Chapter Text
Celia saw the Count’s horse career down the slope along the road to Bruma. He turned and looked back; his laughter cut through the icy darkness that had fallen at last. Ghost chased him all the way to the city. Janus stopped his horse at a corner of the massive walls and gestured for her to halt beside him. His gaze briefly met hers before his attention shifted to the events ahead.
“Soldiers of Cyrodiil!” Martin called across the plain, and a hush fell over the troops. “The Empire will stand or fall by what we do here today!” he continued, and the hairs at the back of Celia’s neck rose, goosebumps prickling her skin. “Will we let the Daedra do to Bruma what they attempted to do to Kvatch? Will we let them burn our homes? Will we let them kill our families? No!” A roar rose from the warriors’ ranks. Celia peeked around the corner and caught Martin slowly walking the line of the troops; proud and regal, he looked like the Emperor he would become. “We make our stand here, today, for the whole of Cyrodiil!” Her lips moved with his familiar words, which she had heard innumerable times in all of her walkthroughs, enough to recite them by heart. “You must hold fast until the Blades and I can destroy their Great Gate. You must kill whatever comes out of that gate! Soldiers of Cyrodiil! Do you stand with me?”
Another roar rose, and the warriors lifted their weapons to signal their allegiance. At that moment, a rumble shook the earth, and a massive wound ripped the veil between Mundus and Oblivion open, flames blazing around the gate, scorching the ground beneath it. Dremora and Xivilai, Daedroth, Clannfear, and Spider Daedra emerged from the gate, surging towards the troops, who awaited them with battle cries. Archers shot a round into the oncoming foes as a garrison prepared for the clash. Another tight formation moved to flank the chaotic attack of the Daedric forces. More and more creatures poured from the gate, and Celia’s blood ran cold when gigantic Storm Atronachs emerged. Arrows pierced the air and felled the foes before they could reach the first row of the defence. The game was nothing like this. It could not convey the sheer force of the Daedric tide, the grim determination of mer and men, to withstand them and send them back to Oblivion. Mages cast fireballs, frost shards, and lightning bolts at the oncoming wave. Archers shot arrows rippling with enchantments relentlessly while swords stunned on strike, cut through manifested Daedric flesh. Shrieks and cries filled the air, roars and growls rumbling through the rows of attackers and defenders alike.
The Count’s horse beside her reared in terror. It bolted away when Janus dismounted in a fluid motion. Celia bent forward and hissed into Ghost’s ear: “Don’t engage! Please don’t engage! There's too much chaos; too many arrows, too many warriors, too many spells to tell friend and foe apart. Promise me you won’t engage.”
He snorted and threw his head. Cautiously she slid out of the saddle, gripping his reins tightly. Janus stood before her horse, looking at him intently, stroking his muzzle. “Listen to your lady, proud steed,” he said in a soothing tone. Oi, did he just use his Vampire Seduction on her mount? “Stand back, wait for her here. She will surely need you. Don’t break her heart again.”
Ghost whined, but he lowered his head and nudged her. “You are my best friend. Don’t do anything rash. I need you,” she whispered in his ear, and kissed his muzzle. He turned and retreated as though compelled. Her gaze met Janus’s, who smiled at her. She couldn’t be upset with him, not if he used his powers to keep her friend safe.
“Let’s find your priest,” he said, unsheathing his sword. “The Blades will shield him. He is a mage, after all, and mages fight from the second line.” She nodded stiffly, pressing her lips tightly together. He turned and looked around as if planning a path through the chaos. “Stay close!”
They wove amongst the lines of warriors, Celia’s dagger ready in her hand. She tightened her grip on the wrapped spear as they started forward. The artefact knocked against her thigh with every step, surprisingly light, yet awkward and obstructive, a grim reminder that she could not unwrap it in the chaos here. Her gaze flicked around, her mouth hanging open when she spotted the mages from the Bruma Mages Guild, casting destruction and restoration spells, buffing and healing allies, throwing enemies back, scorching, freezing, and stunning them. Wait, was this elderly man in greyish-blue robes Hannibal Traven? Was the whole Mages Guild here? So, they had all come to fight the Daedric invasion. Was the Fighters Guild here too? From a role player’s point of view, she had always wondered if the Cyrodiilic factions would support the defence in a dire situation like this.
“Celia!” Janus called, snapping her attention back to him. He pointed ahead. “There!”
Her gaze fell on the mage in the Emperor’s armour, casting golden spells on the Blades surrounding him, unleashing an icy carpet that rolled forward and froze a wave of Daedra in their tracks. Immediately the Blades slew them, a round of arrows slicing through the air. She stood there, stunned in awe at his display of formidable magic. Another rumble proclaimed the next Oblivion Gate. It split open near them, ripping a surprised scream from her lungs when a Scamp jumped at them. Janus slashed through its head in one fluid motion, then pushed her back.
“Hurry forward,” he yelled. “I’ll help stop this wave.”
Her eyes widened in horror when more beasts poured from the wound, and she stumbled backwards, bumped into someone, and was shoved away. One hand clutching the wrapped Spear of Bitter Mercy, which kept snagging at her movements, she caught herself before she went down. When she turned back, she saw Janus wielding his sword in an elegant, deadly dance, slicing and stabbing beasts the moment they stepped through the portal. A spell hit her out of nowhere but rippled from her like a spray of cold water as the Savior’s Hide resisted the magic.
“Die, mortal!”
She spun, pushing her dagger forward, but met empty air as the bulky Xivilai was crushed under the impact of a massive warhammer as a booming laugh echoed in her ears. Already the Orc in heavy Orcish armour threw himself at another wave of Dremora, spun his hammer, and buried them all with a sickening crunch. Was that…? She shook her head, ducked under a spray of arrows when suddenly a Spiderling jumped before her, the forelegs raised, and spat some red spell at her. It, too, fell off her in a cold ripple. The summoned beast vanished with a soft plop when its master had been slain. Celia clutched the artefact tighter and ran. Frantically, she looked around until a golden sphere that enveloped a group of Blades caught her attention. There he was, Martin, casting spell after spell, never slowing down, his expression set in calm determination. Just when she started towards him, another rumble tore through the veil. The earth split beneath her feet and scorching flames enveloped her, dissolving in a cold spray as the Savior’s Hide absorbed the magic that would have burned her alive.
Suddenly, an iron arm wound around her and pulled her back from the gate. A dark figure swooped before her, slashing her dagger at creatures half-emerged from the realm beyond. The firm embrace tucked her against a hard body. Wide-eyed, she tilted her head and met the slitted gaze of the male Shadowscale, who yanked her back while his sister covered their retreat.
“What are you doing here, daughter of Sithis?” he rumbled as he pulled her further from the gate and thus from her target: Martin. “Revelling in the slaughter? Drawing power from the sheer chaos of it all?”
“Let me go! I need to get to Martin!” she yelled, desperately wiggling in his grasp.
“The Speaker told us to protect you. So we do. The gate almost crushed you.”
She barely had time to answer before a silken, amused tone drifted in from her right. “Ah, such carnage. Isn’t it glorious?” the smooth voice echoed beside her; when she whipped her head to the right, she stared into the uncanny, bloodshot, pale eyes of a vampire. He flashed his fangs in a smile. “And I believe I saw my kin slaying Daedra as befits the predator he is. He has already claimed more foes than Gogron. Our brother will not like to hear that.”
“Don’t scare the lady, Vicente,” came a velvety-smooth voice from her other side. “She does not care for bloodshed yet. But she might revel in the chaos soon.”
“Lucien!” she gasped, wiggling in the firm grip of the Argonian assassin to no avail. “I must get to Martin.”
“Such loyalty. But I fear he is not within reach. Daedra surround him on three sides, and the Great Gate will open soon.” The blood froze in her veins at his words, and she stared at him in shock. He stood casually, too calm for the chaos around them, a sneer curving his lips. “He will attempt to fight his way through the oncoming wave to enter it, but…” he trailed off and shook his head. “It is not called a Great Gate for nothing.”
“What are you trying to say?” she gasped.
“Mehrunes Dagon knows his nemesis is here, and he will unleash his forces upon him. Your priest won’t stand a chance,” he replied sharply, and met her gaze with pity in his eyes.
Heat washed the cold from her veins, coiling up her spine. A dark, menacing rumble shook the ground, before it split open another wound in the veil, tall and wide, majestic in its sheer size. She could see the gigantic Siege Engine beyond the flames, slowly advancing towards the entrance to this realm. Daedra came rushing through, leaping at the soldiers in the rear. Anger boiled in her core, hot and seething, as pressure strung her taut, pulsing painfully behind her eyes.
“You will never reach him in time,” Lucien purred into her ear.
“No,” she hissed, eyes locked on the gate where she imagined Mehrunes Dagon sneering beyond the flames. Rage rushed through her body in an unbearable wave of heat and pressure, threatening to rip her apart. Her gaze fixed on the weapon slowly crawling closer. A golden aura flared at the corner of her vision. She stopped breathing and opened her mouth.
“Yes!” Lucien sighed beside her, his tone thick with dark delight. “Unleash it upon the gate. Show them whom they dare to oppose, and save the priest, daughter of Sithis.”
A scream tore from her lungs, pressure bursting from her in a violent blast. Her vision blurred the gate to an orange whirl of fire. She filled her scream with all the rage roaring inside her, at Mehrunes Dagon, at the Mythic Dawn, at Martin for banning her from this quest, at Lucien Lachance, the manipulative bastard, for poking into her fear deliberately to fuel her chaos. The iron grip around her waist vanished, the sounds of battle died.
“Celia!” a familiar voice cut through the roar of her wrath, accusing and soothing alike.
She blinked and looked around. The flames of the gates were frozen, the Daedra and the warriors stopped mid-action, the Siege Engine halted in its tracks. Her gaze caught the Orc holding his warhammer at an angle impossible to maintain; a frost shard lodged in the chest of a Xivilai who hung mid-fall. Time had stopped. She turned and found Martin standing surrounded by Blades, an exasperated, deeply troubled look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Changing the script, obviously,” she replied, her voice hoarse from the scream.
“I told you to stay in Cloud Ruler Temple,” he said, already moving towards her.
She whirled around, taking in the frozen battle, the assassins beside her lying flat on the ground. Then she squinted at the gate, but she couldn’t make out any movement. Was that possible? Had they… “No time to argue now,” she said, and set out towards the gate. “We must move!”
“Celia!” he called after her.
“Quickly, before they move again. We must secure the Great Sigil Stone while time is frozen.” Martin looked around in confusion. “Come on!” At the gate, she ripped the linen wraps from the Spear of Bitter Mercy. “Keep your distance. I’m not sure I can wield this weapon,” she told Martin when he reached her side.
They stared at each other, eyes wide, then entered the gate, where the Siege Engine had stopped in the lava stream. Acrid air filled their noses, making them cough. Unmoving Dremora lined the edge of a bridge above the war machine, as though they had secured its path.
“The tower there!” she called and pointed at one of the spikes to their left.
They ran past Scamps and Clannfear, pried open the rounded door with a glowing Oblivion rune, granting them access to the gruesome Corpse Masher at its base. She yanked Martin onto the platform with her. It carried them past burning corpses suspended upside down from the top, mutilated beyond recognition.
“Reward for the faithful,” she whispered as Martin gazed around with horror. “Come!”
They raced up the tower, finding several Dremora frozen at the top. She brushed the spear against them, watching in awe as the otherworldly creatures crumpled to the floor. Oi, this came in handy. A single touch with the five-peaked top would prevent them from following if time started flowing again. They exited onto a bridge, leading to another tower. More Dremora waited there, frozen in time. Clumsily she swung the spear, felling them on strike. They ran along the bridge, the artefact brushing Dremora after Dremora, who collapsed instantly. Then came the gap. Oi, they had to leap over it. But she could not jump with the weapon in her grasp. Without another thought, she tossed it over the gap. It clattered on the other side and lay still, waiting for her to follow.
“Celia!” Martin held her back, handed her a potion. “It will fortify your agility,” he explained and gestured her to gulp it down.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ve got another one. Drink!”
They emptied the vials, looked at each other for a split second, then rushed forward, jumping over the gap in a mighty leap. Celia gasped when she landed and stumbled. Martin steadied her and gestured wordlessly at the spear, and she lifted it off the ground.
“We must enter the tower up there and pull the lever inside,” she explained, pointing towards the spike to their left. “It will open the gate to the Sigil Keep. Then it is up the corridors until we reach the top in the Sigillum Sanguis.”
“I believe the gate will not move as it is just as stuck in halted time as the Siege Engine,” Martin said with a frown.
“Then we will pry it open enough that we can slip through,” she replied. “Let’s keep moving. I want to leave the Deadlands as quickly as possible.”
They followed the path as she’d described, and she slew the Daedra on the way. The lever resisted their pull, but with combined strength they pushed it down and returned to the gate, which had not moved an inch. Its hinges loosened; it could not block the way for long.
“By Akatosh!” Martin gasped when they stepped into the main tower, where the fiery spiral surged up.
It looked weird frozen in its swirl. The silence surrounding them made Celia’s hackles rise. Without another word they slipped through the next door and headed up the corridor, their steps echoing up the hallways. At the top she held Martin back before he could rush forth. She gestured up at the massive blades meant to crush any intruders. He nodded and cautiously stepped forward. The trap was stuck in time, just like everything else. Celia didn’t dare to wonder how this had happened. She would roll with the unexpected advantage. When they entered the Citadel again on the higher balcony, the spiral in its centre sprang to life.
“Damn!” Celia cursed. “The spell is broken! Hurry!”
“You!” a raspy voice roared, echoing around them. “You dare enter my realm again!”
“Run!” she yelled, and they sprinted up the next ascent.
A Dremora Kynreeve charged at them, summoning a Scamp. Martin threw a frost spell at master and beast, and Celia stabbed forward, killing the foe on strike again. The Scamp vanished in a soft plop, like the Spiderling before. She knelt and retrieved the key from the Dremora’s corpse. With shaking hands, she unlocked the door, which sprang open for them, granting access to the Sigillum Sanguis. More Daedra rushed them, but Martin stunned them in an icy carpet of frost and Celia killed them with a touch from her spear. They made it up the spiked stairs and the Dragon wing slope leading to the Sigil Stone, paralysing and slaying Mehrunes Dagon’s servants on their way.
“You cannot take the Great Sigil Stone!” the Daedric Prince spat. “It will burn you, swallow you whole, and send your soul right to me at a touch!”
“But I will not touch it, moron!” she yelled, swung the Spear of Bitter Mercy, and brought it down on the anchor of the burning black orb.
A deep rumble drowned out Mehrunes Dagon’s roar of rage; the fiery spiral blazed, a blinding light flared, and the spear slipped from her grasp. The Deadlands collapsed around them in a deafening quake. Arms yanked her against hard metal when the floor beneath her feet disappeared.
“Akatosh help us!” Martin called.
With a blast, the Deadlands vanished; the mighty Siege Engine crashed before their feet, metal pieces clattering to the ground, a weight bumping against her ankle. Then silence fell. Celia blinked in confusion. Green aurorae glowed in the dark night sky, and thousands of armoured soldiers stared at them, eyes wide. She looked down, found a black ball at her feet. Cautiously, she bent forward, stretching out her hand to gauge the heat rising from the still-smoking surface. The pad of her fingers slipped over a smooth shell, warm and slightly pulsing. With a sigh of relief she lifted it off the ground.
“The Hero of Kvatch closed the Great Oblivion Gate!” Martin called beside her over the deathly still battlefield. “We have emerged from this battle victorious!”
For a second, the scene remained frozen; only the crisp wind whistled through the valley. Then voices swelled into a wave of a thousand cheers that swept over the plains and echoed back from the mountains, sending a shiver down her spine.
“There they celebrate the daughter of Sithis, harbinger of chaos and change, as though she hadn’t taunted a Daedric Prince in her wake.”
“Fuck off, Barbas,” she murmured through clenched teeth as tears rolled down her cheek.