4E 202, Battlefield outside of Labyrinthian
Gerron Ironbreaker
He panted—truly panted—for the first time in years.
The battle had lasted less than three hours, but the running across battlefields, fighting non-stop against creatures with incredible power, and the weight of leadership on his shoulders made those hours feel like days.
Even someone with Gerron's formidable endurance was beginning to fray at the edges. His lungs burned. His arms felt heavy. The rain only made him more aware of how thoroughly he'd been pushed.
Serana staggered beside him, her eyes losing the bright shine when she utilized Meridia's power. Her knees weakened, and she would have fallen if Gerron hadn't caught her in time.
"Are you alright?" he asked, steadying her. The first drops of drizzle clung to her raven-black hair, plastering it to her pale face.
She managed a tired smile. "Yeah… I'm okay."
"I'm also fine, in case anyone cares," Isran grunted from where he'd slumped onto the ground. His breath came in harsh, ragged pulls. His wounds weren't closing, and exhaustion showed in every line of his posture.
Gerron only chuckled, gently lowering Serana to sit on a patch of relatively unbroken ground.
The fight with Harkon had been the centerpiece of the battlefield. A whole spectacle that was witnessed by every soldier still standing. It had rippled through the chaos like a tidal wave.
And the moment Harkon died, the effect was immediate.
Every vampire across the field faltered. Hundreds of enthralled thralls collapsed on the spot as if their strings had been severed. The nightspawn army fractured.
Meanwhile, the forces of Skyrim surged.
Vilkas's rallying cry thundered from the ridge as he clashed with a red-haired Dunmer vampire—Garan Marethi, one of Harkon's most loyal servants, exactly as Serana had once described.
The two warriors traded blows with brutal speed. Marethi unleashed a point-blank roar of flame, but Vilkas raised Wuuthrad to shield himself, the ancient axe drank the spell as if it were no more than candle fire.
With a quick pivot, Vilkas swung and scored a massive cut along Garan's chest. The wound refused to heal, the weapon of Ysgramor enchanted to pass through such hurdles.
An instant later, Vilkas took his head.
Marethi's body dropped. His severed head thumped wetly against the earth.
The vampire army broke entirely.
A quick rout swept through the vampire's ranks as panic surged through their number. They began retreating, scattering across the mountains. Dawnguard rangers shot down the ones they could reach, but most flickered away at vampiric speed.
A roar of victory erupted from the soldiers of Skyrim—raw, exhausted, desperate, triumphant.
Two fields were secure. But one more still raged on.
The Mythic Dawn fought farther up the mountain, and deep within Labyrinthian, Kiera, Savos Aren, and Karliah were facing their own unknown horrors.
Gerron forced himself upright just as the ground trembled beneath him.
His gaze snapped toward the sound.
Aela, in her massive silver wolf form, plummeted from the mountainside like a falling star. She hit the ground hard enough to crater it, crushing a cluster of Dremora beneath her immense weight. But the impact left her exposed. She was behind enemy lines, prone, surrounded.
She shifted back into her human self, unconscious. In her arms, a terrified Dunmer woman gasped, staring at the closing ring of Daedra.
"Aela!" Farkas' screamed as he and Vilkas started to rush to that side of the battlefield.
Before they could reach her, lightning cracked the sky.
Vermithor dove out of the storm, his scales covered in wounds. A beam of lightning left his maw that scorched a path through the Dremora ranks before the dragon swooped low, seized both Aela and the Dunmer woman in his talons, and surged back into the air.
The Daedra shrieked in fury as their prey were taken away, that is until a massive rumble came from the western mountains.
Purple light surged from the western ridges as Oblivion Gates began collapsing, one after another.
People started appearing on the ridge, men and women with the blue and brown robes of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Keeper Carcette stood at the front, Vigilant Tolan beside her, and Captain Aldis at her flank.
"We closed the Oblivion Gates!" Carcette's voice boomed across the valley, augmented by alteration magic. "Men and women of Skyrim, do not give in! Keep fighting!"
Gerron laughed. He had wondered when the reinforcements from the Vigilants were coming. It seems they were more prudent in the way that they chose to close the Oblivion Gates instead.
A wave of emotions rippled through the Dremora ranks. Frustration, rage, disbelief, all audible in their inhuman shrieks.
Legate Taurinus chose that moment to strike.
His cohort slammed into the Daedra lines with brutal force, shattering what little organization they had left.
"Charge men! Finish off the last of these beasts!"
Up on the ridge, Mankar Camoran appeared. He looked pale and injured, leaning on one of his cultists. His eyes swept the battlefield, searching for something desperately. For what, Gerron couldn't tell.
Whatever it was, he didn't find it. His face was set into a fierce scowl as a hiss of frustration left his mouth.
With a slow turn, Mankar retreated with the remnants of the Mythic Dawn, vanishing back into the cliffs.
It only took another four minutes for the remaining dremora to be cleared off the field. The Legions, Dawnguard, Companions, and Vigilants unleashed one coordinated charge.
When it was done, a sudden stillness choked the battlefield. Until the first soldier slumped to their knees and let out a cheer.
What followed after was a wave of relief and respite. Some soldiers cried. Some laughed. Others simply sat in shock, staring at their bloodied hands.
Officers of the legion shouted orders as they began recovery efforts. Triage teams rushed out of the camps as they distributed water to the living. Stretcher bearers were led to the wounded.
Priests and mage-healers sprinted from corpse to corpse, searching for signs of life.
Gerron stood silently amid the aftermath, rain cooling the sweat on his brow.
At last—finally—he exhaled a long, relieved breath.
The war, at least this part of it, was ending.
…
4E 202, Skuldafn
Alduin
Alduin let out a rumble as he could feel his strength returning slowly, but surely.
Across the expanse of Tamriel, dragons roared and the earth trembled beneath their fury. Alduin heard it all; every scream, every shattering ruin, every final breath ripped from the weak mortals who infested the world that should have belonged to dov.
Each soul harvested filled him with strength. But it felt like a droplet, filling him slowly when what he needed were oceans.
It had taken centuries for him to rise to his primordial might, to wield the Thu'um with such terrible precision he could unmake mountains with a whisper.
And now, after his forced return, he clawed back power scrap by scrap, forced to feed on the feeble spirits of a diminished age.
His current strength barely passed the minimum level needed to be considered a Kruziik. He knew Odahviing, the only Kruziik in his employ, shared his frustrations.
A growl built at the back of his throat. Not of pain, but insult.
In this era, even the strongest warriors barely possessed the sheen of a true soul. Compared to the Nords who once hurled him through time, today's mortals were but whelps. Their magicka was thin, the very air diluted. Nirn felt weaker.
What happened to the horrendous magical might they once wielded? The immense physical strength they once boasted?
It was pathetic. Crippled.
That was the truth of what happened in the centuries of time he had travelled.
Alduin never entertained the notion that men had grown complacent. Such an absurdity was beneath consideration.
No, he understood the truth only after the surge. That colossal flare of magicka days ago, erupting from the ruins the mortals now called Labyrinthian.
Like a dying god gasping a final breath.
He had sent Vokun and Volsung to retrieve the source. When the presence of a stronger priest stirred from the depths, a priest whose power was only second to Konahrik herself, Alduin dispatched Krosis as well.
Only fools left power unclaimed.
High above the stone terraces of Skuldafn, Alduin perched upon a jagged spire of ancient ruin. Below, Odahviing rested upon a ridge, coiled like a great crimson serpent, his wings folded as he meditated.
The red dragon's aura pulsed, slow, disciplined, sharpened by mastery of the Thu'um.
The Kruziik were different from the other dov's, for their mastery of the Thu'um had reached a level of pure understanding.
That was the core of their strength, and polishing it was one of the few ways for Kruziik to become stronger.
Alduin, of course, was different. Regaining strength like that would be too slow. Waiting for death to reap upon the land would be even slower.
Sovngarde called to him once more—a quick, potent feast. Thousands of old, powerful souls slumbered there. A single inhalation could restore him.
He squashed that thought quickly. He couldn't be killed in Nirn, but it would be different in Sovngarde.
That was the place where he could be unmade, fully and permanently.
He couldn't risk having the Dragonborn and her companions chase him there, especially with the lacking strength he wielded.
Even now, Alduin felt a burning hatred radiate from the scar carved into his chest. A wound left not by gods, but by the Dragonborn herself. The scar had only fully closed days earlier.
It served as a reminder and a lesson. He would tear her soul apart, but not yet.
To hunt her now, weakened as he was, would be folly.
His wings tensed in agitation. The stone beneath his talons cracked.
Loathe as he was to admit it, Alduin as he was now had no chance of putting all of Nirn into heel.
His pride wrangled at the realization, but for this once, he was willing to steep it aside.
To rule Nirn once more, he needed legions. He needed power. He needed help.
But not from mortals.
Never from mortals.
Currently, he barely has a hundred dragons in his employ. A paltry number compared to the near ten-thousand he once had.
Of the Kruziik, five there had ever been, yet Odahviing was the only one who remained. The rest had fled. Cowards, traitors, unworthy of the blood of dov.
Paarthurnax was a lost cause, especially since they have already gone to blows. Sahloknir's presence had long since disappeared, which means the poor fool either died or killed himself a long time ago.
There was one dov left. A troublesome one. A powerful one. A being he had hoped never to call upon again.
Alduin lifted himself to his full monumental height, wings partially unfurling. The clouds above churned at his presence, swirling as if in anticipation.
He drew in a deep breath.
And roared into the sky:
"DUR NEH VIIR!"
The Thu'um shattered the silence that had permeated Skuldafn.
Drums of thunder rolled across the mountain. Odahviing opened one eye. Lesser dragons snapped their heads upward. The air rippled with ancient power, folding and twisting as the shout reached realms beyond Nirn.
Alduin called upon the undead dragon, he who chose to pursue the power of the dead, the Kruziik of the Soul.
Alduin would compel him, for he was among the few who had understood Alduin's cause.
Then the sky darkened.
Inky-black clouds surged unnaturally upon the heavens, heavy with malice. Purple veins of lightning crackled within them. The air stank of rot and cold void.
Alduin's eyes narrowed.
A bolt of violet lightning slammed down upon the very perch Alduin stood upon, obliterating it in a violent blast of rock and dust. Dragons shrieked and flew as the shockwave hit, their wings thrashing.
When the smoke cleared, Alduin remained unscathed and unbowed by the show of power.
But he was furious. There was only one reason for such an event to pass.
His lip curled back, revealing fangs like obsidian spears.
"Ideal Masters…" he hissed, voice vibrating the very air. "You dare enslave my kin?!"
His roar cracked the heavens.
"LOK VAH KOOR!"
The clouds tore apart instantly, ripped away as though by a giant's hand. Sunlight broke through the veil of dark magic, but Alduin's wrath did not subside.
"Ful nii lost nust, faal drun ok vonuz (So it was them, the cause of his disappearance)." Odahviing stated as he approached. "Drey nust dreh grik aan truk ol zaam Durnehviir (How did they achieve such a thing as enslave Durnehviir)?"
"Zu'u mindok ni (I know not)," Alduin answered. "Nuz nust fent dir fah nii (but they shall die for it)."
The air rippled once more as a bright, fierce blue light ignited in the central courtyard of Skuldafn, where Nahkriin waited vigilantly, staff poised.
An arcane sigil unfurled like a blooming flower of raw magicka.
A heartbeat later, Krosis stepped forth, his robes in tatters with one arm missing, a jagged line visible on his mask.
And beside him, Morokei materialized, wrapped in a powerful corona of swirling arcane energy, the Staff of Magnus clutched tightly in his hands.
…
AN: A few more loose threads to unwrap before this long war finally ends.
The Labyrinthian Arc, or Night of Convergence as some would call it, lasted twelve chapters. Which is crazy.
Even the Clash of High Hrothgar, the longest arc to date, only lasted 7 chapters.
We're not even done yet, since there are still some aftermath things I need to do before this arc and act could properly be concluded.
I've been hinting a bit on the next arc as breadcrumbs in the previous chapters, and this one should finally be the proper reveal.
We're gonna have a teeny look onto the Soul Cairn next, which hopefully wouldn't last that long.
More chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 95 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers guys and see you next time!