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No Knight in Shining Armour, Xe

Universe: TES IV: Oblivion CW: Canonical Major Character Death, light angst Words: 4,780 Context: I wanted to explore more of Rowan's bastardisation arc by showing xir reactions to Martin's death and the end of the MQ. Directly links up to Accepting an Invitation (Tumblr | AO3). Read on AO3

Rowan pulls Martin to xir, covering his head as the white marble, glittering with refracted red like drops of blood, falls down around them. They part enough to look up, still clinging to the other's arms as Dagon roars, framed against the crimson sky. Martin drops his gaze to meet Rowan's. "It's time, then." His face has lost all colour, xe can feel his fingers grip through the chinks in xir armour. Just because they both know what comes next doesn't make it any easier to bear. "Martin-!" Xir desperation bubbles over through xir voice. "Rowan." His voice is warm, his smile tender; his eyes filled with sorrow. "Look after them for me?" he says, as if he's only talking about a few sheep. Rowan jerkily nods. "Of course," xe says, as if he'll only be a few days away. He cups xir face. "Thank you. You've been a good friend." Rowan pulls him in for one last embrace. When they draw apart, kisses of farewell are bestowed on each cheek, as if he's only going to the next village over. Martin's head jerks, as if someone has called his name, and when he turns back, he ducks his chin. "I'm sorry. I have to go." He squeezes xir hands. "The Dragon awaits." Xe squeezes back, fingers trailing on his for as long as they can. Then Martin is gone.

~~~

When the High Chancellor finds Rowan, xir eyes are raw but dry. Xe explains what happened in calm, dispassionate tones. "What are your orders, sir?" Rowan asks when Ocato has absorbed xir words. Ocato fumbles – an unprecedented situation, the bodies, the Temple roof- Rowan cuts him off. "If I may, sir?" Ocato nods and xe strides from the Temple, never looking back.

Outside, the sun pushes through the storm clouds, sending warm-fingered rays onto the wrecked plaza. The petrichor air is filled with laughter and cheering – Dagon is defeated! – yet too many lie unmoving on the floor.

Rowan takes a breath as xe looks around, then with a bellow, calls out, "Blades! To me!" In an instant, xe is surrounded by fierce warriors in Akavir armour. Xe runs xir gaze over them. "Where is Captain Steffan?" Caroline steps forward. "I'm sorry, zr. He didn't make it." Rowan purses xir lips, xir tone arctic, "Understood. Achille, Belisarius, come here." The two wounded Blades step forward, and xe heals them as best xe can. Xir voice detached, Rowan briefs them about the Emperor's absence. Xe points, gaze still on the Blades, through the open door, at the marble statue where the lingering raindrops refract the sun, gold like scales. "I want a perimeter around the statue. Organise yourselves into a watch. There'll be looky-loos, and I don't want anyone touching him until we're sure it's safe." "'Him', zr?" Caroline says. "It," Rowan corrects xirself sharply. "Dismissed." Armour clatters as the Blades leave to do as bid.

Another in-sucking of breath and Rowan bellows again, this time for the Guard Captains. "I want you to gather any able-bodied men and split into two groups-" xe begins, but one of the men holds up a hand. "Commander Phillida," he introduces himself, then looks past Rowan, to Ocato. "Your Excellency, who is this urchin to order us?" Ocato steps up. "This is Rowan, Champion of Cyrodiil. They have saved the city and ended the Oblivion Crisis. You would do well to keep a civil tongue around them." Rowan lifts xir chin, gaze steely. Now is not the time, xe thinks, to correct Ocato. "Two teams, Commander," xe says, obdurate. "One to sweep the City – dispose of any remaining daedra and deal with looters. One to gather the dead for burial and the wounded for healing. "I need runners too. To the University, for healers and for Wizard Delmar to attend me here. To the guild of Masons, to assess the damage and ensure the Temple doesn't crumble further. To find the Arch-Primate – I have questions for her. To the Palace, again for healers and," xe glances at Ocato, "to assemble the Elder Council. I'm sure the High Chancellor will want to apprise them of the situation." Ocato nods his approval. "Another runner too, if you please," he adds, "to the Mortuary, to deal with the dead." The guard captains clasp a fist to their chests, bowing in turn to Ocato and Rowan. Then they are gone, shouting to their men. Rowan and Ocato are soon the eye in a storm of movement. "Sir." A breton woman with a warhammer steps up to Ocato. "We should get you back to the Palace." Ocato holds up a hand. "Not yet, Beanique. It will take a while for the Council to assemble, and I am still needed here." He looks at Rowan. "Emperor Martin made the right choice when selecting his champion. I shall deal with the masons and the moth-priests." "Yes, sir. I'll start assisting with the wounded."

~~~

The day wears on. The air is soon foetid, the close quarters of the plaza filling with the stench of death and sickness. Rowan helps where xe can, but xe is a field healer; xir magic is not as finessed as those from the University, and xe quickly runs out of potions. Stantus Varrid has opened his home to treat the wounded. The sun has not yet passed its zenith when the old priest leads xir to a corner piled with burlap sacks and tells xir to sit down before xe falls down. A cloak is laid over xir in lieu of a blanket, and xe is asleep before xe can begin to let thoughts swirl around xir head.

Rowan is woken by a soft hand on xir cheek; for a moment, xe dreams Martin is there, but when xir eyes open, it is Wizard Delmar crouched beside xir. "Are you well, Arch-Mage?" he asks. Rowan blinks in bemusement before xe is scrambling to xir feet. "Master Wizard. Yes. Thank you. I am… as well as can be, for the circumstance." Delmar squints a little but inclines his head. The bustle of the sick-room continues around them, the moans of the wounded, the flash of healing magic. "You requested my expertise, zr?" Delmar prods. "To examine some kind of artefact?" Rowan squeezes xir eyes closed. Xe opens them again, pulling xirself straighter and fixing Delmar with a smile. "Apologies, Delmar. Yes. If you would follow me, please?"

They leave Varrid's house, and Rowan leads them to the Temple of the One. Arch-Primate Tandilwe is waiting for them outside. "Are you," she asks, an edge to her usually soft voice, "responsible for the overbearing, armoured individuals inside my Temple?" "Marm," Rowan says, "I apologise. Yes – I instructed them to keep the curious away until you and Wizard Delmar here were able to examine the statue." The priest and the mage share a glance, and Rowan once more details the aspect of xir Emperor's transformation. "I need to understand if it's dangerous in any way, if the masons are at risk working around it. Or- Or if- If he might be changed back." Xe looks between the two of them. Xir eyes sting, but xe straightens, tone returning to level – xe cannot afford to show weakness – and gestures to the door. "Ask for Caroline. Tell her the Hero of Kvatch has-" "Champion of Cyrodiil." Behind them, Ocato breaks off from a discussion with a mason to interject. "It is the Champion of Cyrodiil who has requested your presence, Primate Tandilwe, Master Wizard Delmar."

It is a dizzying sensation, to be elevated to such a station. Tandilwe and Delmar again share a glance, inclining their heads in deference to Ocato. Ocato returns to his conversation, and Rowan again gestures towards the door. Tandilwe goes in ahead and Delmar makes to follow but pauses, his hand on the door. "You aren't coming, Arch-Mage?" "I have… other duties," Rowan says. Delmar raises an eyebrow, but before xe can be made a liar, a runner comes puffing up. "High Chancellor, the Elder Council has convened." "Very good. Champion?" "Yes, sir." Rowan turns, but Delmar catches xir arm. "Zr, I have a feeling you will need this more than I," he says and hands xir a slim purple vial labelled 'anti-fatigue'. "Thank you," Rowan says, hurrying after Ocato.

~~~

In the Council Chambers, Rowan stands at Ocato's side and once again details the events from the Temple of the One in calm and measured tones. There is uproar – accusations disguised as queries, toadying disguised as sympathy, questions disguised as blatant statements. Each comment directed towards xir is met with a calm, thoughtful response; now is not the time to rail at the nature of politicians.

They ask xir what his last words were. Xe glances at the court scribe, poised with his pen, and makes up something poetic: a new age now is beginning, Tamriel to be rebuilt and shaped according to the council's will; his instruction for them to scribe a new destiny for the Empire; how willingly Martin went to his sacrifice, to ascend into Aetherius to be with his forebears.

The Council does not need to know how scared he was, only of his courage. They do not need to know his true words – for xir, and xir alone – they need only know of the inspiration within. Perhaps it's selfish of xir, not to share. But Martin Septim was a great man. He told xir to look after his people, and his people need a hero, so xe will paint him as such to anyone who'll listen.

~~~

A week passes.

Master Wizards Tar-Meena and Delmar, Arch-Primate Tandilwe, and Foremason gra-Baroth declare that the statue is simply a statue. Whatever divine providence brought it into the world is now absent. Tests have been done – mundane, metaphysical, theological, and thaumaturgical – and it's deemed to be no harm to anyone (except, perhaps, to the last fraying ends of Rowan's sanity).

Rowan sits in on Council meetings, offering xir thoughts. Xe corresponds with the Fighter's Guild houses to support the Imperial Legion and visits the house of Daleroth for intelligence on the real effects of the crisis.

A report reaches xir – the strange door in Niben Bay has closed. It's with a pang that Rowan realises xe never said a final goodbye to Cutter.

~~~

Another week passes.

The masons and carpenters have started work fixing the Temple district. Alms have been distributed where needed based on Rowan's recommendations. The Elder Council continues to bicker, but Rowan finds that charming smiles and well-placed comments in the corridors of the Palace do more to move affairs of state along than any demand in the Chamber.

The Blades keep their vigil of the statue, and Jena tells xir the tributes piling at its feet from the people are very moving. Baragon – respectfully, tentatively – suggests Rowan might like to see for xirself? Rowan is too busy, alas; their descriptions suffice. But– a stern chin is jutted, a dry unflinching gaze regards them –it is no less than he deserves.

~~~

Two weeks flash by.

The temple plaza is coming along nicely. Word from Kvatch says the city's rebuilding efforts are continuing apace; Rowan sends mages and strong warriors alike to assist and pave the way for new guild houses.

Across the countryside, the Fighter's Guild and Imperial Foresters tackle small pockets of stranded daedra and aid ravaged farms. People from all corners of the country – those affected by the Crisis and those whose lives have been improved by the Champion's alms – continue to pour into the Imperial City to pay their respects to the departed.

High Chancellor Ocato summons Rowan to his office. Xe is admitted by Evangeline Beanique, Ocato's warhammer-toting bodyguard, into the plush room with its view of the City. "High Chancellor. You wanted to see me?" "Champion." Ocato smiles, taps a missive, sealed with the Imperial sigil, which lies on his desk. "The smiths have finished your armour." He hesitates. "You are free to collect it whenever you wish…" "However?" Ocato sighs, giving xir a half-smile. "Did Emperor Martin ever complain about your astuteness?" He huffs out a laugh. "'However' indeed. I should like you to be formally inducted into the Order of the Dragon in a ceremony." "Where?" "I thought perhaps in front of the Temple of the One." Without, the wind whistles down the corridor, reaches under the door and sends a tapestry rattling on the wall. "You believe this is something the people need to see?" "I do, yes. It will bolster their spirits at a critical point in the rebuilding process. Holding it outside the Temple will remind them of our success against the forces of chaos, remind them to keep their hope as we go forward." Rowan purses xir lips. The bitter wind seems to reach into xir chest, leaving a chill and empty space behind it. Xe nods once, the movement abrupt. "Very well. Will that be all?" Ocato frowns. Rowan lifts an eyebrow. Ocato sighs again. "Yes, Champion. That will be all."

~~~

The armour is a work of art. The gold inlay glitters, the red enamel lies bold and proud. It fits beautifully, moves smoothly. The tingle of enchantments runs up xir arms like goosebumps. The armourer is offended when xe asks how strong it is, but Ocato puts a stop to them proving its mettle before the ceremony.

~~~

The day of the ceremony dawns overcast, dry but bitterly cold. At least, that is what Rowan blames for the chill that seeps into xir chest as xe stands on the stage in front of the Temple of the One. The plaza is packed, despite the cold. Smoke from the braziers plume like towers into the sky. Rowan picks out faces xe knows in the crowd – Modryn Oreyn, Methredhel, Maelona and Gogan. They've come to see xir honoured. They believe in xir actions. Why doesn't it give xir strength?

Ocato greets the crowd and launches into a speech – honour, courage, sacrifice. He weeps for the people of Kvatch, praises the Blades and the Legions at Bruma, and lauds Martin's name.

Rowan doesn't want to be here, not really, in xir heart of hearts. Xe is resplendent in the armour – everyone has said so; xe is every inch the hero the people are expecting. But with the statue at xir back and three Akaviri katanas hanging fresh over the hearth of Cloud Ruler, Rowan feels like a fraud. The Dragon's gaze itches between xir shoulder blades; he gave xir an order, though, so xe will fulfil it the best xe can.

Ocato is now talking about Rowan, introducing xir to the crowd and running through a litany of xir accomplishments, the services xe has performed for the country – nay!, all of Tamriel. He announces, based on these accomplishments, his intent to induct xir into the Order of the Dragon. "-and if there are any who should find fault with this appointment, let them speak now, else leave their tongue silenced forever."

On the city walls, the rooks croak. A breeze springs up, gusting from behind as if the dragon has flapped its mighty wings. The braziers flame and growl in response. Rowan finds it amazing how so many people can be so resolutely silent.

Ocato scans the faces in the crowd. "Very well then. Rowan?" Xe swallows. Xir neck twitches, as if xe would look at the Dragon for guidance. Instead, xe steps forward, and Ocato moves back.

Primate Tandilwe approaches carrying a ceramic saucer of red paint. "Hero, please kneel," she says.

Rowan obeys, and Tandilwe begins a prayer as she daubes the paint in the shape of a diamond on Rowan's forehead, invoking the Eight and One with each stroke. Above, the clouds crack open, shafts of sunlight reaching down and playing along the stage. Tandilwe completes her prayer and steps back. A moth Prelate from the Imperial Library, clutching a large wooden box, is led forward by his aides. Rowan holds xirself stiffly, forcing xir breathing to be regular and untroubled.

"Fear not, Child of Prophecy," the Prelate says, his voice sing-songy, as his aides step away. "I have read your scroll. You are smiled upon." He raises his voice. "For each Event, a Hero; for each Hero, a Reward." The Prelate's hands shuffle around the box, sliding the lid open. He hums and out crawl two moths in shades of tawny brown, testing their wings. They flutter up, around the Prelate. One ventures out over the crowd, the other investigates the temple wall. The Prelate hums again, a different tone, and the moths flutter back, circling Rowan.

The Ancestor Moths settle on xir shoulders. A ray of sunlight bursts forth. Rowan is blinded.

Xir vision fills with snippets: an imperial woman with the shadow of a crested mer; a redguard with a blank face and a noose around his neck; Baurus in the snow – Rowan screams, the heat of a Xivilai blade sliding through xir gut as Baurus falls; Martin's pale face, his fingers trailing in xir's. The golden dragon becomes one of brown and grey, titanic plates upon its back. His name wells in xir chest, channelled from the roots of the world, and Rowan screams it as xe should have done before.

The sunlight fades. Xe is panting, staring at the boards of the stage, supporting xirself with one arm, the other clamped across xir stomach. The moths alight from xir shoulders and return to the Prelate.

"For every Hero, an Event," he lilts. Rowan lifts xir head to look at him. He's smiling. "The moths like you." His voice grows. "Rise! Champion of Cyrodiil. Rise! Champion of the Dragon. Take your place in the entangled paths of fate and time." The moths crawl into their box, and the lid slides shut with a snap.

Rowan rises, wondering what would have happened if the moths did not like xir.

The plaza is quiet as xe makes xir way, shaking, to the edge of the stage. Rowan takes a moment to compose xirself, scanning the sea of people.

"My friends," xe says, hands spread, as if to encompass the whole of Cryodiil, "I thank you for this appointment. I thank you for the trust and faith you've shown me here today. And though it may have been my hand which has aided our late Emperor, thought it may have been his actions which cast Mehrunes Dagon for our lands – indeed, from the whole of Mundus, if I have understood even half his lessons on planar geometry – it has been you, my friends, who've made it possible. You who have tilled the fields and fed us, the smiths who've armed and armoured us, those who've clothed and supported us." Rowan pauses for breath, swallowing past the lump forming in xir throat. "The success at Bruma, the end of Dagon... None of this would have been possible without your support, and here, now, in this hour, I recognise that.

"Emperor Martin was a man of the people. He was raised by a farmer, grew to be a priest. He knew what it was to serve his community. Short through his reign was, he served you, his people, with aplomb and grace. He was benevolence made flesh, and I was proud to have known him. I am honoured to call him friend; privileged to have served him as my emperor. And I know, that were he with us today, he would agree with everything I've said about you all, here today." Xe raises a fist. "Hail, people of Cyrodiil!"

The crowd roars back in response. There is a collective pause, and they cry back to xir, many voices made one: "Hail, Champion! Hail Emperor Martin! Hail! Hail!"

Ocato is back at Rowan's side, lifting xir arm aloft in triumph. The crowd are cheering, calling xir name. The Dragon's gaze still itches between xir shoulders.

There's a party after, of course – Ocato was right when he said the people needed this. There is dancing in the street, musicians on every corner, ale and sweetcakes passed between neighbours and strangers alike.

As they process back to the Palace, Rowan is cheered and waved at, even propositioned. Jena walks by Briar's head, her hand on his bridle. As they wait for the gates between the Temple District and Green Emperor Way to open, she touches Rowan's leg. "Rowan, look." Rowan twists in the saddle to see where Jena is pointing, back towards the plaza and the delighted crowds. "Look at them. Look how happy they are." Rowan frowns. "Yes?" Jena looks up at xir, eyes shining, smile as blinding as the sun. "You did this. Ro', you made all this possible." The reins bite into Rowan's hands, the chill digging into xir chest. "Yes."

~~~

Another week passes. Rowan finds xir voice is needed less and less in the Council Chambers. Ocato has a handle on things again, and xir bolshy drive towards the betterment of the country is now a movement of its own.

Caroline stops by Rowan's room late one night. "Thought you could do with a nightcap," Caroline says, holding up a cerise bottle. Rowan reads the label and frowns at her. "Where did you get this?" "A friend in the University hooked me up," Caroline says, making herself comfortable on Rowan's sofa. "I don't need a sleeping tonic." "Do you not? It's three in the morning. I've just come off shift. What's your excuse?" Rowan pinches the bridge of xir nose. "Fighter's Guild paperwork. Oreyn sent everything he's been holding onto for the past few months while I've been busy. I thought I might catch the morning courier…" Xe throws up xir hands. Caroline shifts. "I've come at a bad time…?" Rowan shakes xir head. "The only way I'll make the morning courier now is if I stay up to meet it."

Xe closes the bureau, pulls a chair across and settles in front of Caroline. "What's bothering you?" Caroline laughs. "I can't drop by and see a friend?" "As you pointed out, it's three in the morning. Hardly 'dropping by' hours." "Ah, alright, fine. You're right." She hunches forward. "Rowan, you know we have the utmost respect for you. Your leadership dragged us out of a dark place after Grandmaster Jauffre passed. And again, after Captain Steffan and his Majesty. But it's been over a month now. The statue is just a statue. Some of the lads are wondering why we're still guarding it." Rowan has no good answer for that, beyond the knee-jerk need to see Martin protected. But Martin isn't there. Xe has yet to visit it for xirself, but the eminent minds have all told xir the same thing: the statue is just a statue. A line from a poem springs to mind: Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there, I do not sleep.

Rowan sighs. "People are still visiting?" "Yes. But we've had no trouble." "Very well. Reduce the watch over the next few weeks before stopping it. For surety's sake." Caroline nods. "Yes, zr."

Rowan settles back in xir chair, regarding Caroline for a moment. "How would you suggest the remaining Blades are deployed? They can't very well be allowed to just sit around." Caroline at least gives the pretence of considering the question. Still, the completeness of her answer belies the fact she's given it a lot of thought. "Some of the men have expressed a desire to stay in the City, either as master trainers to the Legion or bodyguards for the councillors. I am inclined to let them. There seems little point in letting their talents go to waste. That being said, I'd like to take the remainder back to Cloud Ruler. It is still an asset of the Empire, and it requires upkeep. There may yet come a day when it's needed again. "I have also considered its use as a staging ground for sending agents into Skyrim, Hammerfell, and High Rock." Caroline looks at her hands. "I suspect we will be heading into a period of unrest. Intelligence will be needed to keep us apprised of the situation in the other provinces. It would be wise to keep a place where our agents from those provinces can rest in safety before continuing their missions."

Rowan gives Caroline a level gaze as the latter raises her head. With a thoughtful hum, xe rises, crossing back to the bureau. Rowan's pen scritches as it passes over a fresh sheet of parchment. As the ink dries, xe heats a stick of wax and presses a seal into the corner of the document. "Caroline?" "Yes, zr?" Rowan gestures for her to stand, then hands her the sheet of parchment. "Congratulations, Grandmaster, on your promotion." "W-what?" Caroline reads the page she's been handed. "With this writ, I do declare Caroline to be placed in the esteemed position of Grandmaster of the Blades. Signed Rowan, Champion of Cyrodiil, on this day Turdas 27th Hearthfire, 4th Era 1." Caroline looks up with wild eyes. "Are you allowed to do this?" Rowan gives a laconic shrug. "If anyone argues it, send them to me." "No, but-" "Caroline," xir voice softens, "someone has to be in charge of the Blades, such as they remain. I stepped in after Jauffre only out of necessity. And now Steffan is gone too… You're the most senior Blade left, the only one who's stepped up to offer any kind of leadership. It can't be me. You know the procedures and contacts, you understand the job. You've already got your eye on the future. If you're worried about acceptance from higher up, I'll talk to Ocato. But I don't expect any resistance from him." Rowan rests xir hands on Caroline's shoulders, the picture of seriousness. "We can give you your own little ceremony, if you like." That draws a barking laugh out of the shocked Blade. "I think there might be some precedent there," Caroline says with a half grin. It fades as quickly as it comes, replaced with a sigh. "Rowan, are you really sure?" "Absolutely. I can't think of anyone better suited." Rowan pats her on the shoulder and steps away. "Go get some rest." Caroline raises a sardonic eyebrow, such a perfect replica of Jauffre that it makes Rowan's heart sting. "I think you'll find, Blade Sister, that as your superior, it should be I giving you that order. Your paperwork can wait. Get some sleep." Rowan blinks, then grins. "Yes, marm."

~~~

Rowan ends up taking the paperwork back to Chorrol xirself. Xe's not needed in the Imperial City any longer; Caroline has the Blades in order, Ocato has the Council firmly in hand, and Armand is keeping tabs on the City's underbelly.

Modryn has missed xir – Rowan can tell from the way he barks and threatens to demote xir from Guildmaster, claiming a sheep would do a better job. Xe laughs and hugs him in response.

Xe spends a week in Chorrol speaking to the practitioners and associates in both Guild Halls, ironing out procedures and setting the Fighter's Guild to rights.

From Chorrol, Rowan takes a tour of Cyrodiil's guild houses, partly to get xir Guilds in order, partly as an excuse to take the lay of the land.

It feels good to be back on the road again, despite the turn in the weather. Rowan has become accustomed to being on the move, and the past couple of months in the Imperial City has been the longest xe has been in one place since crossing the border. Now it is just xir and Briar, the pinching wind and the calling rooks, the smokey air and the sense of the world settling down for the Long Sleep.

Cyrodiil, Rowan discovers, is quiet.

Empty frames of Gates dot the countryside, a dark reminder but no longer a threat. There are the usual minor spats between neighbours. A few niggles with goblins and bandits. But nothing troubling. Nothing that would concern the Champion of Cyrodiil.

Xe winds up two months later in Bruma, eight tankards down at Olav's, feeling... Rowan isn't sure what xe's feeling, if xe's honest. Empty. Detached. The Oblivion Crisis is yesterday's news, its troubles already being swept away by the winds of time. The world is moving on. He asked xir to take care of them, and xe did, but they're doing fine now. There seems no reason for xir not to retire.

Rowan pens a letter to Modryn and Raminus with xir findings and recommendations, letting them know xe'll stay in Bruma until spring.

Xe takes xirself up to Frostcrag Spire to practise xir alchemy, and everything is fine.

Until it's not.

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