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Aetherius

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The destiny of Tamriel, the fate of the Empire, they did not belong to him anymore.

 

There were only  fragments of glass tearing his skin apart, otherworldly warmth of divine dragonblood, whispers of his ancestors, and fire within his soul that ignited with the force of godlike power. There was only the realization of what meant to be Dragonborn.

 

The voice of his best friend tore apart the overwhelming roar that turned his flesh into fire, his breath into light. A transmutation that shattered him in memories of fangs and heat and a victory he could not enjoy.

 

And then came the endless light, the infinite silence of exhaustion. A last breath that felt as his first one as everything turned to crystal, and then stone, and then the distillation of time and hope.

 

And at last, nothingness.

 

No time. No sound. No life. No death. Nothing but the infinite. A dream contained within a kaleidoscope of memories, a shard of a reflection bounded unto itself a thousand times and a thousand more as it stood in a time that did not exist, yet it held every moment within itself.

 

Martin felt himself as a wave disturbing the stillness of a pond. His mere presence casting figures of fragmented mist around him; some crowned by greatness, some ravaged by madness, others clear with serenity. One bright in all its majesty, one clear in intent, all warm with affection and broken with sorrow. They were mourning, and yet they were reveling in his presence.

 

He breathed. Because he felt he should. And gathered himself in an almost literal way from the depths of his exhaustion. He felt as in the lucid moment between a dream and awakening. The presence and the intent of one of the misty figures caught his attention, and he could see how it changed: from dispersed memories to thoughts to shadows to a man standing before him.

 

For a moment, the stranger almost looked like a reflection of himself; familiar gestures and features framing the elegance and fragility of a man whose blue eyes shined with adoration, pride, and sorrow. His hands reaching out to him, embracing him as if to check it he was real.

 

“...my son”

 

The memories of Uriel Septim, seventh of his name, became fog around them. The immense toil of his life, the joy in his struggles, the pain of his mistakes, and the faint hope of his final hours.

 

Tears started to stream down Martin’s face, as he took the hand of his father and started to recognize his ancestors, in all their greatness and all their weakness. Tragedies unsung and victories untold, unforgettable stories and forlorn legends welcomed him, as his own memories became whispers in the timeless wind of aetherius.

 

And as all the stories became one, a powerful presence engulfed them with love. As infinite as eternity and as powerful as time, strong and compassionate, soundless and unavoidable. Martin knew who He was, and that none of his words and gestures could make that divine presence justice.

 

Under His eternal gaze, Martin understood his destiny as dragonborn, and saw his story as the bright glimpse of hope in an eternal dream. He lowered his gaze, unable to find the courage to look up and face the infinite magnificence of Akatosh, whom he had served for years, dedicating all his energy and wisdom to fulfill His divine will.

 

A spark of fear crawled from his heart, a seed of his past, a doubt that had tormented him for a long time. But it was banished by his father, who guided him gently towards the indescribable majesty of the Dragon God, his words echoing in his own memory, making sense of all the suffering, consecrating his sacrifice.


“Come Martin, the dragon is waiting for you”