To say that Ysgramor was consumed by fury would have been an understatement.
The sight before him was so horrifying that it could have driven even a man as peaceable as he into a blind rage.
The first elf to step out of a house with a bloodstained sword felt the full force of that fury.
Clearly expecting no resistance—and certainly not an opponent of Ysgramor’s size—the long-eared Mer failed to evade the mighty downward stroke of the King’s two-handed sword, which smashed through the elf’s unhelmeted head.
Briefly noting that his enemies’ blood was every bit as red as his own people’s, the king charged toward his next opponent.
The Mer tried to conjure a massive icicle, but Ysgramor was faster, ending the elf’s life before the spell could be completed.
The half-formed icicle dissolved into frosty motes of light, while the Atmoran had to raise his shield against another one already flying toward him.
The shield held, though it bent inward under the impact.
With a single powerful motion, Ysgramor hurled it at an elf who had darted aside.
Once again putting his superior strength to use, he ended the stunned Mer’s wretched life with a few crushing blows.
What drew Ysgramor’s attention away from the battle was the sound of weeping erupting from all around him—from the very places where his warriors had reached.
Several groups of defenders had formed, standing their ground to the last and refusing to let the enemy pass…
But…
Ysgramor could see his people’s strength ebbing away.
There were simply too many attackers, and they were far too powerful.
Their initial surprise at encountering such fierce resistance had faded, and now the elves were fighting in earnest.
The drowsy warriors, caught completely off guard, were no match for them…
More and more Atmorans fell to swords, arrows, or ice.
“My king…” One of Ysgramor’s oldest companions rushed over to him, grimly surveying the battlefield that had splintered into several desperate pockets of resistance while raising his shield against an arrow that punched straight through it.
“Take your sons.
You…
you must tell them!
Tell those still fighting their own kin in Atmora!
Tell them that we have found an enemy…
One common to us all.”
“I… I cannot abandon you.
I brought you here, and I will die here with you,” Ysgramor replied grimly, struggling to suppress the urge to charge back toward the defenders.
“My king!
Ysgramor!
Ysgramor…
you must live.
Your wisdom will help us all…
It will help us avenge—”
The warrior choked on his words, and the Atmoran king’s eyes flew wide as an arrow buried itself deep in his companion’s chest.
Raising his own shield against another volley, Ysgramor clenched his teeth and found his two sons amidst the fighting, battling alongside everyone else.
Yngol and Ylgar…
He knew many now shared the opinion of his fallen companion.
Many would gladly buy him the chance to return…
and take revenge.
“Revenge…
Yes.
Revenge.” Ysgramor’s eyes blazed with fury as he hurried toward where his sons were fighting.
Cutting down yet another elf with a mighty sweep of his sword, he looked at the two boys, eighteen and eleven winters old, standing frozen before him.
“My sons…
We are leaving.”
The words came only with visible effort, and both boys’ eyes widened in disbelief.
It was… an understandable reaction.
He himself had taught them never to retreat in the face of hardship.
“But Father!” the elder, Yngol, protested.
“Do not argue.
We leave…
and we will avenge.
Later.
We will avenge everything.
Otherwise our kin in Atmora will never learn of the mer’s treachery.
They will remain ignorant…
and they will die just as we have.” The tall man spoke through gritted teeth.
“Go, my king!” one of the warriors shouted, joining others who had formed a protective semicircle around Ysgramor and his sons.
“Go and tell them!”
“We will fall, but we will not let you die!” other voices echoed, all saying much the same.
Their escape came with astonishing ease.
After the first ten minutes of fighting, most of the elves of the snow had rushed into the underground chambers where that strange sphere had been discovered.
The rest busied themselves finishing off the last survivors, men and women who willingly sacrificing their lives for the sake of the vengeance yet to come.
Boarding the last longboat, they rowed away beneath the pounding rain, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the city now consumed by flames.
A city whose blaze remained clearly visible even through the storm raging across the sea.
It was not fitting for an Atmoran man to weep, and yet… In those moments, Ysgramor was torn apart by a grief and anguish that no sweet-voiced maiden could ever hope to put into words.
“Tears…
of the Storm…” a woman’s voice whispered into the ears of the father and his sons, and in that very instant, Ysgramor’s tears turned to dark steel, gathering in the bottom of the longboat.
On that day, the Storm itself wept.
And Kyne herself shared the king’s sorrow.
And so, on the following day of their voyage, a miracle occurred.
As the sun began to rise and his eldest son, Yngol, prayed to every god for aid… a final bolt of furious lightning split the heavens, striking the dark metal that lay in the boat—the metal born from Ysgramor’s very tears.
When the blinding light finally faded, the heap of metal had become a colossal axe of solid steel, unlike anything the world had ever seen.
“Wuuthrad is its name, Father,” the astonished Yngol whispered.
Blinking away the afterimage, Ysgramor looked upon the answer to his son’s prayers and the will of Kyne herself.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he allowed the wind to toss his beard before bending down to where the lightning had struck.
Reaching for the axe, the king lifted it into the air with effortless ease.
…The very next instant, savage winds descended upon the longboat, nearly capsizing it.
Through those long—far too long—seconds, Ysgramor felt the winds themselves sweep through his body, bestowing their power upon the newly chosen of the Goddess of Storms.
That day, a new champion of the Aedra was born.
That day, Tamriel’s history gained its most relentless Avenger.
May Auri-El watch over your path, and may your support keep this tale alive.