemy hands for too long. It was a trophy that they used to haunt the dreams of Imperial children; of a night where the greatest champions of the Empire were corned and conquered in their unconquerable retreat. Cloud Ruler Temple and the Blades had symbolised order, strength and stability but with the Blades routed, the Imperial City raped and the Temple in enemy hands, faith in Titus Mede's ability to protect his people stood at almost nothing. And that had to change.

Marguerite had advised that a full-on assault of the Temple would divert more resources than a mere symbol warranted and the Emperor had agreed. The Emperor held her opinion in high regard and pride pulsed through Steffan's blood whenever he saw her work. She commanded men of rank and wealth as if they were but peasants in a milita and they obeyed. As one of the highest-ranking remaining Blades, she was privy to information that forced others to listen and their love was the talk of every chambermaid that saw them. It was Marguerite that had first recognised his potential and recommended him to the mages for experimentation and it was Marguerite and her Blades who had taught him how to fight an enemy that spoke with fire and bellowing wings and still come out on top. Although the war was yet to put a dragon in his path, Steffan knew that without her and the comrades she had left, both he and the Empire would be suffering a far worse fate than they currently were.

It had been decided that he would storm the castle alone. He could use the snow and the night as cover to approach Cloud Ruler Temple in a way no other man could, from behind. While the Imperial City still smouldered in fire and victory from the Battle of the Red Ring, the Emperor ordered a small detachment of General Jonna's scouts to lead the Imperator into southern Skyrim and to have him cross the Jerall Mountains from safely across the border. "Only a small force holds the Temple; they pose as much of a risk to Bruma as our spoils of war." He had said, kicking a skeever corpse from the top of his boot, "But it is a nuisance we must be rid of and a beacon to show all Imperials, all Nords, all Bretons, Orcs and Redguards that the Empire is not finished yet."

"You're our best hope at re-taking those walls without launching a siege, Steff." Marguerite had said from her seat on the war table, wedging her between the hero Deciannus to her left and the great smith Haskill Stark to her right.

"Isn't he always?" Stark said with a wink. "I say we give him every blade, mace and maul we have left and just throw him at Alinor to see what happens."

"As enjoyable as that may be, there are more serious matters to attend to," Mede said, wiping a week's worth of sweat and death from his brow. "Take the Temple, return to us and together Imperator, we will see about rebuilding the union we have lost."

It had not taken long to pack for the journey, the role of Imperator left Steffan little time for settling down, the heaviest of his belongings being the armour he wore and the shield he brandished with such vigour. "Where's your sword?" Haskill Stark had asked when they first met.

"A sword gets in the way." Steffan had replied with complete sincerity.

"In the way of what?"

"My fists." Stark had smiled widely as he sized up the young man before him.

"They want me to make you an armour. Something that will 'symbolise the Empire' old Mede said. But I can make you something stronger than dragon bone and it isn't going to do a thing for you if you're running into battle waving nothing but your hands."

"Mister Stark, if I ever need a blade, I'll take one. But our men don't need another weapon. They need someone to rally to. Someone who can shield them from the Thalmor."

Together they sat and designed an armour to inspire and terrify. Using the design Stark had created for Imperial generals they forged a cuirass that gave manoeuvrability and better protection along the arms and neck. Altering the template of an Imperial officer's helmet, they forged a closed variant to shield Steffan's face and grant an air of anonymity. "That is the beauty of the Imperator." Stark had said, "Representing the Empire you could be from any race of Tamriel; masking your face creates mystery and mystery makes men braver and elves cower." By the time he was fully equipped he stood as a bold silver beacon, a statue that would shine a light to all corners of the battlefield and hide from no one.

"I brought you this." Marguerite had beamed as she gave him a shield. "It is the same as the Blades have worn for generations. You would honour us by wearing it."

"And protect yourself, too!" Stark chimed in as he lay a mould of Akatosh over the centre of the shield. "Akaviri smithing's almost unbreakable. And by the time I'm finished it actually will be." They had stood together that day; Steffan, Marguerite, Haskill and Burcanius and marvelled at what they had achieved. The shield, the armour, the helmet, all bore the symbol of the Empire at its heart, as did the man who wore them.

Four years later, the symbol of hope was crossing the Jeralls in better time than he had expected. The night had cleared giving a view of the heavens that stopped him in his tracks. The sky shone with more colours than he knew how to name and the stars lit up the Temple with such grace that it did not take the soldier much effort to imagine how it must have looked when it stood in its prime. But now it was just a shadow of its former glory. The east wall lay almost in ruins, patched up lazily with wood and rubble to prevent the harsh winter winds more than a rampaging army. There was something in the gardens that Steffan could not quite make out. Marguerite had told him that before the fall the grass had been meticulously maintained to create an optimum balance between meditation and battlefield training. Now it was nothing but trampled mud, sprouting weeds and a number of stone carvings that were too intricate to comprehend at distance.

He closed the gap in under an hour, losing his footing a dozen times and sliding down the back of the mountain as stealthily as his heavy armour allowed. He climbed halfway up the west wall and paused to listen for guards. Nothing was moving and so he continued, finding handhold after handhold in the cracks of history until he was in the shadow of the Akaviri built garrison. With a flip the Imperator scaled the wall and pressed his body against the wood, peering round for a target. Still, there were none in sight and so he approached the carvings that had perplexed him. The stone markings weren't clear, a number of crystalline shapes surrounding the symbol Steffan knew to mean the realms of Oblivion. He looked back to the castle and at the candles that lit the halls below and felt dread sweep over him. "What are they doing?" He whispered under his breath and where were the guards?

He entered the West Wing and moved from one dark corner to the next as he edged closer towards the Great Hall. A low rumbling noise began echoing through the cracks, shaking from one stone corridor to another, rising from the foundations and out through the roof. The closer Steffan got the more sound he could make out, the more obvious it became that it was chanting in a language that he couldn't quite understand but in his bones, he knew it was something ancient, something dangerous. He opened the door to the Great Hall slowly, just a crack to make as little noise as possible. Peering through he saw the twenty Thalmor he had estimated all in the same room; a much more dangerous predicament. Six armed soldiers, dressed from head to toe in golden Elven armour guarded the perimeter while fourteen mages dressed in the obsidian stained robes of their people formed a circle in the centre of the hall, sat around the burning blue flame that had shone so brightly from afar. "He's here," the Temple said, the voice coming from the wooden rafters of the roof, from the coloured decorations that adorned the walls, from the very stones themselves. The guards turned and in an instant, the Imperator sprang into action. Before the closet guard had even drawn his blade Steffan had crashed his shield into the elf's face, smashing his teeth and shattering his jaw. He laid a stiff kick to the snivelling Thalmor's chest and sent him flying back into his comrade, the weight of their armour throwing them both to the floor. On reflex, Steffan turned to deal with the mages before the slower soldiers could close the distance but they hadn't moved. They sat motionless, focusing all of their attention on the flame and just for a second it looked as if something, perhaps even a figure flickered in the blue.

The Imperator put all his weight behind his shield and then thrust forward into the third elf to get close, knocking the blade from his hand and opening him up to a flurry of blows from Steffan's fists that sent him back and coughing blood. The fourth, fifth and sixth Thalmor let loose a unified scream of rage as they charged, trying to wedge the Imperial hero in but instead fell to the ground as Steffan threw the shield in a curving arc that sent two into unconsciousness while the other took a punch to the gut and a blade-like jab to the neck. "Delay him!" The voice commanded and the two elven warriors who could still stand got to their feet and moved to intercept the silver-clad human. They attacked together, sweeping their blades from the opposite direction in the hopes of catching him off guard but with a parry as smooth as snow, Steffan caught one soldier's blade between his palms and then thrust it into the chest of the man opposite him. Stunned by the murder of his comrade the now bladeless Thalmor barely recognised the elbow smashing his nose that left him less conscious of the hands that snapped his neck before his friend hit the ground.

"The deal has been made." The voice said, again booming from every angle. The blue flame intensified, getting brighter and brighter until Steffan was forced to cover his eyes. "They have sold you to us, Imperator." The voice said. "They have sold you for peace."

"What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"I am the one who has sentenced you to an eternity worse than any plane of fire and smoke. I am the one who has conversed with the Masters and come out unscathed. I am the one who has brought the mighty Imperator to his knees and sealed the fate of his Empire with peace."

"Look again, son. I'm still standing."

"Not for long!" The voice said, a jet of scolding blue flame shooting out from the centre circle. The Imperator let out a cry as he was caught on the arm, rolling to collect his shield. He turned to throw the shield once again but found that he just didn't know where to put it. "Fool." The voice said, a figure forming once again in the mages midst. "I am drawing upon forces you cannot hope to comprehend and it's all thanks to your Emperor. He gave you to us, Imperator; as a gift to begin negotiations."

"More Thalmor lies."

"Believe what you will. He sold you to show his integrity and now we sell you for untold power; they claim the purest soul of all." The figure in the fire smiled a deep purple. "Open the portal." The mages sent forth a barrage of energy unlike anything Steffan had ever seen, shooting wave after wave of magicka straight into the heart of the fire. "Accept his soul, Ideal Masters! Corrupt his heart and grant me the power I need to rain destruction down upon his paltry gods!" The flame engulfed Steffan then, lifting him off his feet and sending a thousand stabbing fingers through his skin and into his mind. He could feel it, the fate that awaited them all as if seeing outside of time. The treaty the Emperor would sign, the damnation of the Blades, of his Marguerite, the return of great evils in a land of snow, it was too much to accept and a rage built within him. "Take him, oh Lords!" The figure continued, "And let us reap the souls of all who stand in our way." Steffan watched as the fire began to take shape, forming a flat circle on the floor and an image began to appear. Steffan couldn't believe what he was seeing and yet he knew it could not be a vision; the portal opened up a new world of black and decay, where the flesh of the world was melting and the forces of Oblivion cowered in fear. "Tear him to your Soul Cairn, my Masters, and let me ascend to your throne." As he stared into the abyss Steffan knew he could stop his struggles. The power that held him now was greater than anything he could hope to muster but he also knew it was not the power of the Thalmor in the fire. As his body lifted towards the portal he readied his shield and let it drop to his hand. The figure was a mortal being, that much was certain, for all his talk of ascension his tormentor was just another Thalmor necromancer. "Of all the planes of Oblivion-"

"You talk to much!" Steffan shouted, unleashing a vicious twist of the arm that sent the shield flying.

"Ha!" The Thalmor laughed in hubris, "You think you can-". There was a clank as the shield tore through the fire and caught him in the open mouth, cutting down between his teeth and catapulting him out of the flame that encased him. The force that held Steffan gripped tighter, pulling faster towards the portal and closer to living death. "To think you could harm me, Imperator!" The mage boasted as the shield fell from his mouth and into the other world. "The Ideal Masters promise boons to give you nightmares. I have escaped their betrayal, I have..." Steffan turned to see the elf for the first time and saw not a man of power but a man of panic as the flames that had protected him began to creep up his body and around his face. His screams lit up the room and caused the mages to break concentration, making the portal fluctuate with uncertainty. The smell of burning flesh hit Steffan's nostrils as he saw the Thalmor's skin peel from his face and watch as he too was lifted from the ground and dragged slowly towards his doom.

Steffan thought of Marguerite then, of the love they would never share and of the cursed future that awaited her. Perhaps she would escape before the Emperor signed her death warrant, as he had signed Steffan's but for that, he could only pray. "I'm coming, Burcanius," he said to himself as the portal began to close behind him and the beauty of Cyrodill became a distant memory. The Thalmor fell past him, his face nothing but scorch marks and the muscle beneath the skin. As the blackness drew ever nearer and the souls of the damned and shells of the undead rose up to greet him, for just a second the Imperator felt content. Whatever the mages scheme had been, it was foiled and the people of the Empire would not suffer his madness. He could only hope he had done enough.