AN: Sorry for this late chapter! I had a really bad cold yesterday (and still today technically) that just refused to go away despite me taking all the medicine. It really hampered with my ability to write, which sucks.
Anywho, there's an announcement thing at the end of the chapter in the Author's Note, so check that out if you're interested!
Hope you like the chapter, cheers!
...
4E 202, Shor's Stone, Near Zenithar's Square
Gerron Ironbreaker
"My Jarl!"
The sound cut through the haze as Gerron blinked and groaned. Through his swimmy vision, he saw Ralof's face from the opened helm.
"Thank the divines! Are you alright?!" Ralof's worried voice was muted before Gerron's hearing started to clear. A vial was pushed to his mouth that Gerron quickly gulped as the smell of a healing potion entered his nostrils.
The liquid went down his throat, and immediately his senses sharpened. The pain dulled into something manageable. Taking Ralof's arm and allowing himself to get pulled, Gerron rasped through.
"What happened?"
"You were sent launching into the air by Odahviing," Ralof reported. "I left the defense on the wall to Grogmar and went for you, eyeing you in the sky at all times. When I saw you fall, I followed the trajectory and ran, praying to all the divines that you survived. By Shor's Bones you did…I can't say I've met anyone who fell from three hundred feet and lived to tell the tale."
"My shield took most of it," Gerron said, wiping the dust off his armor as the memory of the past few minutes came rolling in. He then shook his head before grabbing the Spell Shield on the ground beside him before putting it back to his inventory, and re-summoning the Mercury Hammer, its weight both familiar and reassuring. "What else happened?"
"Last I saw, Aela the Huntress and Lord Isran of the Dawnguard were handling Durnehviir." Ralof answered. "The tide of undead has also lessened—Lady Serana's effort, I'm guessing—but a cold wind did blow from the northwest, where the Stormcloaks were stationed. There's also heavy fighting in Zenithar's Square."
Gerron nodded once. "Let's get back out there, then."
Stumbling through the wreckage of the warehouse that had truly broken apart from the force of his fall, Gerron walked out with Ralof and into hell made manifest.
Zenithar's Square was absolute chaos. The statue of the god of commerce stood defiant at the center, but everything around it had become a battlefield. Flames licked at broken stalls and overturned carts. Bodies littered the streets, some still, others rising as necromantic energy reanimated them to life.
But above it all, there were dragons here.
Two of them. One was a sickly grey, scales the color of storm clouds, maw crackling with arcs of lightning. The other was a deep, viridian green, exhaling a fiery breath that coated the square in flames. They descended upon the triage camp, only to be held at bay by a shimmering barrier.
Valerica, Tolfdir, and Colette stood together, interweaving their magic to form a ward of gold and blue that deflected both the lightning and the flames, though cracks were beginning to form along its surface. Valerica's hand alit with frost in retaliation, one of them surging outward past the ward to push the green dragon back inch by inch.
On the far side, Legate Rikke and her Legionnaires formed a disciplined line as they held back an undead, which thankfully looked like they had a bit of success. Vigilant Tolan was the same, as he and a couple of other Vigilants held a narrow street by themselves.
The problem came from near the center of the square, right by the statue of Zenithar, where Keeper Carcette was locked in a duel with Otar the Mad.
"Ralof, help the Legions!" Gerron barked, already moving. The dragons were a problem true, but the three mages should be more than capable of handling matters there. Gerron had another target to kill.
The ground trembled beneath his sprint. His hammer rose and came crashing down, as Otar the Mad sidestepped at the last second. The Mercury Hammer obliterated the stone where the Dragon Priest had stood, the impact splintering cobbles like brittle ice. Gerron pivoted immediately, the hammer sweeping across and catching the Dragon Priest in the arm as an audible crack echoed through the square.
The priest was launched to the side, his arm bending in an unnatural angle.
"Gerron!" Carcette exclaimed, relief breaking through her exhaustion. "Thank the gods, you're here!"
Her breathing was labored, and there were visible wounds across her body as the cuts along her arms and cheek continued to bleed. But the brief moment of respite was enough for her hand to glow in the light of Restoration, the flesh knitting itself in motes of golden light.
"Who are we dealing with?" Gerron questioned as the Dragon Priest rose back up slowly, two eyes of blue flame visible behind the malachite mask. The left arm hung uselessly on his side, though it didn't look as if it hindered as much as Gerron thought it would.
"Otar the Mad," Carcette replied, stepping into position beside him. "An old Nordic chieftain who swore service to the dragons, eventually becoming a Dragon Priest and anointed in the Nine when he proved to be a capable Spellsword. Be careful, his axe could spew fire hotter than normal."
"Don't worry, I can tell." Gerron stated as his eyes gazed on the weapon, which burned in Otar's grasp, heat distorting the air around it.
[Battleaxe of Fiery Souls]
'An enchanted battle-axe made by Otar the Mad. A single swing would create a conflagration hot enough to melt stone. Those killed by this weapon would have their souls embedded within the black gem at the center of the haft, further empowering the enchantment.'
'A powerful artifact, but nowhere near the level of Dawnbreaker.' Gerron thought. 'I have an advantage in that regard.'
His gaze then went to the mask affixed on his face. The analysis from the Forge Eternal came not a second later.
[Otar's mask]
'A mask given to Otar the Mad when inducted to become one of the nine. Enchanted to resist the elements to supernatural degrees. Fire, Frost, and Shock below a certain level will have no impact on the user.'
How interesting. Fire, Frost, and Shock; but not light.
"Keeper, stick to your light-based spells of Stendarr. His mask protects him from the more basic of elements. I'll take vanguard so let's make this quick " Gerron said, raising his hammer once more, "There's still more fighting to do."
Carcette brandished her silvered longsword. "Agreed."
Yet despite that, it was Otar who moved first, quicker than expected as his axe came down in a blazing arc, fire roaring upon the blade. Gerron didn't shy away, instead he met it head on.
His hammer swung and collided with the axe in a deafening clang, blue lightning met the fiery orange as shockwaves rippled through the square, sending loose stone flying across.
Flames surged, but they merely tickled. And in the end, the axe gave way as Gerron's superior strength and weapon pushed back the Dragon Priest. For a moment, Otar staggered, and that was all the opening he needed.
He surged forward and drove his horned ebony helmet straight into the Dragon Priest's mask.
CRACK.
The sound rang sharp and clear. Otar reeled, stunned.
Gerron shifted his grip, then brought the head of his hammer down across the priest's knee. Another audible crack echoed as the leg buckled.
Carcette moved instantly, her silvered blade was covered entirely with radiant light as it flashed and cleaved clean through Otar's remaining arm.
The axe fell, flames guttering as it struck the ground.
Otar turned his head, mask faced towards Gerron as he shouted. "FUS RO DAH!"
Volsung's ward shimmered, and the shout merely passed him harmlessly before fizzing away.
Seeing that, Otar tried to rise.
Tried.
Gerron didn't let him.
With a roar, he drove his hammer upward in a brutal uppercut as bone, teeth, and bits of flesh shattered in an explosion of force. The head was simply gone, utterly obliterated, leaving the broken body to collapse where it stood.
The malachite mask clattered uselessly across the stones.
Silence lingered for half a heartbeat. Then the battle rushed back in.
Gerron turned immediately, already searching for the next threat. "Carcette, help Tolan! I'll handle the dragons!"
She nodded without hesitation, sprinting away.
Gerron's gaze locked onto the grey dragon.
Lightning continued to pour from its maw, slamming into the strained ward held by Colette and Tolfdir. Behind them, the last few healers and alchemists were evacuating as they carried the few crates and carts of potions and injured. Cracks could aready be seen spiderwebbing across the barrier.
On the other side, Valerica was flying out and about as a bat, the green dragon's head snapping left and right trying to take a bite out of Serana's mother.
Gerron wasted no time, breaking into a run. Each step thundered as he passed by the statue of his chosen divine. He leapt high, light from the floating blue star shone on his armor, hammer raised overhead as the world seemed to slow around him.
The dragon's head turned. It came too late.
Gerron came crashing down, and smashed his hammer onto the grey dragon's skull.
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone, Northeastern District
Aranea Ienith
Aranea Ienith, Champion of Azura, stood cloaked in the shadows of a narrow alley, her crimson eyes fixed upon the chaos unfolding before her.
War and destruction had consumed Shor's Stone whole, and the world trembled with it.
Timber cracked as homes collapsed under dragonfire. The near constant sound of steel, ringing in relentless rhythm as soldiers died by the hundreds, clashing with the undead. The roars of the dragons who continued even now to fly above the city.
It pressed against her senses, suffocating, overwhelming.
It reminded her too much of that vision, a future where Alduin had won. It was the vision she had not told to the others, one where the skies belonged to dragons once more, and Shor's Stone—no, all of Skyrim—was reduced to ruin and cinder.
She had told herself it would not come to pass. It could not.
And yet…
Her eyes drifted across the devastation again. The broken buildings. The burning streets. The dying screams.
How different was this, truly?
'Focus your eyes once more, my dear.'
Aranea gasped, her body stiffening as the voice echoed within her mind.
'My visions have not been accurate as of late, but this one might help. The All-Father of the Divines bid me show it to you. Good luck.'
Her breath caught. Then her sight vanished.
…
The world returned, but not as it was. Everywhere she looked, it was as if the world was tinted a shade of purple.
A soft, endless twilight stretched across the horizon, neither day nor night. The air felt… weightless, sacred.
Aetherius, Aranea knew it instinctively. But which realm she was in was difficult to determine.
That was until a presence appeared before her. Massive. A towering Nord, broad as a mountain, his form radiating ancient power. A colossal axe rested upon his back, as though it weighed nothing.
She knew then, they were in Sovngarde.
"I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor…." His voice rolled like thunder. "The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honor." The eyes of Tsun went down to meet Aranea's own.
"What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?"
Aranea listened, and was about to speak, until a voice that was not her own came out from her mouth.
"I seek to enter the Hall of Valor, in pursuit of the World-Eater."
The voice was feminine, strong. One that Aranea had heard before.
'Kiera?' She thought, her eyes wide. 'That was Kiera's voice.'
"A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw." Tsun replied, studying her—no, Kiera. "Yet no shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?"
Kiera's voice spoke once more. "By right of birth, I am Dragonborn."
A wide smile appeared on Tsun's face as he stepped aside, allowing Kiera entry.
'I am seeing through the eyes of the Dragonborn.' Aranea realized. 'That's never happened before.'
The path opened. Aranea felt herself move forward, drawn into Sovngarde.
She saw it all.
The Hall of Valor—vast and eternal. Heroes of legend gathered within, their presence like blazing stars. Names she had only heard in stories now stood before her, flesh and spirit intertwined.
Then, the battle came. Kiera charged into the mists where Alduin awaited.
The clash shook the realm itself, and all the heroes that joined her started to perish. One by one, their strength not enough. Even united, they could not bring the World-Eater down.
Aranea's heart pounded as she watched. Kiera was losing.
The Dragonborn was struck from the sky, her body broken against the ground. Alduin descended, unstoppable, inevitable.
Was this it?
Was this the truth?
Was this how it all ended?
Was this their fate?
'–ranea!'
A faint and distant voice cut through.
But something else happened. A rip in reality tore through the plane of Sovngarde, and from it, something fell.
A blade, black as void, landing in Kiera's grasp.
She looked at it with surprise, the black blade was sleek in make, resembling the swords wielded by the Blades that she had seen wielded by their Grandmaster. The Ebony Blade.
'Aranea!'
Was someone calling her? She couldn't tell. Besides, ignoring that call was easy, for she had a more important sight to see.
It was then that light answered darkness.
Dawnbreaker burned in Kiera's other hand, radiant and pure.
Two artifacts of Daedric might, opposing forces, wielded as they in the realm where souls were plentiful.
Iridescent light—colors beyond comprehension—wrapped around Kiera like a mantle of divinity. She roared to the heavens, and Alduin was knocked from the skies.
The Dragonborn surged upward, faster than thought, both blades plunging deep into the World-Eater's neck.
The world shattered with the impact.
Alduin screamed.
And died.
…
"Aranea!"
The vision broke.
She gasped sharply as reality slammed back into her senses—the heat, the smoke, the screams.
Karliah stood before her, gripping her shoulders tightly, concern evident even behind the Nightingale mask.
"What's wrong with you? Did you have another vision?"
Aranea blinked, her breath unsteady, but her mind was clear. Focused. Certain. She knew then what to do.
"Karliah… we need to find the Chosen of Mephala."
Karliah frowned. "Jarl Balgruuf's son? Why? He hasn't been seen since the Night of Convergence."
"He's here," Aranea said firmly. "I know it. It was the role he had to play. To find the Ebony Blade and bring it here, for the Dragonborn. Trust me, it's important."
Credit to her, the Champion of Nocturnal didn't even hesitate
"We might have to find the Huntress, then. Only the Chosen of Hircine has the means to find the Champion of Mephala, shrouded in shadows as he is." Karliah turned, spectral nightingales forming around her before scattering into the city. "These nightingales should suffice for now."
Aranea nodded. "I saw Aela earlier, in her beast form. She was with Isran, fighting Durnehviir."
"Then we'd best get moving."
Yet just as they made to run out of the mouth of the alleyway, a figure appeared from shadows.
"Karliah!" Brynjolf appeared. His armor was scorched and stained, his blade still wet with blood. Even now, his eyes were sharp, alert despite the chaos. "There's a problem in the Ebony Palace."
Karliah stiffened. "What problem?"
"Commander Maro is injured, and the Emperor is in danger." Brynjolf said, "At least, that's what I heard from Delvin and Vex. There's a killer loose inside, and they can't leave. Not with Serana and the Archmage fighting Morokei at the gate."
The two dunmer woman looked at each other.
"A loose killer…" she murmured.
"It could be him," Karliah finished.
Their eyes met, and a decision was made in a split second.
Karliah turned sharply to Brynjolf. "I'll go to the Palace. You take Aranea and find the Huntress. Don't fail me, Brynjolf."
Brynjolf nodded without hesitation. "I won't."
Aranea watched as the shadows moved around the alleyway. They wrapped around Karliah like a living thing.
And in the span of a heartbeat, she was gone.
…
AN: We continue with the battle of Shor's Stone! I think this is gonna go the same way as the Night of Convergence, where there's just gonna be non-stop back to back battles. I try my best to go with a fun choreography and make each fight unique in hopes of not making it too repetitive, so I hope you guys have fun with this.
Also, yeah, Otar didn't really didn't stand a chance against Gerron and Carcette. I debated whether or not to make him put up a little bit of a fight, especially since he is a warrior-type dragon priest. But then realized…this is a Gerron Ironbreaker who has already proven to be able to go toe to toe with Alduin and Odahviing; and he's in a 2v1 with the Keeper of the Vigilants of Stendarr who was capable on 1v1ing a Dremora Lord. Making Otar be able to fight them on even ground was just betraying everything they've already done up to this point.
And finally, finally, we get to this part. Aranea's vision has been something that I had planned since a long time ago. It was the end point of the three character's plots that would contribute to the final battle of Alduin. I really hoped that I did that moment justice, it's something I prayed I did right.
ALSO, AN ANNOUNCEMENT! Skyrim has officially ended in my P-Word where he finished with the Epilogue! The next fic that will take Skyrim's place in the regular schedule will a Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and Fire series called the Sea Wolf! Check it out if you're interested, the first chapter is free and five chapters are already available on my Pa_tre_on. Just look up my name and find me, cheers guys!