Chapter Text
The feeling of divinity was overwhelming. All things - past, present, and future - ran together like one. No mortal could ever comprehend how such a thing was orchestrated. Every life was now a fleeting moment. A day and a second meant the same thing. Only a god could truly understand eternity and immortality like this. Only a god could imagine being so powerful, so untouchable, able to beat the Prince of Destruction at his own game.
The story came straight from a book of fairytales. A humble man becomes Emperor, aided by his most loyal knight, and ascends to the heavens above.
The duty of being an Emperor was already too much, for the incredibly short time he’d had it. After all, he was merely a simple man, with hopes of living a mundane and simple life. The whole time he’d wished it were someone else, that maybe his predecessor had a different bastard child to take over instead, and yet…his duty was pushed upon him still. He was the last Septim.
He now was Akatosh, in a sense. He felt everything, knew everything Akatosh would, for that brief moment. In life, he loved nothing more than knowledge, but now it plagued him. The piece of him that simply accepted this duty began to feel less and less like him as the seconds ticked on. He grew incongruent with Akatosh almost as quickly as he took the mantle. The panic of losing mortality, the panic of an eternity of constant obligation, the deprivation of normalcy and calm made his soul feel like it was trying to claw its way away from the new identity. He couldn’t take it. He was simply the wrong man to ever lead.
He wanted his old life back. He craved the calm he now felt he took for granted. He wanted no Divine knowledge, no destiny, no regal blood, nothing .
It was much like the time he’d abandoned Sanguine, despite having enough devotion to be his champion. The mental images still haunted him, and the regret weighed his heart down until his final moments. After his young and arrogant naivety was struck down by such dire consequences, he felt the raw force of sobriety. He felt selfish. He felt disgusting, to let it all happen in the name of forbidden knowledge. All he wanted was to get away, to repent for his transgressions, and to just be a normal man.
As devoted as he had been to Akatosh, he could not accept the duties as the Divine. He once again desired normalcy. His soul continued to panic, thrash, and beg for the release of a normal life. He had served his time as leader. He had sacrificed everything. He had become a hero and solidified his position as Tamriel’s savior. There was nothing more he wanted to do, no one else he wanted to save. Tamriel could have anyone as its hero, just not him.
Akatosh separated from him. He separated from Akatosh. The blood of the dragon no longer flowed through him, nor the obligations of a Divine. He would be ordinary, fully ordinary, as he’d thought he was for years before.
In the one hundred and sixtieth year of the Fourth Era, a boy would be born to two Imperial priests of Akatosh residing in the city of Whiterun, Skyrim. He would be named Martin Dragus, honoring the savior who sacrificed himself and ushered in the new Era. Martin would follow in his parents’ footsteps, becoming a priest himself, and taking great comfort in a simple life of servitude to the Divines.