#belharza

He stands with his family, his children, his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren, who in turn speak with cousins and relatives of their own, from within and without the Imperial court. The youngest circle around the group, chatting away and enjoying themselves among the other children at the festival, the adults catch up with one another, sharing word from throughout the distant realms of Cyrod and of the disparate lives they've grown to lead. The old emperor smiles, listening and speaking to them in turn, and in his own time looks to his surroundings.

The Imperial Isle is bustling as ever on this occasion. The customary Festival of the Dragon has been a tradition since he was a boy-calf, apparently drawn from some old Atmoran traditions, a ceremony of appeasement for the world-eating dragon of the Nordic faith. It, as many things in Cyrodiilic society, was a compromise reached by his mother, the one time of the year that all would come to acknowledge and honor Akatosh for his patronage of the Nedes in the years of revolt. It is equally a relic of traditional Ayleid worship of Auri-El, which White-Gold had not seen for centuries at the time of her ascension to the throne. Many Nedes wished to honor Akatosh as the Aedra worshiping Ayleids had honored Auri-El as their sovereign patron, but such a thing would invoke outrage from those who leaned closer to Nordic spirituality, the honoring of Kyne and Shezarr. So this festival began in the Atmoran style, an acknowledgement of the passage of time as controlled by Akatosh, an acknowledgement of his power, an offering of appeasement, and little more. A scant thanks from an emperor with much more to say about the dragon behind closed doors.

And yet, over Belharza's long life, he had seen the somber ceremony become more and more lively, quiet reflections on the passage of time and the great cosmic acts of the divine gave way to banquets and songs to the dragon's glory, gallant tales of knight Pelinal and his liege, the so-called Saint Alessia, and the emperor began to hear old stories he'd heard from his mother as a boy; some small things changed, minor details, names and places, but what perplexed him most was the way they were told: painted in triumph, in glory, without darkness or shame.

A tug at his sleeve rouses him from his recollection, and he turns his horned head to see a lengthy procession of robed figures, swept in silken robes, white with red diamond patterns. The Brothers of Marukh, a relatively recent sect of Akatoshic worshipers, but quite the popular one. They and their forerunners have had much to do with the evolution of this festival. Belharza looks at the crowd of them, lined like a legion, stretching all the way down the street and out of site. There are more of them than last year, he remarks to himself. More than the year before, too, and the year before that as well. At the head of their procession is a woman adorned with golden jewelry, holding a lead wrapped around an old white bull. Her head is hairless, and around her scalp and face lays the dyed markings of a serpent, spiraling around her fair skin, looping over an eye and cheek, snaking down her neck and disappearing toward her breast, now hidden by her ceremonial silks. Ketra is a high priestess of the Brothers, taught by the Prophet Marukh himself. She wears a serious face, peaceful and purposeful, as she leads the bull up to a ceremonial platform, lying before a great carving of an endless serpent.

Emperor Belharza regards the animal, an old sire of many young calves, an animal chosen for this honor with great respect. Its face is noble, graying, and weary, like his own, but he, like many minotaur, sees himself as far different from everyday cattle, despite some visual similarity. And though part of him, descended from Morihaus, who is descended from Kyne, feels almost that the old thing should be given more of a fighting chance. Should a proud beast as he be offered up so placidly, without any say in the matter? Does the buck dive onto the hunter's spear? But Belharza simply shakes his head. He's grown more distanced from these Kynarethi worldviews as he's matured- he's never lost his appreciation for the wilds, for freedom and expression, but nearly a century in the Imperial Court has forced him to take on a more materialistic mindset, to belong to the world of men, of cities, of towers.

As is customary, the sacrificial bull is led onto the altar, spits of wood over a fire pit, and sorcerers of the Brothers cast calming spells on it, leaving it to stand still and somberly atop its final resting place, as though aware of the solemnity of its duty. The high priestess then moved to take a torch from her torchbearer, raising it aloft and saying her piece. She sings praise to the One Akatosh- an increasingly popular epithet- to his glorious patronage of mankind, to his divine-crafted knight, and to his anointed emperor. Many make a show of cheering and smiling in his direction, for he bears her anointed blood in his veins, and the blood of Akatosh in the jewel hung around his neck. Looking at Ketra, he cannot help but notice that she does not look to him, nor do any in the inner circle around the pit. She only turns to the bull and grips the ceremonial dagger. The weathered old sire doesn't flinch as she moves forward, reaching an arm around his neck to force him to kneel to the ground, and finally, sinks the dagger into his throat.

The old bull does not cry out, it is calm even in its death. Its blood pools out from the wound as she pulls away, dripping down into the pit below. It is joined quickly by fire from her torch, and the scent of searing flesh fills the streets, along with some jubilation.

Even so, as the smoke rises up, Belharza's eye tracks it to see the clouds, which had skirted around the edge of the horizon thus far, gather overhead. He looks down to the wall carving of the dragon, jaws open and hungry. The amulet around his neck feels heavy- it always has, but in this moment, he wonders at it.

---

An hour or so on, Belharza kneels in the gardens of the dragonfire, head bowed under cloudy skies. The brazier burns silently, its flame lit by divine magic, not mundane fire. It has remained burning without rest, through day, night, winds, and rain, ever since he lit them when his reign began, nearly a century ago. All the while, he's paid the fires little mind- not ungrateful for their protection, but content to leave them be- he's put more of his attention into the greenery surrounding them; wild grasses and flowers, fruit-bearing trees and bushes, he's cultivated much of these in a plethora of wild gardens over his lengthy reign, for they've always brought him comfort and closeness with his mother. As the empire has grown more complicated and in need of greater administration, he's been afforded less opportunities to wander freely as she used to, and as he used to along with her. It is a melancholy feeling, but he has made peace with it.

He is not worried about getting caught in the rain, even as the clouds grow darker and heavier. Any time with the sky over his horns, fresh air in his lungs, he'll savor it, even if he gets drenched or stormed on in the process. His ear perks to the sound of footsteps down the cobbled path. Many footsteps, an entire procession. He casts his gaze over his shoulder, only to see robed priests, the Brothers of Marukh, fronted by their head priestess. She clutches the ceremonial dagger at her hip, freshly cleaned. Belharza cannot help from noticing the lack of any guards- he sees only men, Nede-men, nowhere does he find family nor even his minotaur kin, who have been the most loyal soldiers of his legions, and most devoted of his honor guard.

Blowing air out against his nose-hoop, he grunts as he wills himself up to his feet, turning to look down at the procession. "Brother Ketra," He says, voice deep and subtle, like distant thunder. "To what do I owe this visit?" The priestess is cold and serious, her brow set like stone above her dark eyes. "Admiring the dragonfires, Emperor?" She asks, dismissing his own question. "It is a good day to wonder at the power of Akatosh."

Belharza stares silently for a moment. He counts 20 of them, rings and amulets of enchanted glows signified them as members of her inner circle, the closest to the mouth of the prophet, his most attentive students. He recognizes some from the council, his lip turns with distaste to recall the legislature they pushed, the discriminatory reputation many sects have made for themselves.

"I suppose." He lets out a sigh, hunched down yet still towering feet taller than the Nedic woman. "This has been the one-hundredth-and-twelfth festival I have seen. It's been ninety while these fires have burned." He raises a hand to brush the stone of his amulet, the red ruby is dull in the darkness, the light of its pyre burning behind his back. "I suppose I am thinking of Akatosh, in that I am thinking about time, and its passage." Ketra takes a step forward, slyly, as though he might not notice. "Which of the One's mysteries unravels in your mind, sire?" He gives her a long look. He turns around, staring into the silent god-fire. "...I've lived a very long life. Longer than most men or minotaur. Some have made jokes of it, perhaps I'll next outlive an elf? Who can say if I'll ever die, divine blood in my veins?" He pauses, unsure of Ketra's reaction. "I've considered it more seriously. I am very old, and very tired... I do not feel as though my end draws near, I only feel weary, weary with the responsibilities of my station, the needs of my people. One man was not meant to bear it for so long, I think."

Ketra and her procession are silent, only watching with rapt attention at the voice of the emperor. "I believe I will relinquish my throne," Belharza says, suddenly. "Bequeath it to a chosen heir." "You think you can bestow such a thing upon another?" She doesn't sound accusatory, she doesn't seem to doubt him. She seems curious. "I do not see why not. We do not know all the mysteries of this artifact... it is worth attempting, I think. I've spoken with my granddaughter, Varlesh- she is wise and gentle, yet firm, like my mother." Belharza turns back to face Ketra, who stands right before him now. The knife is still in her hand.

They look at one another for a moment. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Belharza snorts out a sigh. He looks down at her; a beleaguered old bull, a priestess with a sacrificial dagger, a fire burning beside them. "You think," Ketra starts, her tone and timbre certain, reliable, like a ticking clock. "You can bestow such a thing? To anyone you choose?"

"Yes." He says.

Then, Ketra surges forth, plunges her dagger into Belharza's chest. He might have kept his footing if two more knives hadn't entered at his flanks, the force of the assailants sending him careening back against the steps to the brazier. Lightning flashes. Ketra is poised atop him, knee against his sternum, dagger raised overhead. The burning fires reflect in her eyes. She screams, shouts as she drives the knife into his throat. Blood spurts, breath leaves his body, he finds no strength, not even to tremble. Rain begins to fall, mixing with his blood. It is coincidence that the fires ebb with the rain, for in truth, they ebb with his death.

Ketra reaches her hands down, collecting the ichor from his wound, lifting it above her head and letting it fall down her face. She chants hymns to the blessed Saint Alessia, to the Prophet Most Simian, and to Akatosh, and to Shezarr, and to the One. Finally, she rips the amulet from his neck, yanking roughly as she works it around his horns. Around her own neck it is oversized, the chain is too long, letting the red diamond hang nearly to her navel. She steps over the old emperors corpse, his blood covering her face, and she kneels to the brazier as the last embers flicker out. She takes the stone in hand and lights the spark in her name, in Alessia's blood, in Akatosh's blood, she honors the covenant.