All-Flag Rangers: Part XVI, Ave Alessia

Elsewhere

Furioso had negotiated with Ra’shazzad for a little over an hour. When the rangers left the hold Ra’shazzad had an imperial promise of over two thousand drakes for S’basa’s services, double if she died while in imperial service to aid the tribe’s loss of catpower. In addition they would send a caravan of dry foods, leathers, and simple tools in order to more directly compensate the tribe. The money, while useful for trade with Anequina and other states, meant little to the desert dwellers common lives.

Now the rangers were on their way west, towards Valenwood. S’basa led them to a rock that jutted out of the dunes forming a shady area where they could sleep during the daylight hours. Iszir took first watch while the rest of the rangers lay their head to sleep. Some slept well, some tossed and turned with memories they wished they didn’t have, and others dreamed.

Alessandros dreamed.

We must speak.

The voice echoed through rolling hills of rice and grain. Morihaus stood at the edge of the valley bowl, staring down into the fertile Rumare where men and elves ran together like stars and regret, and the rivers ran with blood and the curses of the dying, and the world ran together between jungle and plain. Morihaus stood, on two feet and on four hooves, depending on the angle of the observer.

Then he ran. Charging down the valley growing in speed and power, across the marble-white bridge, tearing through the hard earth grown soft with blood, charging till he slammed against the city, horns like adamantine sickles laying low the walls who had ever shown hubris, bent low now to bow before the bull of heaven.

This is the city of the dragon, the Tower of the Dragon. It is the same story, over and over and over again. They come, they speak, there is killing and there is sorrow and there are those who die but do not die, and nobody ever really leaves.

Al-Esh walked the spiraling tower walkways, rising up round turning wheel, and Morihaus followed behind in the darkness. Something stirred in the dream, and wondered,

Why follow this woman?

I have ever followed Paravania, like the ugly farmer that wakes to the splendor of the rising sun. This is nothing new, and my sons and my son's sons follow after her in their own way, chasing beauty and the promise of freedom, often to their own destruction. Mine were not the last horns to gore the city and the tower, as you well know.

So Morihaus followed.

Morihaus looked out a window as he trailed behind, and he could see the distant form of a single man, the man of many men who walked with purpose like no other. The Whitestrake had taken another hero, and was marching alone upon the tower of the saliache to lay their kings low. Morihaus looked away, for he knew where his uncle's quest would end. But he turned back again, before the vision had passed and witnessed Pelin-El's head rolling down the bridge screaming and cursing all who would witness ayleidoon murder.

And as Paraval walked she turned her head and looked inward, and she would glimpse the pillar at the wheel's center rising through the tower, glimpse it in the arches every few steps with the spiral staircase that encircled it, and she knew that it would be quicker to rise if she went that way but she didn't. She went the long way, the hard way because she was El-Estia and that was the only way she had ever known.

And Morihaus followed.

Morihaus turned his head to the windows again and he could see on the bridge legions of hoplites forming shieldwalls while other masses rushed forward, the rabble untrained, fresh to war in the last fight. Some might call them former slaves but others called them New Men, born again outside the womb of the whips, now flowing towards the wheel and tower to take what they had remade into their birthright as dreamers of the dream of Esha. And before each legion and horde rode the rallying skiffs, new and old freedmen eager to fight for the dream of their slaveless queen. They surged forward like the rain, each drop individually weak and useless, but together they were as a flood that would wash the elven stain into the Rumare. And soaring high above them was himself, winged and gore-horned Morihaus flew, and upon his back wreathed in glory and reflecting the light of the sun was she... the one who had named freedom, the one who spoke, spoke her words into action. Hers were true words of power. She had spoken this dream of freedom into reality, and now she would fall upon the last bastion of the elves with a vengeance.

Perrif was ascending, and there were others following behind now, skiffs from the council in rags and beaded elves arrayed in the gilded rot of rebel kings and bearded chieftains still frosted from the north, and they said it was not possible, the impera of the saliache could not be defeated, but the Paravant spoke over them with soft actions, and she spoke and spoke and they knew suddenly that the fight was over, and Aleshut had already won man their freedom. The men puffed in pride and surprise, and the elves sagged with the weight of time’s passing.

And Morihaus followed.

Morihaus looked outside the tower where a questing knight knelt before a bubbling mound of mud, and Covenant Incarnate arose and spoke with him, and a tear came to the Bull's eye to see her mangled feet. The knight knelt before the earthen spirit, and like the shieldthane Morihaus looked away because even though he knew it were past and it were righteous it still cut his simple bull heart to witness lover's betrayal.

Pevesh walked with purpose, the humility and wisdom of years of needless cruelty visible beneath the heavy robes of the Auma-Par-Eshe whose gentle touch soothed the rebellions of still-hot blooded men and elves alike. She circled the tower, and trailing behind her was the malshapen form of young Belharza, hooves clopping, struggling to keep his head aloft from the weight of the horns he had yet to learn to bear with pride. The Mother of Man cooed for him to follow, telling him it was okay to stumble sometimes but Belharza was stubborn and refused to rest, and his father watched with tears of pride in his eyes as they walked the wheel.

And Morihaus followed.

Morihaus looked outside the tower where a young boy, naked save for glory, knelt in a field of blood and bygone battle, his mouth filled with the jaw of rebellion, and encircling him was the divine aspect of the great dragon whose breath is time, roaring fire like the first heat of the universe, and it spoke words that turned the boy to fire and light made earth and flesh, and two twin maidens approached and named him Light of Man, and they collected the work he had wrought upon the field, turning to drink of it in secret but before they could the vision passed and Morihaus was glad, for he had no need to see again the divinity and iniquity of Reman.

See yonder dragon in the sky and witness what it is to be of the family. It is to be alt chim ada, transcience passes by as it always does but the spirit is everlasting.

I am not royalty, am I?

Nor was Paravania, but she spoke, and spoke and spoke like the spokes of a turning wheel coming ever round til she became a ruling queen, and her demesne was a new thing called freedom, which she shared unto all mankind. She is not like the Reman, who Aka Tosh made into fire and light, nor like the Talos, who brought disparate paths into one upon a conglomerate. She was one woman, self-made, none made her ruling queen but herself through her own words. You must learn to speak.

Morihaus glanced out the window, seeing down into the courtyards below where men fell blade upon flesh on their king. Three men came together around a fourth. The fourth said something which angered the other men and drove them to a madness of their own, and they fell on him Shouting with their weapons, cutting Cuhlecain into pieces while he roared in surprise which even his councils could hear. And when they came running the three men stood as one, throat slit and two ways dead, and Talos walked out of that room and came unto himself as Royalty of all Tamriel, and the Alma-Par-Essi was absent in this cause for she knew this was an evil thing that had happened, and Morihaus turned away to show solidarity with his wife.

Who could I possibly rule?

Your self. It is the only kingdom worth ruling. Those who do not rule themselves rule nothing, and those who rule themselves rule everything, which is nothing more than the kingdoms of their selves anyway. This something we ada know, but do not understand. The inverse is the gift of mortals – you may understand without knowing.

Morihaus looked out the window, and the visage of rune-razored Dagon stood in aspect towering over the city. Down beneath in the great temple the last Septim shattered the royal spirit stone, and Perrethu among all her descendents and the kin of Reman and the kin of Talos arose and entered into the last dragonborn, and all their spirits of time and power united in one and Martinus rose like unto the great dragon itself, and he smote the Dagon from this world, and Alessia had no more need of the dragonfires to empower her spirit and her covenant, for all the souls of all the dragonborn surged like one spirit to make a new spirit stone, in the aspect of Time Itself, and the covenant was made eternal, that no daedric power would pierce the veil again, and the First Cyrodiil found final rest at last, and Morihaus bowed his head in awe and pride and honor, to his Paravania, and to Martinus the last of his kind.

Morihaus stopped following. There was a puddle of water on the floor of palace, alone in the corner like a memory long forgotten. Morihaus looked down into the reflection, and the face that looked back at the demigod was a young minotaur with simple eyes and a sad smile that cracked his face in two, but he wasn't smiling.

You have asked the question of the wise, the question of the simple, the question of the wicked. All that remains is the question you do not know how to ask.

…are you my father?

I am what I am. What are you?

I don't know.

That is why you will fall.

Part XVII, Into Valenwood