Tales from Cyrodiil: the Cold Light of Day

Author's notes: Welcome back, to those who read TFC: A Dark Beginning. I hope you enjoyed that, and I hope you'll enjoy this, too. This is not a sequel to that story, except insofar as it deals with the larger subject of a) vampires and other supernatural creatures and b) ways things could be different from their game incarnations. It may be considered to be in the same time period (just after the Main Quest) and in the same little split-off universe, in which the Hero of Kvatch performed only the Main Quest and the side quests have been done (or not done, or totally altered) by others.

The game lore never says what it technically means that the Gray Prince is half-vampire, except that he's unusually strong and agile for an Orc (hence the training he gives you if you perform the Crowhaven quest). Given this, I've taken some artistic license and just made things up. The same is true of Dremoras and their life cycle. I mod like crazy when playing the game, and I consider mod items or alterations fair game also as far as the fic is concerned.

On with the show...

Prologue

This is Agronak gro-Malog, the Gray Prince, the Arena Champion these ten years. He's not too tall, for an Orc. He's not so broad across the shoulders as you would expect. These facts have been fatally surprising to many an Arena hopeful. Agronak is stronger than he looks, and much, much faster. Oh, he's got a lot of scars, by this time. The road to Arena Championship is lined with other people, many of whom are holding sharp things.

This is the Gray Prince discovering his true origins through the dubious offices of a professional competitor, a wasp-quick and weasel-thin little Dunmer who calls himself the Black Arrow. Agronak stands with his sword in one hand and the old diary in the other, shaking with rage and shame as he realizes... He is the son of a nobleman, an Imperial of ancient blood. But Lord Lovidicus was a vampire. The Dunmer found him so crazed with solitude and bloodlust that he was forced to kill him. So runs the Dark Elf's tale, and Agronak has no reason to disbelieve him.

The Gray Prince is no longer able to think of himself as an Orc. He is a monster. And he will not live out his life as a creature, as something less than man or mer.

He teaches the Black Arrow some of what he knows, but his heart is not in it. He watches listlessly as the Dunmer climbs through the ranks, and accepts his final challenge with an eagerness which surprises those few who know him.

This is Agronak gro-Malog, begging for death on the sands of the Arena. The Black Arrow is happy to oblige. Afterward he is a little ashamed, but what does that matter? He is the Champion now, and it is him for whom the roaring crowd calls. Enough gold can pay for a lot of sleepless nights.

This is the corpse of the Gray Prince, stripped of armor and weapons, tossed into a shallow grave before the neat little hole in his chest has even stopped bleeding. He knew very few people in all his years here. Even fewer will think of him now that he is gone.

And this...

This is what happened to Agronak gro-Malog after that.

Chapter 1

Being born is hard enough the first time.

Most people of the various races of Cyrodiil are fortunate enough not to remember. One or two Argonians have been known to claim they remember their hatching, but they are generally suspected of being liars. Either way, the process is startling, painful, and protracted, not something a person would consciously wish to remember. Being born from a living womb is bad enough. Groping your way into the cold light of day from under the earth is much, much worse.

It was probably appropriate that a scream was the first sound Agronak gro-Malog heard. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness, and took his first breath and got a nose full of dirt for his trouble. He flailed wildly, choking, and the weighty stuff gave way overhead. Agronak clawed his way up out of the ground, scrabbling for purchase. His questing fingers at last seized on handfuls of grass. He tugged, slipped, and finally got a grip. The Orc pulled himself out of the dark and into the dim sunrise of the month of Frostfall.

Agronak lay still for a moment, shivering as he gasped in air. It was cold in his lungs, chill against his bare skin. This wasn't right, surely? Wasn't there supposed to be another place after this one? A better place? I've killed a lot of men and women. But.. I never struck from behind. I always let them get up again, if they could. I was a killer. Maybe I was a monster. I wasn't a murderer.

How long has it been, since I went to a temple altar? Since I left the Arena at all? I know I'm not in Oblivion. Oblivion is supposed to be hot.

Agronak shook his head, showering dust on the ground around him. He blinked to get it out of his eyes, and pushed himself up onto his knees. He'd heard something, when he was under the ground. Someone screaming. It sounded like a woman. A girl.

That was something to grasp onto, at least. Agronak knew all about screaming. He lurched to his feet, shook himself again, and looked around him. He was just behind the line of sand on a long beach. A few wooden shacks stood nearby, and one or two ragged people were staggering between them. The grey stone wall of the Imperial City was visible some way off. They buried me on the Waterfront? With the beggars? Divines, I'd have been washed out to sea the next time there was a storm.

"Rrngh," Agronak said, and shook his head again. Things were getting a little clearer, but they still weren't making sense. I was dead. I know I was. What am I now?

The girl screamed again, but the sound was quickly muffled, as if someone had their hand over her mouth. Agronak now recognized the harsh undertone in the sound: She's a Khajiit. He turned toward the shacks and set off in a stumbling run. After a few steps his gait leveled out, and the blood forcing itself through his brain made it a little easier to think. Not that it mattered much, right now. He knew what was happening. He'd seen it before.

The Khajiit was very small, no match for the hefty Imperial who had shoved her against the back wall of a tumbledown building. Her tail lashed, and she tried to scratch, but she couldn't get a grip. The man was trying to hold her muzzle shut with one arm around her neck as he unfastened his trousers with the other. He must have heard the running footsteps, because he said,

"Get out of here. This is none of your business."

Agronak had never had large hands, for an Orc. But after fifteen years fighting in the Arena, his knuckles were hard as stone. His fist hit the side of the man's head like a sack of rocks. The Imperial went down without a sound. The Khajiit sagged against the wall, panting. Tears stained the pale fur on her cheeks. Her eyes were yellow, bright as a bird's.

The Gray Prince waited. The man did not get up. After a moment, he nudged the Imperial with his foot. It was at this point that he realized the erstwhile rapist wasn't breathing. I didn't think I hit him that hard. The Khajiit girl must have realized it at almost the same time.

"You killed him," she said. Agronak, watching from the corner of his eye, saw her look at him closely for the first time. He must be a sight, practically naked and covered in dirt. And pale, of course. Probably no other Orc on the continent is gray.

"Then you'd better run home, before somebody sees you," Agronak said. "Didn't your mother warn you about strange men?"

"She is always in the skooma. She knows nothing," The Khajiit said. "I will not tell anyone."

"Thanks," Agronak said.

"This one will not forget you," the girl said, and turned and ran.

Agronak watched her go. "You're probably the only one," he said quietly. Then he turned to look at the body. There was nothing to be done about the trousers, of course, but the man's tunic and coat looked to be in good shape. Plain leather. It'd be better than being naked, and maybe it would take the Legionnaires a little longer to figure out who he was.

Still, he hesitated. You never took things off a corpse in the Arena; it was against the rules. Hard practicality eventually won out over whatever vestigial gallant impulses an Arena Champion could be expected to possess. I need them more than he does, Agronak told himself, and hurriedly stripped the body of tunic, coat, and sandals. He found a nice purse and a dagger, too. Some shopkeeper with nasty habits? Not that gold will do me much good right away. I can't be letting people see me, now that I'm dead.

He hid the body behind some barrels. The man was big, for an Imperial, but that didn't matter. Agronak was strong for his size. He always had been. I should be, he thought bitterly. I'm half vampire. Maybe all vampire, now. If the Orc is dead, does the creature go on living? Not for the first time, he cursed the never-seen but deeply loathed figure of Lord Lovidicus. It's your vile blood that won't let me rest.

Agronak held the bundle of stolen goods under one arm as he turned to jog down to the sea. No one paid any attention to him. Most of them probably were skooma addicts, or just plain drunks. He kept going on into the water. It would be a long swim across the inlet, and the clothes would be wet. The way things were going, they'd have plenty of time to dry. At least he'd be cleaner when he got to the other side.

He dared not show his face inside the Imperial City. Everybody knew he was dead, and there was always the risk someone would recognize him. The sun is coming up. Will I burn, I wonder?

Part of the way across he paused, treading salty water. His free hand sought the notch on his left breast. It was closed, hardly more than a scar, but it was still there. A little awkward maneuvering let him find the matching mark on his back. Straight through the heart with a steel longsword. Cleanest kill a man could ask for. But I can feel my heart beating, and I know I'm breathing, because I keep having to hold my breath when my head goes under. He resumed swimming, trying to understand what this meant. His legs ached, after a while, but he was not tempted to stop. He remembered his death very clearly, and he really did not want to undergo the experience twice in the same day. If that really happened yesterday. I've got no way to know how long I was under the ground.

He pressed on, keeping an eye out for slaughterfish. There were a lot of hungry people living on the Waterfront, which tended to keep the population down, but you never knew. Agronak did not look back toward the City. The Arena has a new champion. Everyone there believes I'm dead. Let them go on believing it.

"Divines, why shouldn't they?" he muttered as the other shore at last loomed up out of the mist. "It's true."

The sun was well above the horizon when he dragged himself up onto the beach again. He got up, rinsed the dirt and salt out of his long hair in the first stream he found, and headed off toward the shadow of the trees. I'm not on fire. I wonder if I should be glad or not. The sun did hurt his eyes, something that had never happened in fifteen years of the Arena's glare, but he supposed that was to be expected.

It had been a long time since an ordinary enemy marched on the Imperial City, and any consideration of clearance had fallen behind long ago. The trees grew right up to the edge of the sand. Agronak waded on through the underbrush, occasionally wincing at the crack of a twig underfoot. I'm going to have to learn how to go quietly, or I'm going to starve to death.

He really didn't want to think about what he was going to eat. Particularly since what he mostly felt, at this point, was thirsty.