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The Oblivion Crisis was over. Martin Septim - dear, sweet, passionate, honest, bookish Martin - was dead. Or ascended, or mantled, or whatever he'd done. He had been, he had changed Veran's life irreparably, and now there was a statue of a dragon where he'd spoken his last words. Veran stood there until his knees gave out, and then he knelt in the mud as the rain replaced the tears he could no longer shed.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Baurus - dear, sweet, valiant, wracked with guilt Baurus - found Veran at the foot of the statue and took him home. When Veran could muster tears again they cried together for he who they both had lost. Slowly, so slowly, they picked up their shattered pieces and arranged them in the semblance of people again. Veran trusted him more than anyone else living, loved him more than anyone else living including himself, but his gaze kept drawing toward the sky. He wondered, in the quiet nights when Baurus could sleep and he could not, if he would ever be whole again.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. A strange door manifested in the bay, and Veran heard the whispers like a siren call. It had only been a few weeks, three months at most. What he would learn upon his return was not yet visible, not yet strange nausea and cravings. His steps were taken in slumber, but he walked through that door fully awake and aware of the hole gouged invisible in his chest. He was certain he would not be missed, despite the otherwise evidence.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Veran emerged from the strange door to find Baurus waiting, a woman waiting with him. Her name was Narina, and she was beautiful, and when Veran looked at her with changed eyes, he saw the friend she had been to Baurus in times past and present. He had no reservations. She would be a good mother to their children. And he would grow to love her just as much.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Berynn did not have her dead-ascended father's blue eyes, and it was a blessing. She understood Veran's oddities better than anyone else, and that was both blessing and curse. The babe that would grow to be a boy named Bacaro in his teen years was a blessing of a different sort. They grew. They flourished and fought and laughed and played and then they were adults and wed with children of their own on the way.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Veran's hair was turning grey. Everything was slipping, slowing, speeding all at once. He had done what he asked for. He had been a husband, father, a grandfather. His time was closing. Baurus knew, Narina knew, Berynn knew without being told. Damn Akatosh. Damn him again and again and again. But a bargain was a bargain and mercy was time. Baurus and Narina, he would come back for them at the last moment and if they agreed they would be his Duke and Duchess. Berynn was not to be his in death.
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Veran walked through the door a wandering, strange, mad old man. The Oblivion Crisis was over. Humanity fell away like scales and with it so much grief that never healed. The Oblivion Crisis was over. A knot of it remained, buried deep, bound by promise and memory. The Oblivion Crisis was over. The Oblivion Crisis was over. The Oblivion Crisis was over.
And finally, he was at peace.