alright babes i don’t want your tag essays about why you hate my martin gifsets. please just learn how to scroll past things you don’t care for.........or block me if it really makes you feel better.
hello! i stopped updating my main blog @smalllady over a year ago, but i’ve still been updating some of my side blogs. i made this side blog because i didn’t want to make a new side blog every time there was a new game i wanted to make gifs of lol. so this blog will serve as a general video game edit blog featuring gifs from many different video games. here is a non-exhaustive list of games i will probably make gifs of:
horizon games
baldur’s gate 3
resident evil
the witcher 4
ghost of yotei
silent hill f
final fantasy
the legend of zelda
mass effect
dragon age trilogy
assassin’s creed
whether you were following my main blog or one of my side blogs, or if you’re brand new, i hope to see you in my notifications soon!
A/N- do I understand why he had to go do his thing? Yes. Does that make it hurt any less? No, do it doesn’t.
The war leaves him badly injured: burns from mantling Akatosh, shattered ribs, scars that even the best healers can’t erase. He spends weeks in convalescence before he can even stand for long.
He’s hardly lucid for the first three months after the Crisis; his soul is half in Nirn and half in Atherius. Part of him wants to stay and help rebuild Tamriel, but the other part, the part that years for knowledge, wants to fully ascend and become a god.
He fights for months, the Mage’s Guild and the healers have significant doubts of him pulling through…
Until he opens his eyes.
His very first order as Emperor is rebuilding Kvatch. He can’t sleep at night unless the people who lost everything there have homes again. Bruma follows, because he hasn’t forgotten the horrors of the Great Gate.
He refuses to simply rebuild the cities as they were. He listens to survivors, common folk, and guilds to make them stronger, more resilient, and more livable than before.
His guilt over past indulgence makes him live modestly. He doesn’t throw banquets, he doesn’t wear ostentatious jewels. He spends coin where it matters: rebuilding the Empire, and ensuring its citizens have what they need to live full, prosperous lives.
Once the cities are stable, he turns his gaze to those who slip through the cracks: beggars, orphans, war widows, refugees from the Daedric attacks. He pours resources into shelters, food, and long-term support for those who need it.
He sees the Blades not just as guards but as people who sacrificed for him. He fights for better pay, better housing, and actual time off. He learns each of their names, and ensures each Blade who survived the Oblivion Crisis has the option for early retirement. None of them take it, no matter how physically maimed, psychologically scarred, or tired they are.
Martin listens more to the dockworkers, bakers, and stonemasons than to the Council. He holds open court often, and any commoner can step forward. He listens intently, even to trivial concerns, like a broken well or a missing goat. If it matters to them, it matters to him.
The Elder Council hates him almost immediately. He refuses to rubber-stamp their policies, cuts through their endless debates, and redirects “noble funding” to public projects.
Martin’s policies drive the elite to distraction: repairing roads before hosting banquets, funding orphanages before fortifying palaces, giving Blades raises instead of demanding more of them.
Someone even went as far as to try the Black Sacrament on him; they’re found with their throat slit and their coin purse untouched.
But then… bandit activity drops. Trade routes flourish. Farmers are safer. Merchants make more coin. Taverns see more travelers. The economy quietly booms.
The people adore him. He walks among them in plain robes, listens to their concerns, and remembers their names. Bread prices fall, crime dwindles, and even the beggars of the Imperial City say he has not forgotten them.
Over time, even the Council cannot deny the results. What began as “foolish idealism” quietly reshapes into the most stable, prosperous Empire since the days of Tiber.
And though the nobility will never admit it openly, more than one of them begins to suspect: perhaps this unlikely Septim, the bastard priest who never wanted the throne, might be exactly what the Empire needed.
well. so apparently i'm not writer's blocked, i just didn't have words for the current fic chapter, lmao. behold, some nebulously post-fixit softness :D
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The warm summer air blows in through the open balcony door, catching on the long, loose, thin curtains hung over it. Sorona leans on the edge of the balcony, moonlight spilling over her arms, and watches the curtains move, breathing in the midnight air in an attempt to slow her racing heart. She knows Martin’s awake; she can see his silhouette on their bed, sitting upright, probably watching her and wondering if he should come after her or not. But he hadn’t stopped her when she’d dragged herself, shaking and gasping for breath, from the bed to stumble outside, in search of fresh air and a clear head.
It isn’t that she doesn’t want his touch - that she doesn’t crave it and the steadiness and certainty it offers her. But sometimes when she wakes from her nightmares, they aren’t the kind he can soothe with a soft touch and a gentle kiss to her forehead. Sometimes, she needs to feel the wind on her face and see the physical reminder that she’s here, in Cyrodiil, and not crowned in butterflies under a pink-and-violet sky, Greenmote dust glimmering on her skin. Martin can’t help with that need, because sometimes, when she snaps awake, trembling from remembered ecstasy and horror, she can’t be certain he’s real and not an elaborate hallucination brought on by grief and Greenmote.
But the night air is nice, this high above the Imperial City. She can feel the hum of magic curling through White-Gold when she stretches her senses out, and that helps almost as much, and the moons are bright enough tonight she doesn’t feel worried the sky might secretly be Oblivion’s. Instead, she exhales slowly and tips her head back, for a moment closing her eyes and leaning back against her elbows, sinking into the sensations. Her nightgown is thin and soft against her skin, entirely different from what Sheogorath would have worn, and that helps, too.
A few minutes pass before Martin calls her name, softly but with a hint of concern, and she breathes carefully and straightens, pushing her hair back from her face. Her heart’s settled some in the wake of…it’s not indisputable proof that she’s no longer in the Isles, but it’s as close as she’s going to get, and it’s enough to let her step back through the door and tug it closed behind her. Inside the bedroom the moonlight is dim, barely reaching the bed, but she can just barely make out the expression on his face anyway as she pads across the thick rug that covers most of the stone floor - a slight frown, a crease in his brow, eyes wide and worried. She can’t quite manage a smile, doesn’t yet feel that steady, but she climbs back into the bed and slips under the summer sheets, and he lets out a breath, tension easing from his shoulders.
She can’t blame him for worrying when she remembers how she used to act after nightmares.
“How are you feeling?” he murmurs, reaching out to drape one arm around her shoulders and rest the other hand, briefly, on the swell of her stomach, and she sighs and tips sideways, letting him tug her into him. Rather than stop there, he lays back down, slowly enough she can follow the motion, and she finds the corner of her lips twitching up anyway, reminded of the first time they ever fell asleep together. She’d drawn him into her embrace in almost the same way, back then, though she’d been much more hesitant about it.
“Better now,” she answers, her voice equally quiet and still a little hoarse, and accepts the invitation, laying down next to him and resting her head on his chest. With a little shifting, made annoyingly-ponderous by pregnancy (and the most unfair part of all this is having to live through that again), she tucks herself into his side and rests one arm over his stomach, letting the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek soothe that quiet little ache she always feels when she’s away from him for very long. (It’s wrong, she knows. But after everything, how could she feel anything else? It’s still difficult to let him out of her sight.)
His heart beats steadily into her ear, a comfortable rhythm, and she closes her eyes and tries to match her own pulse to his. He strokes gentle fingers through her hair, sending a shiver of warmth down her spine, and the smile that finally settles onto her face is a small one, but it’s still there.
This is real. She knows it is, because at some point Sheogorath had forgotten what a heartbeat was, or that it was something worth more than tearing out of a chest. Or twisting up faster and faster like a frightened rabbit. Sheogorath had loved Her people…but paranoia was the other half of bliss, and both had been Her domain.
“Good.” Martin shifts, and must crane his neck, because she feels his lips brush briefly against her hair before he settles back down again. He brings his free hand up to rest over top hers, sweeping his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand, and she sighs and tilts her head to kiss his chest in return, the only place she can reach without moving. “Do you think you’ll be capable of falling asleep again?”
Isn’t that the million-septim question? Some nights she can’t, though she tries to convince him not to deliberately stay up with her when his days are filled with meetings and paperwork and other, worse meetings and the last thing he needs is sleep deprivation when he’s trying to deal with nobles still angry at him for his marriage to her and his illegitimate bloodline. Tonight, however, there’s a heavy lethargy starting to sink into her muscles, and she yawns and hums, considering it. His heartbeat is still there, a low, constant thrum reminding her that he’s alive and here and hers, that she will never lose him again. (That she will never lose herself again, because he promised. He promised to stop her if he ever thinks she might go mad and abandon her family again. And she trusts him, with every shattered-glass piece of herself, every broken shard of her soul, and he doesn’t seem to care that sometimes she still cuts him because it’s hard to piece herself back together, harder than she ever thought it’d be.)
“Mm,” she says through another yawn, and he huffs a soft laugh. “I love you.” She’ll never get tired of saying it - of the novelty that is being able to say it.
“I love you too. Always.” His voice is so warm she thinks she could drown in it.
And why not let herself? It’s such an easy thing, to slip beneath the waves of exhaustion and bask in the deep comfort of being held. As she drifts away, his steady heartbeat a current carrying her off to sea, she hears him sigh, slow and heavy. “Always,” he repeats, barely above a whisper, like a promise he’s making to himself, not just to her.
With the last of her energy, Sorona tugs his hand up to her lips, pressing a lingering kiss to his fingertips; then she tucks it beneath her cheek and lets sleep take her once more.
Growing up he would frequently listen to bards in the taverns and would listen to the traveling bards/musicians passing through chance he got.
There being people playing music and bards performing during Sanguine's revelries was a big part of what drew him into worshipping him in the first place. He came for the music and stayed for everything else.
(That audio of him humming the can-can actually fits really nicely with this, especially since it used to be considered a scandalous burlesque dance when it first came out. Definitely up Sanguine's alley lol)
Once he became a priest he frequently listened to and sang with the other priests.
(It's actually canon that the priests at the Temple of Akatosh sing. They call it a Chantry because of the amount of singing that they do)
From the wiki:
It's part of why he was so drawn to Akatosh in particular. (Other than the dragon blood I mean. That probably had a lot to do with it as well.)
Martin sometimes hums absentmindedly when he's doing things, and if you're lucky, you might sometimes catch him singing softly to himself.
This is obviously just my personal headcanon but I really do think it fits his character.
the thing about martin being holed up in cloud ruler temple for the majority of the game is that i think it's boring and sucks and is a missed opportunity. we should be having to rescue that priest from a mythic dawn kidnapping like literally every week. we need martin to come help us interpret the writing on an artifact that's too big to move and too cursed to copy and then on the way we discover every monster beast and bandit has some kind of obsession with killing and or eating him. plus he falls down a hill and twists his ankle idk.
like yes much to be said about pacing and fretting and giving himself a panic attack in the temple while the hok throws themselves willy nilly in and out of oblivion portals and death cults but also where is the PHYSICAL danger and damage. thats my princess. everyone wants him.
Walking to the temple to meet the countess so I can start the battle of Bruma quest, and for some reason Martin would not let me walk on his right hand side. Every time I tried, not matter what I did, he would move so that I was on his left. Didn't matter if I moved in front or behind or anything. I even ran in a circle around him at one point and he still kept moving so he was on my right.
I can't figure out why, but my best guess is that it just has something to do with the path finding for the npcs. Like I'm almost 100% positive that it was some sort of glitch/bug and not supposed to happen at all. But.
I looked up if there was any significance to a person standing/walking at a royal's left instead of their right and:
Yes! There is! In fact it's where the queen/empress/partner is supposed to stand/sit.
(It says king and queen because when I searched emperor I just kept getting stuff about tarot. I think its supposed to be the same or similar for most royalty though.)
In fact, if you go to some of the cities in Cyrodiil, like Anvil for example, the Count and Countess will be in those positions (while standing behind then, facing the same direction as them) while sitting on their thrones.
The Count of Cheydinhal has a bouquet of flowers where the Countess would sit since she's obviously passed away, but you get the idea.
Every city that has a Count and a Countess, or at least two thrones, has them in this position.
And while I dont think that the developers meant for Martin to do this on purpose, I just thought that it was a neat little detail. And it's cool that they assigned the counts and countesses a specific side to sit on their thrones!
Anyway this really had nothing to do with anything but I still wanted to share because I found it interesting.
Summary: Akatosh sees all. That is the blessing. That is the curse.
Time unspools in every direction now: backward, forward, sideways through what might have been. For the dragon, these are threads of balance. For the man once called Martin Septim, there are wounds that do not close.
He watches her die a thousand ways. Watches her live a thousand more. Watches her forget him. Watches her never know him at all. And still–
Still, she is the gravity at the center of all his lives.
He was Emperor for less than a day. But he is hers forever.
I do not dream, Gods do not dream.
But I remember.
Time, once a river, now coils around me like a serpent, folding, twisting, collapsing in on itself. There is no before, there is no after. There is only during. And in each shadow of the world, there you are.
I did not ask to see them, these echoes. These lives. They come unbidden, carried on the current of time like leaves.
In some, you never reach me, in some, you never needed to.
In one, you die before we ever meet.
I watch her fall.
Not just once, again and again and again, across every shard of time I hold within me.
She closes the Gate. She does what no one else could.
The roar of the collapsing Oblivion rips through the air like a scream, but it is not mine.
She steps away from the dying portal, wounded and bleeding, and I should be relieved.
She made it, I should be proud.
But I am not. Because she falters just feet from the Chapel of Akatosh, my sanctuary, the last refuge in this hellish city–and a Dremora's blade drives into her back, tearing through flesh and bone with a final, cruel mercy.
The world around us shatters in slow motion, and I feel every inch of her agony as if it were searing my own soul.
And yet I cannot move.
I am bound to time–all of time–and in this moment I am frozen. A god trapped between seconds, cursed to bear witness without the power to change the ending.
Her fingers stretch toward the Chapel doors, trembling like a prayer whispered in the dark, but they close before she reaches them.
I taste the iron of her blood on the air, her fingers feel heavy and raw.
Her body crumples to the cold stone floor, the sound muffled beneath the endless storm of screams and flame, and I hear the silence she leaves behind, a silence so loud it deafens me.
I am infinite, and yet in this moment, I am nothing but loss; to watch her die like this, so close, so almost, is to endure a thousand deaths myself.
It is the cruelest torture a god can suffer: to remember everything, to hold all of time, and to be powerless to save the one soul who still means more than eternity.
I do not know her name here, in this broken timeline, but I carry it with me.
It burns beneath my scales, a wound that will never heal.
She is the first grief I will bear forever, and every time I watch her fall, I lose a piece of myself.
There is a thread where I am not a Septim.
No bloodline to claim, no crown to bear, no mantle of destiny waiting for me.
I am just Martin, just a broken, desperate, and desperately in love man.
The battle in Paradise should have been the end.
Mankar’s screams fade beneath the roar of victory. The Blades gather around me, breath ragged, weapons at the ready.
The sky outside is heavy with ash, but for a moment, there is silence—an ache so deep it feels like the world is holding its breath.
I pull the Amulet of Kings from my pocket, worn and weighty.
This should be the moment—the seal that binds me to fate, the symbol of hope for a broken land.
I press it to my chest. It falls, the cool metal chain slips through my fingers, clattering to the ground with a sound that shatters the stillness.
I try again. And again.
But it will not stay.
Whispers ripple through the room, whispers of disbelief, fear, and horror.
Jauffre’s eyes widen. The Blades exchange glances, the weight of what this means crashing down.
No one speaks.
I want to scream, why? Why me? Why now?
The truth burns hotter than any Oblivion fire.
I am not the Dragonborn. Not the heir.
The mantle is empty. The hope is broken as we each realize we’re doomed.
Around me, faces fall. Some with tears, others hardened like stone.
The dread settles like a storm cloud.
We were too late.
The gates open once more, tearing through the sky like a wound in the world.
Flames pour out, swallowing the streets, turning stone to glass and hope to ash.
We stand side by side, weapons drawn, hearts pounding with the weight of a dying world.
I feel the Amulet’s cold absence at my throat—a hollow ache that gnaws at my soul.
She looks at me, eyes fierce and steady, refusing to show the fear I feel coursing beneath my skin.
“Whatever comes,” she says, voice breaking like a prayer, “we face it together.”
I nod, swallowing the dread threatening to suffocate me.
The Daedra pour through the breach: scamps, dremora, a towering monster crowned in flame.
We are a tempest, a fragile storm against the end of all things. But the tide is merciless.
She stumbles, a ragged breath escaping her lips, a wound blooming crimson across her side.
I catch her before she falls, the world narrowing to the feel of her breath, the warmth of her blood seeping into my hands.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, voice raw with pain.
“Always.”
The monster approaches, eyes burning with the promise of Oblivion.
We stand, together, as the world burns around us and our last breath mingles, a fragile thread of hope snuffed out in the storm.
And in that final moment, I am not a god. I am just a man who loved her, lost her, and fell with her into the dark.
I am Emperor in this life. The weight of the crown is heavier than any sword I’ve ever carried.
At the heart of it, I am a husband. A father.
Their laughter fills the halls of the palace, a sound more precious than any victory.
I watch them from afar more often than I would like, moments stolen between endless meetings and court intrigues.
I crave the simplicity of holding my child’s hand, of sharing quiet evenings with my Empress.
But the throne demands everything.
The people need a leader, and I embraced this duty long before the flames consumed me, before the crown weighed on my brow.
Still, I am haunted by what I cannot give, the bedtime stories, the stolen moments of peace.
The nobility watch and wait for any sign of weakness, but my heart belongs to my family.
Every decision I make is to protect them, to build a world where they can live free of fear.
Faces surround me, sharp and calculating, dressed in silk and veiled threats.
A noblewoman’s voice cuts through the murmurs, “Your Majesty, these reforms… they unsettle the balance. The families of the realm cannot bear such upheaval.”
I hold their gaze, steady but tired.
“Justice unsettles only those who thrive on injustice,” I say, voice calm but resolute.
Behind my words, my heart pounds; not for the court, but for the children I have yet to hold tonight. I picture their small faces waiting in the nursery, the gentle rise and fall of their breaths.
A father’s love is a secret rebellion in a room full of schemers.
The debate swirls, accusations thinly veiled as concern.
Yet I stand firm, not because I desire power, but because I refuse to surrender the future I promised them.
When the meeting ends, I feel the weight of their silent judgment like chains, but also the quiet hope of those who believe in change.
Later, in the dim glow of the nursery, I hold her close, the Empress, my love, my anchor through the crisis and for the rest of my life.
Our children sleep, their breaths soft as whispers, and for a moment, the world outside fades.
I trace a finger along my youngest’s cheek, the warmth beneath my touch a balm to the ache I carry.
“I wish I could be with you more,” I confess, voice low, heavy with regret.
Here, in this fragile sanctuary, I am not Emperor. I am simply a man, a husband, a father, a man who loves fiercely even when duty pulls him away.
This is the life I fought for, the life I am sworn to protect.
And I will carry it, every fear, every hope, until the Dragonfires burn no more.
In this life, there is no crown here. No throne, no court whispering poison behind heavy doors. There are no nobles to curry favor with, no plots weaving like shadowed webs around my ankles.
No distant echoes of Oblivion gates tearing open the sky.
There is simply the soft wind rustling through the ash and the steady pulse of a life rebuilt from ash and dust. We fled into the shadowed edges of Morrowind–not as Emperor and Empress, but as two souls desperate for a chance to simply be.
Our home is humble. A small stone cottage with a cracked window and a garden stubborn enough to bloom in the dry soil.
I teach, not as a ruler, but as a man who wants to give these children a future free from the terror I’ve known. Here, my days are filled with the quiet discipline of lessons beneath candlelight.
She is my partner, my love, my equal. Her smiles no longer hardened by courtly pretense, but softened by the simple joys of this new life.
No longer do I feel the weight of destiny pressing down on my shoulders. The shadow of the Dragonfires is a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of a fire we build ourselves each night.
Daedric threats do not find us here, no claws tearing through the night, no gates swallowing whole cities. The only battles I face now are those of patience and love, teaching children to write their names and dream of better days.
I watch my family grow, their smiles lighting a path I once thought lost to me forever.
This quiet life, simple and unremarkable to some, is my salvation.
And it is enough.
In this thread, I burn. As I did in this life.
The shape of love does not leave you when you ascend. It clings tighter, it becomes a wound that will not heal, preserved in eternity like amber trapping the last breath of summer.
I burned for her once in the Temple of the One, and I burn still, though no mortal sees it.
In this thread, I gave her a future. She took it.
She lived.
I watched her stagger from the temple’s ruins after collapsing at the statue’s clawed feet. She was covered in soot and blood, her eyes never leaving the scorched place where my body had once been. She did not speak for days.
But she lived.
I saw her cradle the Amulet’s fragments in her hands before giving them to the Blades. She did not cry. Not in front of them. But later, alone in her quarters, she collapsed like the sky had finally fallen on her.
I wanted to reach for her. I could not.
That is the nature of divinity. It is eternal, omniscient, and utterly powerless to touch the living.
She wandered Cyrodiil for a time. Not as a hero, not anymore. She refused titles, refused honors. Said no to statues. But she quietly rebuilt what she could. She saved what remained, she carried on, not for glory, but because no one else could.
Then, slowly, life grew back in her.
She laughed again. Less often, a little fainter, but she laughed.
I watched her sit in sunlit gardens, braid flowers into a little girl’s hair, help restore a burned-out chapel in Skingrad, trade barbs with Countess Caro in Leyawiin like the war hadn’t taken her heart with it.
She met someone, a healer.
He touched her like she might vanish, and she leaned into it. She let herself be loved.
Their house was simple, with a tiled roof, a dog in the yard, and a garden full of flowers.
She never called him by the names she called me, but she smiled when she spoke to him.
That smile split me like a dagger to the stomach, because I know it wasn’t meant for me anymore.
She aged.
I watched silver creep through her hair like snow on mountaintops. Her hands, once blistered from swords and spellwork, grew soft again with time and purpose.
She died in her sleep. Peacefully. A sprig of lavender on her bedside, an amulet–my amulet of Akatosh–clutched in her hands as she took her last breath.
She never forgot; she just survived. And what more could I have asked of her?
I miss her still. Every version of her in every thread.
But in this one, she was happy; she lived a full life.
And I burn for her, still. And I would do it all again.
But in this current thread, she went mad with grief.
In this thread, I burn, as I did in this life, not with flame, but with fury. The moment she crossed into the Isles, I felt it, like a sickness spreading through the veins of Nirn.
I had died for this world. For her. I had broken myself open, shed my name, my blood, my soul, to banish the Daedra back into their hells.
And she ran to them. She ran to the Daedra.
She found the Shivering Isles not long after I died. And instead of turning away, instead of remembering what I gave to keep their influence at bay, she stepped willingly into their jaws.
And worse, she spoke to him, she confided in him.
To Sheogorath.
I watched her sip tea with him as if he were an old friend, explaining every wound I never got the chance to soothe. She spilled her grief like confession, as though the Mad God were a confessor worthy of her pain.
She told him everything.
How it felt when I vanished. How empty the Temple sounded when the fires died out. How the city cheered while she bled in silence.
And Sheogorath listened with the patience of a spider.
He spun her grief into purpose.
Not healing, not peace.
Purpose.
A crown of madness. A throne forged from despair. A realm to lose herself in, so she would never have to remember what we built together.
And she took it.
She accepted his gift like it was the answer I hadn’t died to give.
I raged. I roared through the currents of time, thunder and claw and light. I begged the Aedra to intervene. I wept across the wheel.
But I am not a man anymore, and she could no longer hear my voice.
In time, she forgot why she had come to the Isles.
She nearly forgot my name.
She became his champion. The mortals began to call her Sheogorath, as if she hadn’t once carried the weight of the world on her back.
But I remember. I remember the sharpness in her laugh when she defied a god.
I remember how she spat in the eye of Mehrunes Dagon and won.
I remember her hands, bloody and shaking, dragging the Amulet of Kings out of fire and ruin.
I remember her as mine, and still… I am not allowed to reach for her.
I watch her now, through fractured glass and sundered time.
A stranger in motley, dancing through a court of corpses.
The world calls it divinity, but I know it for what it is:
Grief so deep it broke her, and madness that swallowed the last hope of who she once was.
I was the Dragon. She was my flame.
And in this thread, she lives.
Not as my Empress. Not as the Hero of Kvatch.
But as the Madgod’s heir.
I should hate her for it. I should.
After everything the Daedra cost us. But there are moments, so brief, so scattered, they catch in the weave like snags on thread.
Like when a mortal wandered into the forgotten Pelagius Wing of a Blue Palace in Solitude, and from across a ruined feast, she leans in and whispers to a madman:
"You were the best Septim who ever lived... except for that Martin fellow. He went and turned into a dragon god. Shame, really. I was quite fond of him, in the way mortals are fond of warm beds and shared breath in the dark. I was there for that whole affair, you know; the cheese was to die for, there was a fox and a severed head–marvelous time, marvelous! But sometimes I wonder, late at night when the stars talk too loud, what might’ve happened if he’d stayed mortal… stayed mine.
The words cut deeper than any blade. And for the first time in what might be centuries, the last piece of mortality in me stirs.
Because in that fractured memory, in that fleeting warmth, lies the truth of all I lost, the woman who once loved me, who still does in a way that no god can claim or conquer.
My heart, what's left of it, flutters like a trapped bird. Because she remembers.
Not all the time. Not always clearly.
But somewhere inside the shattered halls of her mind, the echo of what we were still rings.
She still loves me, and I never stopped loving her.
I love the part in Oblivion when you get back to Cloud Ruler after trying to recover the amulet of kings and Martin's like "you're back! I told Jauffre not to worry :D" And then you turn around and talk to Jauffre and he tells you Martin barely slept while you were gone.
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