Dagon's Summoning Day

The dark room exploded into flames. A tempest of fire engulfed the curtains, and a cot pressed against the north wall collapsed in a pile of embers. At the centre of the maelstrom, two crimson eyes opened, more piercing and fierce than the surrounding inferno. They scanned the wreckage, hungrily. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the charred wooden floor, with tearful eyes, was a tiny girl. Her lip trembled, as if about to speak, but she remained silent.

"Speak, wretchling! Have you any last words?" the demonic figure roared.

"Are- are you Mehrunes Dragon?'" the child replied, her gaze fixed on his burning form.

"Dragon? Fool of a sacrifice, I am Dagon! Razer of Mournhold, Tyrant Leaper of the Many Voids, and Father of Fire! Who are you to address me?" the flaming spectre growled.

"I am Anne Catherine Valoise and I am 6 years old!" the girl chanted, and her cheeks twitched with the ghost of a smile. Clearly the declaration was rehearsed.

"Your clan matters not," the smoking vortex rumbled, "for your soul is mine, by right of ritual."

"Wait!" yelled the girl, but the rest of her plea was drowned out the the sound of splintering wood. Four scarlet arms ripped through the room towards Anne, but at the last moment they stopped. Dagon winced. Surrounding the child was a crudely drawn glyph of chalk, with spidery Daedric lettering dancing around the rim.

"Which brainless excuse for a conjuror captured you, creature? The Sacrificial Rune is inverted!" cried the Daedroth.

"I drew it myself, Dragon! It's inside out to protect me!" exclaimed the girl, a triumphant grin creeping across her cheeks.

"You..." Dagon whispered, "You are the one who summoned me?"

"I learnt about summoning days from my magic tutor Fenril! I sneak out to see him and he teaches me spells. He's a Dark Elf. He says not to believe the church because some Daedra are good, so I stole these magic crystals and tried it!" the child rambled excitedly. Dagon's eyes turned downward, and he saw a handful of black soul gems. Instantly, he crushed them, and drank in the animus. It was not a worthy sacrifice, the Prince thought, but it woulf suffice for now. He glanced back up at Anne. The sadness had returned to her face. Her gaze was once again fixed on the floor. "I waited six months for your day, Dragon." she added quietly.

"By why, child?" he asked, his voice jagged like broken glass. "What could one such as yourself possibly want of the God of Destruction?"

The girl remained silent for a while. Dagon noted that the curious trembling of her lip returned.

"My... my parents aren't nice. I've tried to run, but they always find me. They hit me, and they say horrid things. About me... and about what they are gonna do to me. They say they're gonna sell me to slavers!" she blurted out eventually.

"Oh, most fascinating, do go on," muttered Dagon. His attention was fixed on the protective rune surrounding Anne. There was a minute smudge in the circle.

"They never wanted me and they want the money to run off somewhere, and they aren't even my real ones," she continued, "and they aren't even my real parents! They... they got me after Mummy and Daddy died."

Tendrils of fire crept towards the rune.

"I asked Fenril for help, but he said he was going to Cyrodiil to help out some friends. Then he left. But I read his magic books before he went! One of them was really hard to read," she said.

A minute tongue of flame broke through the seal.

"I didn't understand much of it, but your name was in it. Mehrunes the Razor. It says the stars made you... and you were hope."

Mehrunes Dagon froze, his crimson eyes wide. An eternity away, a tremor shook through the Deadlands.

"And at the moment," Anne continued softly, "hope is what I need most."

The Daedric fire reached her. She yelped, and frantically stamped at the fire, in a desperate bid to put it out. She glanced up at the demonic figure looming overhead. But he wasn't looking at her.

"Hope," Dagon breathed, as if in a trance, "Hope." Suddenly, the fire engulfing the room wasn't quite as hot any more. The harsh orange glow around the Daedroth subsided, and, for the first time Anne got to look at him. He wasn't nearly as big as she'd imagined, and his eyes seemed less scary than before.

"They called me Hope's Razor in another world, another time. I am not that spirit any more, child. I am merely Dagon, Destruction," the Daedroth said, in an oddly strained voice.

"But... but I summoned you! You have to help me!" the girl cried desperately. Her eyes looked down at the charred floor beneath her through the gathering smoke, and she spotted the gap in the rune. She drew in a breath sharply. "You can get me now, can't you?" she asked, defeated.

"I must have blood on my summoning day," came the deep, crackling voice through the thickening air. Black smoke was everywhere now. Anne tried to reply, but no words came out, just a hacking, wheezing cough, as the ashen cloud found its way into her lungs. The last thing she saw before passing out was a dim glow illuminating the smoke in front of her.

Many days later...

"You're finally awake, eh?" a gruff voice rang out. Anne sat up groggily.

"Who are you? Where am I?" she yelped.

"Easy now. My name's Severin, and I'm a constable from Camlorn. We brought you back to the city after we found you in the wreckage of a house. It looked to be the victim of a severe fire," the man said, "but your carers... they didn't make it."

"What of money, and my belongings?" asked Anne fearfully, "Am I to be homeless?"

"You aren't quite that unlucky, young one. We recovered a large chest of gold from the basement. That should support you for a good while. As for your housing, you can stay here until we can contact any remaining family members you may have. What's your name?"

"It's Anne Catherine Valois," she replied quietly. She blinked, trying to remember what had happened. She remembered choking, a fire, and...

"Sir, did you find any clues as to the culprit?" she said quickly.

"None, I'm afraid. However, in the northernmost room, we found a message, burned into the walls," he replied.

"Really? What was it?" Anne asked. The constable cleared his throat.

"Hope never dies," Severin recalled, "does that mean anything to you?"

"No," Anne whispered. It was good that the room was dark, she thought, or the constable may have found her sudden, fleeting smile suspicious.