Lucianus
“You’re already awake?” whispered the young lad. There was silence amongst the barracks and the sun had not yet risen. The few candles lit created an unsettling spectacle of shadows on the walls. One soldier sat at the edge of his bed watching them as if they were reciting a story, telling him ancient tales. The memories of walls, they are many and never forgotten. The man sat watching, not moving at all. He had not slept but for a moment the entire night, he couldn’t, not knowing what was to take place in the days to come.
“Legate, are you awake?” the lad asked again.
“Do you see me sleeping boy?” muttered Lucianus, his voice was harsh and hoarse, and each word spoken commanded equal respect to the listener. Lucianus stood up and reached down for his belt. As he fastened it along with his sword’s sheath he looked at the lad. “Have they been spotted?” Lucianus inquired.
“Yes Legate, they were a few hours from the shore by midnight, that was the last report we received”, the lad replied, his voice was quiet and sheepish. The boy’s name was Vantus Arsinius. He was barely eighteen years of age, not a boy, but barely a man. His family’s status and name had positioned with the rank of captain, at least that was what Lucianus chose to believe. Valor is what made soldiers, not titles. Nonetheless, here stood this boy in front of him, wearing the armor of men. His skin was white as snow, not painted bronze like a Colovian should be. His arms were as thin and frail as a babe. He had a stutter and often forgot his task only a short while after it had been given to him. In moments of immense pressure his breath grew short and one a few occasions he had fallen unconscious. Nonetheless, here he stood, an officer of the Imperial legion and right-hand to Lucianus Arcadius though much to his displeasure.
After finally dressed Lucianus made his way downstairs with Vantus following after him. “I want the guards of the second shift to rise early so we can have our men rested for when the time comes”, Lucianus ordered, “I will not be unprepared.”
“We will not be unprepared,” he thought silently to himself.
“This is a
diplomatic visit Legate, I hardly think we should be prepared for anything other than a tense conversation”, replied Vantus. The lad knew nothing of what it meant to be a soldier, but politics was something he had an aptitude for. He had spent his early years in the courts, wherein he claimed that words can often be as sharp as a sword’s edge. Lucianus cared little for politics and was a man of few words.
Vantus was still speaking when Lucianus stopped abruptly, barley letting the lad finish his sentence before scolding him behind clenched teeth. “The Dominion has broken over seventy years of silence to have this meeting. Why? I don’t know, nor do I care, and nor should you. Your only concern, my only concern, is that if something
must happen, we will be prepared. Today is
not the day Vantus. It is not the day for your ignorance.” His words cracked like a wipe, yet another scar upon the young captain’s flesh.
Red faced was the young noble, slapped on the wrist by this peasant from the north. He lowered his head and spoke, “yes Legate”. Those words,
“yes Legate”. They had become a dreaded prayer over the years. Lucianus was a legionnaire in every sense of the word, Vantus was not, and Lucianus did not miss a moment to remind him of it. It was the maneuvering of Vantus’ father that paired the two unlikely companions together. Wanting his son to learn to be a proper soldier, his father had reached out to Lucianus to take the boy under his wing. After the
“encouragement” of his superiors, Lucianus finally agreed. A decision he has since regret.
They made their way down the road of the Prison District until they reached the gate of Green Emperor Way. There they were met by a serpent of a man, the emperor’s steward Surus.
“You’re early”, remarked Surus. He was a man who’s appearance beckoned distrust, a politician in his truest form. It was jokingly said that if you listened close enough you could hear the hiss in between his words.
“I am”, replied Lucianus, “what explanation do you have for skulking within the shadows?”
“Apologies Legate, but since when must I explain my habits to you?” Surus responded mockingly. His eyebrows moved like snakes upon his head mimicking the taunting nature of his words. A small grin revealing yellow tinted teeth formed at the edge of his lips.
Stone faced Lucianus replied, “When a rat goes scurrying about the street, it leads a man to wonder why it left its home in the sewers.”
Surus’ grin had disappeared. “Be careful Jerralian, before I must remind you to whom it is you speak”, his teeth bared like a snarling dog.
“Of course Lord Steward, forgive me”, replied Lucianus, the legionnaire was a bold man but not a fool. His words lacked the sincerity Surus was hoping for, but the serpent knew any further antagonizing of the man would be pointless as well as dangerous. Lucianus had learned how far could go with these southerners. He was born a peasant within the Jerall Mountain where he came from a home in shambles, such a man could not talk down to a noble born raised a few streets away from the Imperial Palace. None the less, feared and respected from this low born soldier.
“See to it that the preparations are made”, said Surus as he slithered away fading into the last shadows of the night.
By the time they reached the Guard’s Quarters of the palace, the men were mustered and lined up. Captain Oenomaus waited for them at the forefront of the ranks.
There was a Colovian. His skin coated in a color bronze that in the right light would appear as if gold. He was built muscular, but slender, perfect for a legionnaire. Hair dark as night, cropped low on all sides but the back where a traditional Colovian
warrior’s braid hung. Oenomaus had no second name. Only the high-born of Colovia have two names.
“Legate, we await your command,” roared the lion of a man. Lucianus nodded in approval and Oenomaus joined by his side. The cold morning air had begun to retreat, and the warmth of the day to come descended upon the city. It was the month of Frostfall, but it was always warm in Cyrodiil. It was said Tiber Septim had brought the cold of the north with him during his conquest of the continent, Lucianus had never seen proof of it. The heat never suited the legate. He was born in the mountains of Jerall, the cold is what he knew and preferred. Trying to ignore the heat he looked over the men who’d be present at today’s meeting. There were near seventy of them, the best that could be spared. “The sentries on the walls?” questioned the legate, never taking his eyes off his men.
“Set to task Legate,” replied Oenomaus. Again Lucianus nodded in approval. He trusted the Colovian, he was one of the few that could be said about.
As the three officers continued to inspect the soldiers with thoughts of the day to come, a courier came forward towards young Vantus. He leaned in close, as if to whisper, and spoke into the captain’s ear. Vantus’ eyes widened and you could see his breath quicken with the beat of his heart. He looked up towards Lucianus, paler than usual. “They have reached the outer gates,” he reported. With a heavy breath Lucianus looked back upon his men. After a final gaze he turned toward Oenomaus. “See them to their proper positions, as well as yourself,” he commanded. “Yes legate”, Oenomaus obeyed.
Without pause or another word Lucianus turned away and began walking towards the main gates of the city with Vantus trailing after him. The walk seemed to take hours, but there it was. The Gates of the City were small, but not without purpose. If ever the city came under siege and the battlements could be maintained, the only way in would be through that narrow gate, funneling in the enemy to their doom. Ancient iron coated the door, the emblem of the Septim dynasty emblazoned upon it. The Septims were gone though their legacy remained, and the Mede had kept the dragon’s emblem as their own. Lucianus gazed upon the battlements, the men mustering to position. He remembered the first time he had set eyes upon the magnificence of the city, it’s high stone walls, strong enough to withstand, or at least he hoped.
“Now more than ever”, the northerner thought to himself. He did not trust the elves, if you break seventy years of silence it means you have
something to say.
The legate fell into position with his officers behind the emperor’s generals. Surus soon joined them with the emperor himself, with a long entourage of noble men and politicians, including the elder council. Titus Mede II was no boy, but still young. His skin a dark gold and his hair shined in the morning light like ebony. He wore his armor, boiled leather, crimson and gold, with gilded cuffs and studded boots.
“Wise”, thought Lucianus.
Surus stood at his right side as steward. At his left stood Thoren Sword-Storm, Grandmaster of the Blades. Despite all his glory the emperor stood a dwarf to the mountain of a man. The Blades were the personal guards of the emperor during the Septim dynasty. After the Oblivion Crisis the ancient order found themselves without a purpose, though still kept to their ways, hiding in their temples as Cyrodiil tore itself apart. When the Mede family took the city and the empire with it, the Blades offered their swords once more to an emperor, vowing to protect and serve them on their life’s honor. Eight others of their order fell in behind the emperor with four others in front. The ensemble made a fine spectacle. This was the strength of the empire.
Surus stepped forward to speak, but before he could the emperor roared. “Open the gate”, his voice was thunderous and calm. With a creek the ancient doors opened and in they came with streaming banners and an array of gold and ebony. Lucianus counted thirty, not including the wood elf that didn’t stray far from the emissary’s side. The diplomat himself was a beauty to behold. The high elves were known for their beauty. He recalled once a man telling him they kept their bloodlines pure for thousands of years, that laying with another race was punishable by death in the Summerset Islands. The Jerralian did not know about all of that, but he believed in their beauty, he beheld there and then.
The high elf wore robes of soft silk over boiled leather, a fine ebony color, studded with gold. His cape black with gold underneath with the wings of a soaring eagle threaded onto its back. He wore no jewelry and his hair flowed free like white river falls upon his shoulders, though his face was clean shaven His eyes burned fiery orange. He came out from his wall of guards, every step with grace. His wood elf was never but a foot behind him, himself a sight to behold. Golden rings pierced the entire length of his ears, and wide cylinder golden studs filled both his nostrils, stretching them wide. His face and arms, and surely his body as well, were decorated with ash tattoos. He did not wear armor, only a jerkin of boiled leather and pants of thick black wool, with thick wrapped wrist cuffs that came up to his forearms. He eyed the ensemble suspiciously.
“I come in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion as first emissary to the Empire of Cyrodiil and all its glory,” declared the high elf as he walked forward, “we are honored that you’d receive us yourself Emperor Titus.” The elf was not without his courtesies.
“It is our honor to welcome you,” said Emperor Titus. By that time the entire caravan had entered into the city. There were ten more guards that had followed behind, along with near as many servants. The door was narrow, so the emissary’s carriage was left outside, though small carts of full of chests and others supplies had been brought in pulled by hand.
“If you’d honor me more and walk with me as your things are brought to the palace”, the emperor said.
“The honor is ours your eminence”, replied the Altmer. So many false courtesies. They spoke of honor yet their eyes measured one another suspiciously, threateningly. The elf fell in beside the emperor and they began to speak, though Lucianus was too far to hear of what they spoke, nor did he care. The Blades fell behind the entourage at the right, while the wood elf led a column of the elven guard at the left.
After a moment Lucianus fell out from the ranks of his superiors and his officers followed after him. The emperor’s entourage would take the long road, giving the servants and the Lucianus’ men time to prepare.
“Only forty”, thought Lucianus,
“and the wood elf”. He did not like how the Bosmer’s eyes studied the battlements. No one knew what the Dominion wanted, why they had ended nearly seventy years of silence and isolation for this visit. They had heard the stories, the rumors of “cleansings” in Valenwood, and all knew of the Night of Green Fire. None of that mattered now. They were neither in Valenwood nor Sentinel. They were here, in
this city, and that’s what mattered.
Taking the back roads they reached the palace well before the emperor and his guests. The emperor would receive them in the throne room. The council chambers would give all on the Elder Council a voice. Right now the empire needed one voice, and it must be strong. The men he had surveyed earlier were in position, fifty of them stationed within the main hall of the throne room, while the other twenty stood in the upper rafters. The Blades would cover the emperor from his throne, at least Lucianus had hoped. The Ruby Throne stood in its own magnificence. Carved of ancient stones, emblazoned with dark metals and dragon-bone, and studded with rubies. Any who sat upon it wielded the power of an entire continent, or at least that had been how it was before. Now it was a the seat of a broken empire, far from its days of glory.
Somehow Lucianus knew that, but he tried not to think of it. He had bled for this throne, for the dynasty that now claimed it as their own. The reign of the Mede did not come without opposition. Competing warlords in Colovia continued to oppose the great house of Mede and their claim to the throne for years. As well there were the many noble houses within the heart of Cyrodiil, and the Imperial City itself, that considered their own as having greater claim then these
barbarians from the west. Since the time of Titus Mede I civil war had engulfed the country. It was in this civil strife and war that Lucianus was baptized in blood and born a legionnaire.
“The legion is your family”, Lucianus would remind himself in his moments of doubt. Nothing else mattered, he had bled for the throne, and he would die for the throne.
The pillars within the hall provided an area for guests and onlookers to gather and watch the proceedings. It was full of noble men, high borns of Cyrodiil, but might and small. Lucianus and his officers fell in closer to the throne to the right. The throne was positioned upon seven stone wide steps, two Blades would stand on each at both sides, providing any would be assassin with a difficult climb. As the voices and footsteps grew louder Lucianus looked over his men once more before everything began. He thought back on his conversation with Vantus that morning.
“This is a diplomatic visit”, he thought to himself, praying the boy was right.
The Blades fell into position as did the rest of the nobles and generals as the emperor ascended the steps to his throne. The Altmer stood a few feet away from the steps while his guard formed two columns at both sides, Lucianus didn’t like that. The wood elf stood between them, still, eyes gazing up toward the rafters. Lucianus disliked that even more.
Surus had slithered his way to the right side of the throne, remaining standing. Grandmaster Thoren remained below the steps to the left of the throne. The rest of his guard had formed up behind them all. For a moment there was silence, and then a strong voice spoke. “As I said before on the walk here my lord Arathnor, the empire understands the elven desire for autonomy”, he began, “but history as shown us, this lands prospers only when united, when we transcend our own selfish desires and begin looking at the greater good of the continent.”
“It is the greater good of our people to die with your empire”, replied the elf, whatever courtesies he had shown at the gates had all fled and there was little politeness to be found in his tone.
“You ask for more than life without an empire”, replied Titus sternly.
“I would ask for even more”, the emissaries voice grew cold and there was an uneasiness spreading throughout the room. Whatever talk was had on the road had obviously quickly gone sour.
“This is a diplomatic visit, not a negotiation”, Titus called down upon the elf.
The Altmer adjusted his robes and the expression on his face alluded that he’d realized where exactly he was. He stood before an emperor upon his throne with the entirety of his court and military power at his side, this was not the place to be bold. “Emperor Titus, I must apologize”, he began, “it has been some time since the races of man and mer have come to talk together of our futures. I allowed my passions to overcome me.”
Titus seemed to calm down himself, he shifted in his seat and for a moment there was silence. The warlord’s son was thinking.
“Wise”, thought Lucianus. Finally he spoke, “we are not mortal if passion does not overcome us from time to time. What you’ve asked of us, these tributes, these honors, we cannot grant and still call ourselves the Empire of Tamriel.” He looked down, placing his hand upon the arm of the ancient stone chair. “This throne my lord, it carved strong, just as Tiber Septim carved an empire out of this continent centuries ago. It’s strong because it remains, bound to the rock from which it was carved. The same is so for this empire. The Oblivion Crisis weakened us all, yet we are still whole, we are still strong.”
“You’re indeed….a master of words”, the Altmer spoke with his head down. Taking a few steps, he stopped, and looked up toward the emperor. “You speak of strength, of stones unturned my good emperor. Yet this stone was carved by the hands of my people. This continent was made by the hands of the gods for the races of mer.” He was calm, but his tone grew cold once again. Lucianus noticed one of the servants who’d came in with the Dominion’s emissary. He pushed a large cart covered in black wool up the hall. He didn’t like that most of all.
“Stones….
we are the stones of this land!” roared the elf. “You and your kind were but the foul tide that washed upon its shore, beating upon our stone flesh, but the tides always recede and the stone remains.” There was muttering all throughout the hall, Grandmaster Thoren shifted and looked toward the emperor with a look of unease. Even Surus looked to be shaking and nervous. He heard Vantus breathing heavier behind him, Oenomaus however was still silent. The emperor himself had a look of confusion and shock, desperately trying to find the words he must speak. Before he could the elf continued. “As I said Emperor Titus, we’d ask for more. You
will pay us tribute. Hammerfell will do. The southern coast and Stros M’kai.
“Have you lost your mind elf”, said one of the Elder Council. Others shouted in agreement and yelled taunts. The muttering within the hall grew louder on all sides. Lucianus watched as the elven guard shifted uneasily. The Bosmer paced between their columns.
“I have not finished”, the Altmer declared. “The Dominion as well demands a band on the heresy of your empire and no doubt one of the reasons for its ruin. The worship of Talos and its orders are to be outlawed and disbanded.” His eyes set upon Grandmaster Thoren, “this includes the disbandment of the Order of the Blades.”
The old Nord said nothing staring hard at the elf. The emperor remained speechless for a time until finally the hall grew loud will shouts and insults. “Enough!” yelled the Emperor, his voice thundered through the hall. He stood and took a single step forward. Staring down on the elf he spoke, “is this a joke elf, or have you truly lost your sanity. You’d demand that I cede half of Hammerfell, ban the faith of thousands, and disband my own guard? Have you forgotten where you are? Who I am? I am Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, its protector and lord.”
“I warn you Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, if you do not heed my word and these tributes are not met, you will be the protector of ruins and the lord of bones”, the Altmer spoke in nearly a whisper. The entire hall had grown hush. Even the emperor had seemed taken aback. A smile crept across the elf’s face and with mocking politeness he spoke again, “Forgive me my Emperor, I’ve seemed to have forgotten my courtesies once again. I’ve even forgotten….I’ve come bearing gifts”. He stepped aside so his servant would push the cart in front of the throne. Lucianus had not seen him push it up the hall. The servant stepped aside as the emissary placed his hand upon the side of the cart. “I will ask you once more, will you pay these tributes.”
Emperor Titus glared at the elf, and then at his court. He stared at every face. Was he looking for an answer, from someone, anyone? His generals and Elder Council had rushed to the steps of the throne, whispering, pleading with him, though Lucianus could not hear them. “That’s enough”, said the emperor dismissing his council, this time calmer. The generals stepped back aside and the Elder Council back to their positions. The emperor stepped forward another step and once more stared down upon the elf. “No”, was his reply.
“So be it”, said the elf. With all his strength and with a single hand he upended the cart. The black wool flew off and nearly a hundred heads rolled out scattering in front of the throne's steps. Gasps and screams of terror filled the hall. A noble woman in the back fainted. Some others began to vomit at the sight of the Dominion’s gift. It was Grandmaster Thoren who first stepped forward, kneeling down to inspect on one the heads. “You elven bastard”, there was a look of both rage and horror on his face, “Loken, he was the archivist in Valenwood. A gentle old man, you bastard!”
“I’m sure you will find many of your friends in there Nord”, the elf said smiling cruelly.
Thoren unsheathed his sword and his men with him. The wood elf already had out his bow and an arrow drawn and readied, he leapt in front of his master and aimed at the old Nord. The columns of the elven guard had drawn their swords and formed a shield wall on both sides and behind the emissary and his Bosmer. Lucianus and his officers quickly stepped forward. “Swords”, shouted Oenomaus and then came the sound of fifty men bringing their blades to life. In the rafters the twenty others had drawn their bows, the elven shield wall would be useless against them. The emperor was staring down upon the heads, saying nothing.
“I am an emissary, a messenger, by all laws I am protected”, declared the elf.
The emperor looked up, rage burned in his eyes. “Laws?” he began, stepping down a step. “My ancestors claimed the throne through blood and steel”, he had stepped down another step, “for over a hundred years all the warlords of Colovia and Eastern Hammerfell challenged us”, and he climbed down another, the elf shifted uneasily. “We held the throne, we held this city, and we held this empire”, he climbed down until he had finally reached the ground amongst the sea of severed heads. “Now you’ve come here, after seventy years. You demand us to give up our lands and to abandon our gods?” He stood in front of the Altmer, with only the wood elf between them. They stared at each other, searching the other’s eyes for any hint of their next action.
“Now you speak of laws? I….AM….THE LAW!” he yelled, and then drew his sword. The Bosmer pulled back his bow and let his arrow loose, but the old Nord Thoren was fast. The arrow grazed the Titus’ shoulder and Thoren’s sword cut through the hard wooden bow and split open the wood elf’s flesh. He fell and a pool of blood flowed from beneath him. Time slowed down, and Lucianus gave the command. “Attack!” he shouted and led his officers against the right column. His men engulfed the elven shield wall while noble men and the Elder Council fled from the hall, screaming and wailing. Lucianus looked over to see the Emperor himself blocking a messy strike from the elven emissary before running him through. One of the elven guard broke from the shield wall and took a run at Lucianus, he dodged the first strike and shoved his blade through the elf’s underarm. Slowly the shield wall closed in on itself as Lucianus’ men and the Blades pushed them in.
Within minutes it was over. Elven blood covered the floor of the hall and only three of their own laid dead. The emissary lay atop of his wood elf. His eyes that once seemed to burn like fire now looked a dull orange. The men caught their breath and the emperor sat upon the steps of his throne, his shoulder bleeding from where the arrow clipped him. Thoren stood over him, and Surus coward muttering by the thrown. Vantus was off to the side trying to catch his breath. Oenomaus stood silent over the corpse of one of the elven guard, he wiped off his sword before sheaving it. He and Lucianus exchanged a look. They both knew what this meant. There were to be no cries of victory. There was no glory in this bloodshed. This was only the rain before the storm.
