#3rd era

“Ysamyne?”

You tighten your grip inside of your sleeve. The birds aren’t up yet.

“I don’t like being watched.”

There’s a slight hum. And then there’s the briefest of smiles that you can’t yet read. It’s cryptic and all-seeing and part of you wants it gone. 

“What?” you snap.

“Well.” He offers you a quick look you don’t quite catch. “I can’t say I’m too surprised. You don’t make much of a secret of it.” 

“Secret of what?”

“Well. I mean,” and there’s half a chuckle, half-caught in his throat, you suspect, that he hadn’t meant to let go of, before a glance, again. “You practically hiss at Jauffre.”

He’s still swaddled in your moth-bitten cloak. You lent it to him, your only cloak – to the bastard son, the last thread of the Septim Dynasty still dangling. You lent it to him because he’d wanted to sneak outside those cold, stone walls and stern eyes of his sworn, loyal protectors like a sulky teenager. You lent it to him because it was cold and you'd shouldered worse and he'd protested and dithered with all the you couldn't possiblies until you'd thrown it at his face.

You wonder what had gotten into you.

“Jauffre is a cunt. He can’t stand me.”

“Yes, well – a shame, that–”

“I can’t stand the Empire, is that what you’re digging for?”

Another branch snaps.

“I can’t stand the Empire,” you say, again. More slowly. “And I can’t stand the Emperor. I almost–”

You stop yourself.

(A few hours ago, you’d snuck away from the temple unseen, you’d run through the woods together until you ran out of breath to take, and you’d been cackling like it was the first time you’d laughed out loud.)

(And you’d once wanted to be a real teenager. Grazed knuckles and gritted teeth over hot air you’d wanted to chew out, sulky and petulant and burning up about exactly nothing worth setting ablaze. You’d wanted it enough to burn yourself through whole.)

“Ysamyne,” he says. “I wouldn’t say I particularly care for the Empire, for what it’s worth.”

You shake your head. It’s – it’s not the same. You'd rather that they'd all died in a fire, if you'd had your way. But you look at him, wearing your cloak, and find yourself swallowing.

“They… they really didn’t tell you anything, did they?” 

“Tell me what?” 

You close your eyes.

(You weren’t allowed to leave before. You, after all, had been destined for greatness. One must understand, then, you had spent your adolescence chained to matters of much greater importance. Stuck between soggy pages, muttering incantations off your cuff that was always tied tight on a close, short leash, crafting spellwork that old masters might have spent months attempting to untangle, turning sigils into stone and stone into gates that you would not be permitted to walk through.

Your time had not come yet. Your brilliant dawn was still waiting.)

“The cultists.” The words, you almost spit them out, but they sound hollow. “The ones who killed the Emperor. What do you know?”

He looks up, startled.

“I… too little, if I’m honest. I’ve heard they’re secretive and dangerous, even by the standards of daedric cults, but... what’s your point?”

“They were called Mythic Dawn.”

“Yes, that’s– I don't see how that's relevant, I–" 

He stops himself. His eyes widen.

You look at him.

On the horizon, the birds begin to sing.

"... Ysamyne...?"

(And his voice is softer, but you hardly seem to notice.)

You count your breaths. They still fade in the cold.

As the mist curls round your ankles and the earth, soaked through, rots beneath your feet, the sun slowly begins to rise. Light begins to softly scrape away at the trees. The birds have broken into calling.

The world goes from dark, to blue, to brushed with orange.

“I was a member.”

When you finally speak, it is light.

“I was a member for... a number of years. A dedicated member of the apocalyptic doom cult that seeks to destroy the Empire.” You look towards him, eyes shining. “Well?”

“Ysamyne, I don’t know what you expect me to say–” 

“I was the person who made the blueprint for the first gate,” you cut in. “I designed it. Me. And I would have drawn up more, I would have made more, if I hadn't got caught, and thrown in the darkest dungeon in Imperial City. I'd still be locked up there, if it hadn’t been for The Emperor. Do you understand?”

It isn’t a confession. A confession would imply some measure of guilt.

“I was… supposed to kill the Emperor. I was supposed to…” He’s still not saying anything. You have to keep speaking. “I was supposed to burn with my siblings, in a glorious rage. The kindling for a greater age, we were.... I was supposed to…”

It almost gets stuck in your throat. 

“You didn't kill him,” offers the priest, softly.

You snap your head towards him. He does not look furious enough.

“No. No, that, I didn't.” A sharp intake of breath. Fingers held tight, clenching your sleeve. “He opened my cage. Mumbled a bunch about prophecy and predestination. Let me walk free. The fool. It was… I could have… I don't know, I could have done something, I suppose but… I just stood there.”

You don’t know how you’re still breathing.

“I watched my siblings throw themselves at him. I watched them be cut down, one by one. And I just stood there, the moment he died. I did nothing. I chose to do nothing.”

Time begins to float. You wish you could cling all the way through your skin. The birds are cacophonous.

“Do you…” and it is the priest speaking. And you cannot tell if it is mournful, or regretful or both, but it is more gentle than you know what do to do with. “... do you regret that decision, Ysamyne?”

“Regret.” You spit the word out. “What does that matter? What does any of it matter? It would have made no difference. The Emperor was as good as dead. What would have been the point? Just to be more than one dead body heaped on the pile?”

“I think it matters quite a lot,” the priest says.

The answer burns at the back of your head: It was a failing your part. You should have gone back, dragged yourself back to the Master by your heels, got on your hands and knees and confessed your utter failure.

“I was stupid enough to get caught,” you begin. “Was made a mockery of by the hands of the Empire, and when in a senile moment of weakness the Emperor took pity on my soul, I refused to claim the fiery death that was promised for me. I should have faced a traitor’s death with dignity. What do you think?”

“I think you’re telling me what the leader of your cult would like you to say.”

Something lurches forward in you.

“I betrayed them, Martin. Don't you see how… how perverse this all is? I’m a traitor. I betrayed them all. I'm not supposed to be here – this is just wrong – how many ways can I say it? – I’m a traitor.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay? How can you trust me? After all the death, how can you bear to stand–”

“Ysamyne, please stop.”

You blink. You hadn’t realised – you’re almost out of breath. You had to shout to be heard over the birds.

“I think you ought to ask yourself what you’re seeking here,” he says. “I’m not going to tell you to suffer. I think you’ve inflicted more than enough suffering on yourself already.”

You stare at him. The light is streaming through the trees and beginning to turn gold and triumphant.

“It’s not easy to leave,” he adds, quietly. It’s barely a whisper. “I know that much.”

“What would you know?”

You regret the words immediately. They’re unkind. He looks at you with something more complex than sadness or pity that hurts more than both. You sit with that pain, in the gold of the rising light, amongst the fevered call of birds, frost glistening at your feet, until you grow tired.

“I did not want to die for nothing,” you explain, after too long. “But– but I’m not a coward, I don’t– I didn’t, I didn’t fear it, I didn’t fear dying, I just…. I…. I kept asking why? Why? What would it serve? What does any of this serve? What do blazing gates and daedra hordes serve? All I see is suffering.

“And I wandered – I spent all this time, just wandering, searching, looking – and I couldn't think of a good answer. I couldn’t think of a reason to go back. I spent a month, a month, with the Amulet of Kings burning a hole in my pocket, trying to look for a good answer. When I couldn't find one, I flung it at Jauffre, because I was sick at looking at it.

“That’s why I did it. Not for your Empire. Not for your Emperor. Not for anyone else. It was a selfish decision. And I don’t regret it.”

“I think you were brave,” says the priest. 

You want to ignore him – you have to ignore him. Because it can’t be right – because it doesn’t feel right – because right now you want to scream. You want to fall to your knees. You want the dawn to blaze, burn you away clean and hot and fierce, because there is nothing, nothing you think should be left standing –

But here, all there is, is birds and light.

A hand reaches out to your shoulder. You let it rest there. And as you begin to tremble, his arm reaches around you, and holds you, as everything begins to fall apart.

Here, all there is, is birds and light and a priest who is holding on to what is left of you.

“You are still here,” he says, after a long pause. “In this world, and not the next. And there is worth in that.”

“I don’t want to be here,” you whisper. “I don’t want to.”

At this, takes off your cloak, and pulls it round your shoulders.

You let yourself be held, as the sun rises.

The dawn is spilling through the forest. It isn’t the one you'd been waiting for.