AN: Drop those stones and leave a comment if you enjoyed this one. Cheers lads.
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4E 202, Castle Volkihar
Kiera Fendalyn
Reinforcements.
She knew exactly what the Legionnaires were thinking the moment Aela and Isran appeared, bursting out the Sea of Ghosts.
Hope.
A strange thing. Fragile and invisible, and yet it weighed more than steel in the minds of the people.
Moments ago, desperation had hung over the courtyard like smoke. The crumbling morale after Adventus lay fallen had begun choking them, with no way out visible. The dead clawed from beneath their own boots. Dragons blackened the sky. Even the bravest had begun to fight like men already mourning themselves.
Now?
Shields locked tighter, their spears steadied. Even wounded soldiers pushed themselves back into formation.
Kiera felt it ripple outward from Aela and Isran's thunderous arrival. Morale was not a spell—but it might as well have been.
She rose slowly from the shattered stones, her breath evening. Blood trickled down her temple. The Reaper stood across from her, black blood seeping from wounds she had carved into him.
Kiera couldn't disappoint them as their Pillar of Strength, now could she?
She inhaled once, centering herself. When her eyes opened, the chaos faded to clarity.
"SU GRAH DUN!"
The words tore from her lungs as shockwaves rippled outward from her form. The Elemental Fury imbued her arms with the speed of the wind, and quickened it as they now moved faster than sight.
Dawnbreaker blurred into a storm of golden arcs, twenty strikes landing in the space of a breath. Each cut burned with Meridia's fire as the Reaper staggered, his strange void-armor splitting with light peering through each wound.
Each impact detonated in radiant crescents that scythed outward, Bonemen and Mistmen caught too close disintegrated into ash as the thicker and the taller Wrathmen were launched back and burst apart.
The Legion surged forward in response.
"Archers loose! Aim for the Wrathmen!"
Tullius' voice was raw, and Kiera saw a few of his teeth were missing and a cut on his lip continued to bleed into his chin. Yet he remained unbowed and unbroken as arrows fell in disciplined volleys. Imperial steel advanced step by step, reclaiming stone bought in blood.
The Reaper, wounded but not dead, raised its axe to the sky before swinging it down. Kiera rolled, black energy shearing through the space where she had stood.
She rose into a riposte, an overhead strike that would have claimed his neck had the Reaper not parried at the last instant. She pivoted, a sweeping strike that bit into his thigh.
He was getting slower, that much was obvious. Despite the clearly inhuman endurance, the Reaper struggled now to keep up with Kiera and her speed-enhanced swings.
Yet, the crimson glow in his eyes had not dimmed the slightest bit. Black light formed on the blade of the axe once more as he swung. Kiera, seeing the Legions were behind her, moved her blade with lightning speed, Dawnbreaker striking the haft near the hilt and redirected the blow skyward.
A crescent of pure black tore across the heavens, dimming the sky. The wave rolled across the air and struck an elder dragon mid-shout. It sputtered in the air, wings faltering.
Above, Vermithor did not waste the opening. He surged upward, jaws clamping around the wounded dragon's throat, and tore it open.
Hot blood cascaded down upon the docks, steam erupting where it struck the Sea of Ghosts.
Another dragon dove toward Vermithor's exposed flank.
Kiera turned, drawing deeply from her lungs. "JOOR ZAH FRUL!"
Mortality seized the coming dragon as it plummeted, an unseen force dragging it down like heavy chains. From the battlements, Aela leapt. She met the dragon mid-fall, teeth sinking into its neck as they crashed into a crumbling parapet.
Stone shattered beneath them as Aela wrenched her head violently, trying to snap the dragon's vertebrae.
But it was for naught as Isran leapt from her back—golden warhammer in hand—and brought it down upon its skull.
An audible crack echoed like thunder as the dragon's eyes rolled back. With a final savage shake, Aela hurled the corpse aside, slamming into the battlements above Kiera and the Reaper.
The tower gave way.
Debris rained down, crushing whatever Bonemen still lingered. Kiera rolled beneath the falling stones, dust filling her lungs. The Reaper leapt clear, landing heavily in the courtyard's center.
Vermithor's wingbeats dispersed the choking cloud. Through swirling dust, her eyes locked with the Reaper's once more.
It was time to end this.
Steel rang across the yard as Tullius and his centurions drove the remaining undead back. Imperial banners still flew above the docks. The Legion ships, though battered by waves from falling dragons, held steady.
The Reaper lunged again as Kiera met him head-on, gold against abyss. Their weapons locked, and for a moment the world narrowed to the space between them.
She saw then that its fury was not mindless. It was wounded, driven by grief.
Its eyes flared brighter.
"ARVAK!"
The name cracked like a breaking heart. It was not a battle cry, but a lament.
And for the first time since she crossed blades with him, the axe slipped. Just for a breath, but it was enough.
Kiera drove Dawnbreaker forward.
Radiance exploded from the wound as the blade pierced through the void-forged armor. The Reaper recoiled with a roar that shook the sea.
Above them, Vermithor battled the last dragon, flame and lightning intertwined, melting stone to slag where they struck. At the last heartbeat, Vermithor inhaled deeply—light gathering within his throat, blue turning darker at the core.
"QO SPAAN LOK!"
A spear of black lightning pierced straight through the opposing dragon's maw. It convulsed mid-air, smoke pouring from its eyes before its massive body dropped into the Sea of Ghosts with a thunderous crash, nearly capsizing the Legion ships from the waves.
Kiera had never heard of black lightning before. Had her partner reached a level of mastery to lightning breath shout? She could feel pride and satisfaction coming in from their bond.
Kiera turned back to see her opponent, crimson eyes finally dimming.
"I know not what fate befell you," she said quietly. "But rest knowing your friend has been avenged."
She ripped Dawnbreaker free, golden fire roaring brighter than ever as the Reaper collapsed, the axe clanging onto the stone.
While he led a sad existence, there was no denying the blood in the Reaper's hands.
At the moment of his death, every raised corpse dropped lifelessly. The former legionnaires and thralls froze mid-strike and fell. Bonemen crumbled. Mistmen dissipated into nothing.
The handful of remaining Wrathmen were cut down swiftly as Tullius finished them with an iron fist.
Silence followed. Only the sound of wind whistling through broken towers and the distant creak of ships steadying themselves against the waves.
Legionnaires stood amidst ruin, breathing hard, staring at one another as if waking from a nightmare.
They had won.
…
4E 202, Skuldafn
Alduin the World Eater
"Nii's pruzah wa koraav hi back zeymah." (It's good to see you return, brother)
The words rolled from Alduin's throat like distant thunder.
Before him stood Durnehviir, wings torn and mended by death, eyes alight once more with draconic will rather than bondage. The stench of the Soul Cairn still clung faintly to him—but it was fading.
An acknowledging rumble came out of the Soul Kruziik's throat. "To fly freely is the fate of all dov."
To Alduin's right, Odahviing shifted his weight. "Nu wah. How did you allow yourself to be chained by joor in the first place?"
Durnehviir's recounting began again, telling the circumstances that led to this enslavement. Of the Ideal Masters and their honeyed lies. Alduin only half listened.
His gaze had turned outward.
From the peaks of the Velothi Mountains, the whole of Skyrim lay beneath him like a map carved in ice and stone. His eyes, newly strengthened, pierced distance effortlessly. He saw rivers winding like silver veins. Saw cities huddled against the cold. Saw smoke from distant battles stain the horizon.
A low, satisfied rumble escaped him.
The feast had been… exquisite.
The Soul Cairn's endless harvest of bound souls had poured into him in a torrent beyond measure. He had consumed not merely mortals, but the stored hoards of the Ideal Masters themselves. Ancient spirits. Forgotten heroes. Kings who believed themselves eternal.
He devoured them all.
He was not yet at his prime, but he was close. So very close. All because the flow had dimmed at the last stages of his harvest.
Something had interfered, there was a moment where the river of souls thinned when it should have roared. He would have returned to full strength otherwise.
It mattered little. The realm was gone, and the Ideal Masters—those parasites who dared style themselves gods—had learned their place.
Only seven of the twenty elder dov he had brought returned with him. Significant, yet acceptable losses. With the strength of three Kruziik, few in the mortal plane could challenge them.
The only problem came with one thing. His gaze shifted to Odahviing's side.
A large jagged wound stretched from Odahviing's belly all the way to his left wing that still smoldered faintly and refused to close. Not even draconic vitality erased it fully.
Alduin only caught the battle at the end of it. A strange being, tall and armored in blackened metal with an axe in hand. Mounted upon a skeletal horse wreathed in violet flame.
He was…strong, Alduin had to admit. Even Odahviing had struggled as the strange horse had proven capable of flight. In the air they fought, the clash of Kruziik Thu'um and black light of the Ashen Curse had torn open the skies beneath their clash.
Only when Durnehviir interfered—Soul Tear ripping the horse apart—had Odahviing landed a decisive blow. His claws had carved through the creature's flesh, casting it into the ground.
Odahviing was not happy with the interference, for dov had their own pride to fight their own battles. But the deed was done, and the Kruziik of Wind had howled then.
Powerful gales and cyclones spanning thirty kilometers wide erupted from his maw. The many undead within the lands of the Soul Cairn were scattered, and even some elder dov were not spared in his anger.
Yet Odahviing had grown weaker after. Not in voice—for Thu'um was not so easily weakened—but in motion. Each beat of his wings carried pain as the ashen wounds continued to spread into his flesh.
Alduin's eyes narrowed.
That creature had been no mere Daedra, for Alduin had detected traces of a familiar prince within it, Clavicus Vile.
Only direct servitors held the amount of power to combat a Kruziik, which meant that the Reaper could be the famed spirit of the Feyfolken. A spirit that could drive others to madness, which meant that the blackened weapon could only be the Rueful Axe, one of the Prince of Bargains great artifacts.
The Ashen Curse was a powerful thing that not even Alduin could purge freely. But the loss of the Feyfolken was a good thing. It meant that Claivus Vile would be that much weaker when Alduin travels beyond Mundus to kill the Princes themselves.
What mattered was that the Soul Cairn was no more. He had felt the Ideal Masters falter. Their lightning—once enough to scour armies—barely stung his scales.
In the end, beings who called themselves gods always faltered beneath his might.
When he opened the portal back to Skuldafn—this time nearly effortlessly, unlike when he did it the first time—it was to be met into a cacophony of activity. Draugr scurried along narrow stairways and the younger dov circled the ruins and rising from their roosts.
There were signs of destruction and scuffles that marked fresh battle, though the path to the portal of Sovngarde remained untouched. That alone mattered more than others.
At the courtyard's center knelt the three Dragon Priests, their masks dipped low at his arrival. Though Durnehviir regarded the clusters of draugr with visible disdain.
"Drey osos truk staad?" (Did something occur?).
Standing beside the three priests were two new draugr, a man and woman with curved swords. Alduin ignored them.
Morokei's hollow gaze lifted. "We were attacked, my lord. Only a group of five, yet they slew over forty draugr. No champions were among them."
Five.
Alduin's lip curled. Were his armies always this weak?
Morokei gestured toward the two draugr, wielding strange armor that Alduin was very familiar with, for they bear resemblance to the old order of Dragonslayers that he had seen eons ago.
Both were interesting if Morokei was the one to raise them, though the man seemed queer, for his entire skin was stitched together with blue lines. Did his priests shatter him and stitch him back together? How odd.
"This one in particular." Morokei's bony hand gestured to the woman who, even in death, had eyes still burning with defiance.
Durnehviir leaned forward, intrigued.
"Grik lot zah…" (Such a specimen). Durnevhiir rumbled. "Yet the magic claiming them is sahlo, weak. Alok ahrk aam hin in. Arise, and serve your master."
His talons flexed. Not Thu'um—but sorcery—flowed from him. A cold violet flame engulfed the two draugr as they shuddered. Their blue eye-fires flared into deep purple.
They then knelt, not to Alduin, but to Durnehviir.
Interesting.
Alduin turned back to Morokei. "It matters not whether the joor have discovered Skuldafn."
To reach this fortress was no simple task. Paarthurnax was crippled, and the only other dov on the side of the Dovahkiin was Vermithor. The Bronze Fury they called him, a pretentious name for a young wyrm and no threat to Alduin's power.
"For now, prepare. Seek the last priest and bring him here. Otar shall serve once more."
Morokei hesitated.
"And the Eye, great Alduin? The Eye of Magnus remains unused by the mortals. If they wield it—"
Alduin's gaze silenced him. "Then take it."
Simple.
If a weapon existed that could threaten him, it would be his.
Alduin turned as great wings unfurled and he took to the skies beyond Skuldafn.
Alduin could not move yet, for power surged within him differently now.
Once, he could peer through the river of time itself—see branching futures, inevitable threads. That gift had been torn from him long ago.
But something new filled its place. A pressure against the weave of fate.
He felt it when the feast dimmed. When prophecy faltered.
He had long heard the whispers of gods and princes. Their little predictions. Their little certainties. The Lady of Dusk and Dawn had been particularly fond of them—threads of possibility she scattered among mortals like crumbs.
Every prophecy had always found its path.
Until now.
Now he felt the chains that bound events. And he felt how fragile they were.
The Divines, the Princes. They thought fate immutable.
They would learn otherwise.
Alduin stepped to the edge of Skuldafn's highest platform and folded his wings. The wind roared around him, carrying the scent of snow. Far in the distance, blood seeped from the many battles raging across the land.
He closed his eyes.
Power coiled within his vast frame like a second heart.
He would master it.
Then, he would show gods and mortals alike what it meant to defy the World-Eater.
With that thought, Alduin stilled his mind and began to meditate upon his newly regained strength.
…
AN: Alduin's whole morality is just basically, "It's okay if my kin dies, I can always just bring more back. But enslaving them is a problem."
Almost everything about the Feyfolken being the true identity of the Reaper is AU. I was scouring the wiki when I found that particular book, so I just mixed and matched everything and to add a believable tale and lore as to who the Reaper might be. I hope you enjoyed that part.
I know I had people wondering why an axe could match Dawnbreaker blow for blow, well here's the reason why. The axe was no lesser, for the Rueful Axe is a daedric artifact on the same level as Dawnbreaker and the Razor.
With this, Kiera and Alduin's sub-plots have finally finished and I can refocus on the preparations in Shor's Stone. After all, we got a wedding to plan.
More chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 115 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!