The Unforeseen Conclusion
"King Ibnor," the lead Thalmor elf hissed, his voice now a venomous rasp, "you dare to defy the will of the Aldmeri Dominion?"
Ibnor met his furious gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.
"What do you think?" His voice was a calm, audacious challenge.
The emissary's sneer deepened, revealing teeth clenched in barely suppressed fury.
"Do you truly think we came here unprepared, King of the North? That the Aldmeri Dominion, in its wisdom, would allow such insolence to stand unchallenged?"
Ibnor smiled as he prepared another cutting retort. But just as the words formed on his tongue, he saw the Thalmor's hand dart into his robe and took out a darkened parchment, an ancient scroll.
As he unfurled it, the air in the grand hall didn't just crackle—it shrieked with unseen energy, a sound like tearing silk. A faint, sickly green glow emanated from the script on the scroll, reflecting in the Thalmor's eyes as he shouted, his voice gaining an unnatural resonance that seemed to rip the very fabric of reality.
"Great Hermaeus Mora, Prince of Fate and Knowledge, I call upon thee! Witness this defiance and claim the knowledge that defies all order!"
A suffocating silence descended upon the chamber, heavy and absolute. The vibrant light from the stained-glass windows seemed to dim, swallowed by an encroaching shadow. A moment stretched into an eternity, and then, from the very air itself, a monstrous form began to coalesce. Tendrils of inky black, tipped with glowing green eyes, writhed and coiled. A massive, bulbous eye, glistening with unnatural intelligence, opened in the center of the swirling mass.
Hermaeus Mora had arrived.
Every being in the hall—Thalmor, Jarls, guards, even Harin, poised and ready for a fight—froze. It was as if time itself had shattered, each person locked in a tableau of shock and horror. Ibnor, too, found himself utterly paralyzed, unable to move, unable to breathe, his mind screaming in silent protest.
The Daedric Prince's voice, a cacophony of whispers and roars that resonated directly in Ibnor's mind, bypassed all physical ears.
"Ah, the anomaly. The fragment from beyond the veil. Your origin… it has been a most fascinating subject of study since our first fleeting encounter. This 'Earth' you speak of, this alternate dimension… a rich tapestry of knowledge indeed. I have gleaned much, but the source… the unique anomaly of your existence here… that remains the ultimate, tantalizing mystery."
A single, colossal tentacle unfurled from the swirling mass, reaching out towards Ibnor. The air around it shimmered, distorting.
"You are such a fascinating being, Ibnor. And your presence here, a delightful disruption. But the threads of fate... they are complex, are they not? Perhaps it is time to disentangle them, to observe the true nature of your being, unconstrained by this realm."
A wave of unfathomable power washed over Ibnor. He felt an agonizing restriction, as if invisible bonds were tightening around his very essence, around his soul. His body screamed in protest, a sensation unlike any pain he had ever known, far beyond the physical blows he had endured, deeper than the emotional anguish he had faced. This was his soul tearing, trying to break free from something, to escape its current vessel or reality.
The world around him began to twist, not just visually, but physically. The grand hall warped into impossible geometries. He felt his own form contorting, stretching, reforming in ways that defied mortal understanding. The agony intensified, a crescendo of pure, unadulterated torment that consumed his every thought, every sensation.
Then, unable to bear the searing, metaphysical pain, Ibnor's consciousness simply snapped. The twisting world, the monstrous form of Mora, the screams of his own being—all dissolved into an absolute, merciful blackout.
After what felt like an eternity, Ibnor stirred, groggy and disoriented. His ears picked up a faint, distant rumble, a symphony of unfamiliar hums and whirs.
"Cars? Traffic? Why do they sound somewhat foreign?" He thought.
Then, an incessant, tinny beep drilled into his skull.
... beep... beep ... beep... beep
He forced his eyelids open. The room that swam into focus was a stark, white space, clean lines and minimalist decor. His gaze drifted to the source of the persistent noise – a sleek, black smartphone, its screen a blinding rectangle of light displaying a blaring alarm. He reached out to silence it. Then he paused.
"Weird… why is the feeling of turning off the alarm is oddly familiar. Like I haven't been doing it for a while now." He muttered inwardly.
Then, a sudden, jarring clarity.
Skyrim. The coronation.
The Thalmor.
Hermaeus Mora.
His pupil shrunk to the size of a needle hole.
He jumped out of bed instinctively, his mind still reeling, already spreading his perception wide, searching for threats, for magic, for Harin. But instead of landing with a warrior's grace, his legs tangled, and he stumbled. His elbow struck the sharp corner of a wooden wardrobe with a jarring thud.
A sharp, undeniable throb shot up his arm, raw and unyielding.
"Tssss!!" He inhaled the air through his teeth.
And with that pain, he noticed that gone was the powerful, battle-hardened body that had wielded steel and channeled magic with effortless might, replaced now by a frail, regular human form. It told him he was awake, alive, breathing. Most importantly, the mundane, aching reality he was experiencing now was undeniably real.
He was not in Skyrim.
A cold dread seeped into him.
He slumped against the wall. He knows he is not dreaming. The still throbbing pain in his elbow made sure of that. His heart was hammering against his ribs.
Flashes of memories played in his mind. The faces of Illia and Brina, the boisterous laughter of Balgruuf, the clang of steel in battle, Harin's emerald eyes, the comforting weight of his crown.
"Could it all have been a mere illusion?"
The coronation, the Jarls' astonished faces, his defiant speech to the Thalmor, their insidious trap.
"It had all been so vivid, so undeniably real..."
His kingdom, his hard-won purpose, everything he had built, all gone in a puff of smoke. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers finding no silver crown, no soft wolf furs, just the familiar texture of his own scalp.
"Was it… really just a dream? A long, impossibly real dream?" He asked himself, unconvinced.
Feeling lost and weakened, he put on some random shirt and pants. They feel strangely ordinary against his skin. He walked out of the house. He doesn't know where but he needs to get out from there, it's suffocating him.
He walked aimlessly, leaving his apartment building and stepping out into the familiar, yet suddenly alien, concrete jungle of Kuching. The roar of actual cars, the distant chatter of human voices speaking Malay and English, the mundane rush of city life—it was far cry from Skyrim's wild beauty, its snow-capped peaks and ancient forests.
The world felt wrong. The air was too humid, the sunlight too harsh, the buildings too uniform.
"No... This couldn't be real. It had to be a trick, a powerful illusion cast by Mora, or perhaps a lingering effect of my "travel" between realms."
He kept expecting a Dragon's roar, the chill of mountain air, or the scent of pine. Every second he walked, he mentally scanned for a hidden spell, a shimmer in the air, anything to prove this was temporary. It was a nightmare, surely. A very, very long and vivid nightmare.
"I guess I'm really back at Earth…" He said, clenching his fist that they turned white. He could no longer deny it.
A sharp pang echoed in his chest, a deep ache that had nothing to do with his elbow. He clutched at his shirt, feeling the fabric. No armor, no weapon, no crown. Once again, the memories flooded him: the cheers of the court, the solemn bows of the High Lords, Harin's proud blush.
"Was it all just a coping mechanism for my ordinary life? Had I imagined such a vibrant world and love because my real life was so... lacking?" A wave of crushing guilt washed over him for even thinking it could be fake.
His confusion morphed into a burning anger. Anger at Mora, for this cruel jest. Anger at himself, for being so easily deceived, for being helpless. He clenched his fists, wishing for his sword, for his Thu'um, for any power to shatter this false reality.
"I had built a kingdom! I finally have a woman that I love with all my heart! God damn it!" He roared and punched a nearby wall.
THUD!
His knuckle's skin tore and bled. It hurts, but negligible compared to the pain in his heart.
"Let me go back!" he thought, a desperate plea echoing in his mind.
"Let me return to them! I'll face the Thalmor, I'll even serve Mora if I must, just let it be real!"
He tried to remember specific spells, specific incantations, anything that might transport him back. Nothing. Only the mundane hum of city traffic. He kept on walking, without any purpose or destinations.
After wandering for a while, he chanced upon a park, a small oasis amidst the urban sprawl. He found a bench and sank onto it, watching the mundane world pass by.
The anger drained away, leaving behind a cold, heavy emptiness. His mind replayed every detail: the scent of Frost Salts in the alchemy lab, the metallic tang of fresh blood on a battleground, the soft weight of Harin's hand in his.
"They are too vivid to be called a dream, but not clear enough to be called a memory. But it was so real that I can call them my life. And now that life is gone." He muttered to himself.
He was alone. Utterly, profoundly alone in a world that felt devoid of meaning or purpose.
"What was the point of being a king, a hero, if it all vanished like mist?" The thought of facing this ordinary life, knowing what he had lost, was a burden heavier than any dragon.
For the first time since he woke up, he took a good look at his surroundings. Children played on swings, an elderly couple strolled hand-in-hand, a street vendor called out his wares.
"This was real. This boring, predictable, safe reality. And that meant... she wasn't." He mumbled to himself.
The thought twisted his gut, a phantom ache for a love that now felt like a figment of his imagination. He tried to accept it, to rationalize it all as a vivid fantasy, a coping mechanism for a life he hadn't yet found purpose in.
He, the King of the North, the conqueror of Jarls, the man who defied the Thalmor, was nothing more than… this. Just Ibnor, in Kuching. The sheer, overwhelming ordinariness of it threatened to drown him.
He sat there, eyes absorbing the views and the people while his mind wandered around. It wasn't until the sunset and the commotion of street hawkers setting up stalls for the night market that he came to his senses. Taking a deep breath, he exhales just as slow, trying to accept his new yet old reality.
Just as the resignation began to settle, a familiar buzzing startled him. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, his gaze falling on the incoming call.
The name on the screen was simply "Bunny."
"Bunny?"His brows furrowed in confusion.
The name felt vaguely familiar, yet utterly out of place. He certainly didn't remember saving anyone as 'Bunny'. He swiped the screen, bringing the phone to his ear.
"He… Hello…?" he stammered, his voice a dry, uncertain rasp.
"Oppa!" A voice, melodic and familiar, yet utterly impossible, filled his ear. "Where are you? Did you forget about our date today?"
Ibnor's world tilted. Disbelief warred with a profound wave of happiness and relief. Unknowingly, tears ran down his face. He wanted to reply but he couldn't. He choked.
"Oppa? Are you there?" the voice asked again, a hint of concern creeping into its usual cheerful tone.
Gathering all his strength and will power, he suppressed his chaotic emotions, leaving only one.
"Ha-Rin?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with one emotion, hopeful. "Is that you?"
"Of course it's me. Oppa? What's wrong? Are you alright?"
***
The End.