You are not alone.
The thought creeps sluggishly out
of the pits of my slumbering mind before squatting, unwanted, in the heart of
that usually comforting void.
Here in the dark embrace of
sleep, solitude is mine by right. It is
my peace, and my salvation.
Not so tonight.
I grope groggily in the darkness,
my thoughts blundering into the black, searching for the source of that
unbidden, alien presence that so disturbs my dreamless sleep. Dimly, I wonder what this is, if not a
dream. Perhaps my mind has awoken, while
my body is yet gripped by sleep’s stupor.
I feel nothing, can move nothing physical. Only my consciousness exists – mine, and the other.
Who’s there? I ask the
blackness.
I am.
It isn’t a voice. Nothing so mundane. Just pure, unbridled will made manifest.
But who are you? I ask again.
You already know.
And it laughs.
Another night, another
dream. This time, I know I am dreaming,
for Mother sits at the table with me.
“Eat your soup, Tobias,” she
implores me, frowning. I nod mutely, and
take another spoonful, paying little heed to the fact that the woman opposite
me has been dead for nearly fifteen years.
This is a memory, I suppose, or
born of one. I was fourteen, and we
still lived in our house in Falkreath, long before I met Jena and moved
south. Just me and Mother. I never knew my father. It is my strong suspicion that neither did
Mother. I’m less than confident she was
even sure which one he was.
I lift the spoon, and the world
narrows to a point as it hovers in front of my lips. It’s chicken.
Colours swirl on the otherwise yellow-brown surface, colours that have
no right to be there. Flashes of
crimson, bolts of silver, arcs of glittering rose-gold. The world stretches yet further, and the
colours throb before my eyes.
Everything snaps back into focus,
and I take a sip of the soup. It’s stone
cold.
The rain runs down my neck as I
watch them lower her coffin into the sodden earth. Runil, the priest of Arkay, is still
speaking, but he’s not saying the words I remember.
He’s talking to me.
“It’s all right to cry,” he says
quietly, and the words carry easily to my ears in spite of the downpour.
“Death is a sad thing. You have lost the centre of your world. The rock you cling to in the currents of
life. Your tears are an expression of
this, and you should embrace them.”
He isn’t speaking like Runil used
to. The voice is the same, but the
phrasing, the inflection, it’s all wrong.
“Death is a part of life,
Tobias,” Runil continues. “It is a
cycle. Birth, life, love and death, an
eternal cycle of change. That’s all it
is, really. Just change. It might seem scary and sad now, but in years
to come you will look upon this as a turning point. The day you stopped being your mother’s son,
and started being Tobias Denariius, who controls his own destiny.”
Runil smiles sadly, and the rain
drowns the world.
Blackness again. The day was long and hard, and all I crave is
sweet nothingness – yet once again, I am deprived.
What do you want from me? I shout
silently into the dark. Why do you show
me these visions?
I am here to help, the void responds. I am your
friend, and your teacher, and I am here to help.
Help me do what?
Learn. Who you are, who you can
be… how you can change.
But I don’t want to change! I
cry. I’m happy with who I am?
Happy? Is this happiness? This empty, unfulfilled existence? You can do so much more, Tobias.
But… I have Jena… Marcus… They’re
all I need. They make me happy. I live for them.
Is that what they want? For you to live for them? No one should live their life through someone else, Tobias. Find something that feels right to you. Be true to yourself.
“Marcus!” I shout into the
forest, my voice echoing surreally through the trees. I can hear him up ahead, laughing
merrily. “Come back! It’s not safe!”
My boy ignores me, so I run on,
following the sound of his voice as dusk settles over the woods, promising to
soon enshroud in cold night. “Marcus!”
A distant howl sounds in the
gloom, and my fears are concentrated, made suddenly imminent and real. Wolves.
I have to get him back. I’ll never forgive myself if they take him
from me. Jena won’t forgive me
either. He giggles again, and I push
through the burning in my legs, driven on by determination and panic.
Then, to my horror, I hear him
scream.
I burst out of the trees into a
clearing, only to see the sleeve of his jacket disappear into a gaping hole in
the earth. It’s lined with roughly-hewn
stone, a rectangular arch that opens onto a set of steps leading down into
pitch blackness. My son is down there,
so I don’t hesitate – I run on, straight down the steps to wherever they may
lead.
Time stretches languidly as I
hurry down, with no reference point in the shadow to mark its passage. I have to slow my pace for fear of falling,
feeling my way from one step to another.
“Marcus!” I shout, and I think
I can hear his voice, oh so faintly, far ahead.
“Oh my boy,” I whisper. “Please
come back to me.”
I go deeper, and deeper, down and
down into the skin of Nirn, until at last a dim orange light flickers
ahead. I make for it, and the steps
finally end and lead out onto some sort of chapel.
Stone pews run down either side
of the hall, and a stone altar sits on a raised dais at the far end. The room is lit by torches mounted to the
walls with iron brackets, burning brightly, though no one is around to tend to
them. No doors or windows lead off from
the chapel – my son must be here.
“Marcus!” I call, and my voice
bounces back at me, more distorted and deep with every echo. Marcus… Marcus… Maarcusss…
I peer down each pew as I make my
way to the front, expecting to see him crouching there, hidden by the
seating. Nothing. I reach the end of the aisle, and so the only
hiding place remaining is behind the altar.
There! I hear him giggle again, and approach the
altar, noticing for the first time a simple wooden lectern resting upon it, a
book lying open upon it. I pay it no
heed, as from behind the altar pops a familiar face.
“Marcus!”
It’s my boy.
“Da!” he cries, and runs into my
arms, burying his face in my chest. I
clutch him tightly.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” I
whisper.
He pulls away from my embrace and
takes my hand, looking at me with a curious expression. “Look,” he says, and stands with me by the
book. I look, and see that though the
pages of the book are full of scrawlings, they are not like any language I have
ever seen. More like symbols, I suppose. My eye hovers on a large circle, crisscrossed
by geometric lines which form sections, each section containing what looks like
a letter in an alphabet far beyond my knowledge. In the centre of the circle sits a larger
symbol – asymmetrical and suddenly faintly familiar, though my sleep-clouded
mind seems unable to place where I have seen it before.
I stare at the book, and somehow,
understanding dawns upon my mind.
I can read it.
Individually, the letters make no
sense, but somehow the whole pattern seems to hold meaning – an intention which
my brain unconsciously carries to my lips as a sentence.
“When I walk the earth again, the
faithful among you shall receive your reward…”
There’s more, but I close the
book, staring at its cover – plain, with that same single letter etched in its
centre. Despite the lack of writing,
another word springs to mind. It’s
alien, strange to me, and yet it feels somehow right.
“Xarxes.”
I stand on a snowy mountain-top,
looking down at a land that I know to be Skyrim, where I grew up, before love
and family took me south.
This land is beautiful. I
nod, agreeing with all my heart. This
has and always will be my true home.
You can make it even more so.
This surprises me.
How? I ask.
In answer, a beam of shimmering
white light appears above my head, shooting across the snowscape and settling
on a shape, far in the distance. It’s
hard to make it out from here – dark and irregular, yet somehow enthralling to
the eye.
What is it?
I will show you.
The world shifts and I am briefly
gripped by the sensation of sudden motion, before settling on another, lower
snowfield. The beam of light descends
from above and falls upon the head of the great monument now standing before me
It is a mighty figure – powerful,
in control. A statue as tall as a
building, four arms resting on a throne carved out of the mountainside. Its face is twisted into a grimace of
determination. It is… somehow…
beautiful.
Nestled beneath its throne is a
door, set into the mountain side. I walk
across the snow, past a squat rectangular altar that sits before it, and lay my
hand upon the door. It is locked, but it
pulses beneath my fingers, warm to the touch.
I know it now. This is to be my home. A place where I can truly find myself and be
happy. Where I can have purpose.
Jena and Marcus will
understand. They love me as I love them,
and if I can make them understand that this is what I want, I know they will
support me. That is what family’s for,
isn’t it?
Who are you? I ask the presence
that has been guiding me.
I am change, it replies. But the men and Mer of your world have other
names for me. The chiefest of these is
Mehrunes Dagon.
Dagon. That name, whispered by so many, remembered
from all those years ago. The Oblivion
Crisis. When the world almost
ended.
You remember the stories of me. I
nod.
You caused great pain.
And for that I am truly sorry, Dagon replies. But
after the time we have shared, here in your dreams, I hope you will allow me to
explain.
Go on.
What I tried to do was for the good of all things. History remembers me as an invader, but that is
simply untrue. I was a liberator. I came to free you all from the tyranny of
your gods. Pain, despair – these things are
allowed, and yet the gods have the power to stop it. They allow you to suffer and die. They would allow Marcus to die. I came with the intention of freeing you from
that – to bring change, meaningful change, and with it, freedom. I would bring that again, but I cannot do so
alone. I need someone to be my voice on
Mundus, to aid me in ushering in the new Mythic Dawn.
I understand. It’s strange, but I do. The world is cold and harsh and cruel. The priests would tell us to look to the gods
and pray for our lives to be better, but when have the gods ever
responded? I have often wondered if they
even exist. And yet here is someone else
– someone with the power to make a difference, asking for my help. This is the chance I have always wanted. The chance to help save the world.
Will you help me, Tobias? Dagon asks, and I know my answer.
I will.
To be continued in Sulfur and Fire - Trial of Mehrunes Dagon, a free downloadable mod for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.