Ages ago, I started working on a crossover for Skyrim and Dragon Age. The fic was meant to be drabbles, so when a tiny sliver of a plot began to form, I found that I had written myself into a corner. So this is my attempt to start again. This fic will likely be long, violent, and full of dirty words because the Listener is a potty mouth. I will place a warning at the beginning of chapters if they contain anything explicit. But so far, I'm not planning anything too hair-raising (or toe-curling.)

The Listener's footsteps come softer than snowfall as she steps into the College of Winterhold's grand foyer. Her closest companions flank her; Cicero skulks at her side, close enough for their arms to touch, while Luka and Arnbjorn follow a respectable distance behind.

She's been here before. Ages ago, when she had to break in and raid the library for information on the Elder Scrolls, she took care of the resident Thalmor just because she wanted to see the haughty bastard squirm. The thought of his death fills her with a familiar feeling of hunger and giddy malice, and she finds herself hoping the College has acquired yet another Thalmor advisor for her to play with.

A Breton woman approaches her, pulling her from her fantasy. She is lovely, despite the lines of worry creasing her brow. "Are you her?" she asks, warily eyeing Lumen's Daedric armor. "Are you the Dragonborn?"

"Unfortunately," Lumen says, but the sight of the woman's perturbed expression prompts her to add, "yes, I'm the Dragonborn."

The woman seems pleased with that, and she offers Lumen her hand. "My name is Mirabelle Ervine. Thank you for coming at such short notice, I'm sure you're wondering why I invited you here."

"Lumen," she says, grasping the woman's hand. "And I think I may know why— your magic has gone wonky, hasn't it?"

Mirabelle purses her lips, clearly unimpressed with Lumen's terminology. "It has become unpredictable and discordant, yes. There's more I must tell you, but I wonder— are you a mage? I've heard many stories about you, but none mention any magical abilities beyond Shouting."

"No, but my friend is." She motions to Luka. The tall, skinny Nord tries to vanish within the folds of his cloak. After being expelled from the College on charges of necromancy and murder, he's done his best to avoid any trips there. "Magic is not my strong point."

"Magical ability or no, I think you can help us." Mirabelle motions for them to follow her. "Come, we need to go down to the shore. The fastest way is through the Midden."

They follow Mirabelle through the long, winding hallways of stone. Small orbs of light dance above them, lighting the way. A few curious students stop to stare at the infamous Dragonborn and her companions. The hum of excited whispers follows in their wake as they breeze through the College and step into the Midden.

"I don't mean to be rude," Lumen begins, striving to keep her temper in check. "But I would like to know why you asked me here. You're not the only person in Skyrim who needs my assistance." Which is a fact that annoys her to no end. She had hoped she could shed the mantle of Dragonborn once Alduin was dead, but she's had no such luck. Tales of her 'heroism' have spread, and now everyone needs the Dragonborn's assistance for one reason or another. She ignores most of the pleas, but Luka had urged her to assist the college. "Something is wrong with my magic!" he had cried. "This might be the only way to find out what's going on!" And then he had the audacity to make puppy eyes at her, and she had no choice but to comply. The Listener does not have many weaknesses, but puppy dog eyes would be one of them.

"An anomaly appeared above the ice fields just a week ago," Mirabelle explains. "Exactly when everyone's magic started behaving strangely. I believe these two events are connected. I gathered by best mages to study the anomaly, but— there was a problem." Mirabelle stops by an old oak and iron door, her hand resting on the handle. "The Thalmor have noticed the anomaly as well."

"Of course they have," Lumen sighs.

"I asked you here because you have no political allegiances, although rumors suggest you have sided with the Stormcloaks. But I find it hard to believe that a Bosmer would throw in her lot with the likes of them." The Breton's eyes dart around nervously as if she is expecting eavesdroppers. "If you could— get rid of the Thalmor forces guarding the anomaly, I would be forever in your debt."

Cicero giggles. "Most people contact the Dark Brotherhood when there's killing to be done."

"I'm not asking you to kill them," she snaps. "But if it comes to that, so be it. The anomaly is a volatile construct. Sometimes it is dormant, and other times it spews a strange energy. But whatever it is, it is dangerous, and I dread to think what the Dominion might do if they learn to control this thing."

"So you want me to get rid of the Thalmor so you and your mages can study this thing?" Lumen grins, giddy at the opportunity to shed some Thalmor blood. "Can you be trusted with this anomaly?"

Mirabelle scoffs. "I haven't condemned an entire religion and started a war."

"That's a fair point," Lumen concedes. "But why are you asking me to do this? Why not your jarl?"

"We did ask him. Jarl Korir claimed he wanted to send his men after the Thalmor, but Ulfric ordered Korir to stand down, fearing this confrontation may escalate into all-out war. There have been tentative peace talks between the Stormcloaks and the Empire, as you know. I would guess Ulfric doesn't want to end the war with the Empire only to begin one with the Dominion."

"He may, yet. The Aldmeri Dominion won't accept any agreement between the Empire and Skyrim as long as Talos worship is still a thing."

"All the more reason to keep this strange power out of the Thalmor's grasp." The mage wrings her hands together nervously. "I can pay you— for this service and your discretion."

"How many soldiers are down there?" Lumen asks, her mind already working on the logistics of the battle to come.

"It's a group of about five or so. It's not a large group, but it's more than what my students and colleagues can handle. We're academics, not battle mages."

Lumen glances over her shoulder at her companions. Luka is doing his level best to become one with this cloak, but Arnbjorn and Cicero are eagerly waiting for her command. "What do you say? Are you boys ready for a fight?"

Arnbjorn smiles, his teeth flashing in the darkness. "Shouldn't we try diplomacy first?"

"Kinda hard to have a polite conversation with anyone who considers you a lesser being." Lumen smirks at him before she turns back to Mirabelle. "This won't take long."

"I suspect not," she says, the faintest of grins playing on her lips as she studies the men at Lumen's back. "Good luck, Dragonborn. I will wait here for your return."

The four assassins make their way toward the shore, the snow crumbling soundlessly beneath their enchanted boots. They do not have to travel far to find the Thalmor, or the anomaly Mirabelle told them about. A strange green light glimmers above the frozen water, casting an eerie undersea glow across the ice. Even stranger, there are tiny rocks float upward toward the light, as if it is trying to draw them in.

"Oh, that is weird," Luka whispers. "It looks like a portal of some sort, but—"

"Come on," Lumen hisses. "You can gawk at it as long as you like once those Thalmor are dead."

Arnbjorn rushes ahead, his axe in his hands and his teeth clenched in a feral grin. Luka is right behind him, and Cicero darts around the small camp, hoping to remain unseen long enough to launch a surprise attack. Despite her excitement, Lumen hesitates for a heartbeat. Altmer are her favorite prey. But there is something about the Thalmor's solemn, black robes that still frighten her— will always frighten her.

"I am the Night Mother's daughter," she tells herself. "And I will not be afraid."

She charges into the fray, her Daedric daggers in her hands. The air is charged and smells of ozone thanks to the discharge of a dozen spells. One by one, the Thalmor fall. Arnbjorn cleaves a guard in two with his giant axe, Cicero's daggers are quick and deadly, cutting through flesh as easily as a knife cuts through butter, and Luka cackles as he calls lightning forth from a clear sky and incinerates a charging justiciar. Lumen chases down a guard who thought to run, but he doesn't get far. He dies with a dagger in his kidney and a blade opening his throat.

The silence that follows the battle is deafening. There is only the gentle lapping of the sea, and the hiss of blood melting through the snow. A coppery scent fills the air, and Lumen breathes in deep as she offers a silent prayer to Sithis. She may have killed these Thalmor as the Dragonborn, but the Listener would be remiss if she didn't offer their souls to the Dread Lord.

Once her offerings are made, she scans the camp to check on her companions. Cicero and Arnbjorn are cleaning their blades, while Luka stands on the shore, staring up at the strange, green light. It looks as if someone cut through the very air itself. The light is a long, thin tear just dangling in the air a few feet above Luka's head. Small rocks and bits of ice circle it, and wisps of energy whirl around it. The air feels strange here; magically charged and so very wrong.

"Well, that looks bad— whatever it is." Lumen makes her way across the camp, careful not to trip over the dead bodies. "Any ideas?"

Luka turns away from the tear. "Remember when I said my magic felt strange? This is the cause. It seems like my link to Aetherius has become disrupted somehow. I can still call forth my magic, but it's not as strong as it usually is."

"This might be a dumb question, but where does your magic come from?"

"Magic flows to Nirn through little tears in the veil of Oblivion; Magnus and the stars. There is no limit as to how much magic one may draw on. The only limitation is our physiology, which is why elves tend to be better casters than humans—"

"Except for Lumen!" Cicero adds with a cackle.

Lumen grits her teeth, but she does her best to ignore Cicero. "Please continue, Luka."

"Well, as of right now there seems to be a limitation which was not there before, and I think this anomaly has something to do with it."

"Is it like the Time Wound?" She narrows her eyes at the light. "It looks similar enough."

"I don't think so," he says, turning back to look at the light undulating in the air. "It's a shame you didn't bring your Elder Scroll. Perhaps that is what is needed to fix it... or make it worse."

Her stomach tightens at the mere thought of reading that scroll again. "So what is it?"

"Like I said, it's not like the Time Wound. There, you could only see into the past with the help of the Elder Scroll. But this looks— it feels like something more. Like a portal. But I can't even wager a guess as to where it will lead or why it's altering my magic. It is likely a realm of Oblivion, but I do not know which one."

Feeling suddenly reckless, Lumen says, "Let's throw something into it."

"What?" Luka looks incredulous for a moment, but then— "Oh, that's a fantastic idea!"

"No," Arnbjorn says. "No it is not. Leave the damn thing alone."

"Cicero must agree," he says, the manic trilling fading away into concern. "It is not wise to go around tossing things into unknown realms. You never know what might come out!"

"Cicero has a point," Luka says, chewing on his lip for a moment. "Oh, I know! You should try Shouting at it!"

Lumen purses her lips in thought. It is reckless, yes— but it's not a terrible idea. Which Shout to use, though? Unrelenting Force probably won't do anything but attract ice wolves, and Fire Breath will be just as useless. "I'm not sure if there is a Shout that will have any effect on this thing," she says. "None that I know."

"Make one up? If the Tongues could create a Shout to bring down Alduin, then surely the Dragonborn of this era can create her own Shouts, too!"

"Cicero would appreciate it if Luka would stop filling the Listener's head with bad ideas!"

"Our job is done," Arnbjorn adds, siding with Cicero. "The Thalmor are dead, let's go collect our payment and go home. Let the mages deal with this thing."

"Look, I don't want to make this my problem, but I can't just walk away. Daedra have tried to break into Mundus before, and I can't just ignore it if it's happening again. If any god or spirit is going to destroy the world, then it will be by Sithis' command. Not become some Daedric Prince decided they were bored!"

"What if you're wrong?" Arnbjorn asks, his eyes flicking to the anomaly then back to her. "What if this doesn't lead to a realm of Oblivion?"

"Maybe nothing will happen," she says, shrugging. "Or we all die horribly. One or the other."

"Thanks, tidbit. I feel so much better now." he sighs, resigned to his task of protecting the foolish elf from herself. Again. "All right. Go for it. I suppose if this goes badly I'll be too dead to care."

Lumen grins. "That's the spirit!"

"Be wary," Luka says, calling fire to his hands. "We don't know what will happen when Miss Lumen Shouts at it. It may close, or the Daedra might take offense and come for a fight."

Arnbjorn reaches for his axe. "So are we preventing an Oblivion crisis or starting one?"

"We shall find out soon enough." Cicero reaches for his daggers, willing to fight even though he thinks this is a doomed venture. "As much as Cicero hates to admit it, this problem will not go away on its own. But Cicero gladly helped his sweet Listener defeat Alduin, and he will help again with whatever this is! He just hopes it will be resolved quickly! Mother needs tending…"

"Okay, we're ready!" Arnbjorn shouts, cutting Cicero off before he goes into a lengthy description of exactly what he needs to do for the Night Mother. He has come to respect the Night Mother and the old ways— and Cicero, to an extent. But he'd rather not endure a detailed account on the trials of corpse care.

A bitter wind chafes at her skin, but she pays it little mind. She focuses on the words and the power that live within her. "I know the word for destroy, and sky, but what do I call this thing? Is it a tear or a doorway? Does it matter?" She can feel each and every stolen dragon soul surging through her body as she reaches for the Thu'um.

"Al Lok Vaaz!"

The Thu'um wavers in the midst of her self-doubt. Small, hairline cracks form in the ice beneath their feet as the Shout ripples through the air. The tear in the sky sputters, spewing forth what looks to be dripping, green light, but it fizzles and vaporizes upon hitting the water. A strange, shrieking issues forth from the tear, but it does not vanish as she hoped it would.

A muscle in Lumen's jaw twitches as she grits her teeth. The Voice is a manifestation of her will, not unlike Luka's magic, and it will not work if she doubts herself. This is no time for uncertainty. If this is a portal to Oblivion, and another Oblivion Crisis is on the horizon, then she must not lose her nerve. She killed Alduin, not because he threatened all of existence, but because he threatened her world; the Night Mother, the Brotherhood, and Cicero. No Aedra or Daedra or anything in-between will take away the things she loves, and so she puts all her rage and all her love into this Shout, prepared to rend the heavens in two if it comes to that!

"Al Lok Vaaz!"

The sheer force of the Thu'um rips the air from her lungs and burns her throat. The ice beneath her feet cracks and splits apart, but she has no time to react, or to run— because a blinding, white light engulfs her. She realizes, distantly, that she can hear screaming and shouting. As if a battle is raging all around her, and she could see it if her vision hadn't gone so blurry—

Within the span of one breath to the next, everything fades to black, and the Last Dragonborn knows no more.

Mirabelle Ervine stands in the knee-deep snow, gaping at the now empty shoreline. One moment, the Dragonborn is Shouting at the anomaly, and the next, she and her companions are gone. There are no bodies left behind, save for those of the fallen Thalmor. Mirabelle can only assume the Dragonborn, and her companions were drawn into the anomaly.

"So it's a portal, then," Savos Aren says, unaffected by what just happened. "I figured as much."

"Of course it's a portal," Mirabelle snaps. "I only wanted the Dragonborn to deal with the Thalmor! I didn't think she'd be so brash— so foolish—"

"Calm yourself, Mirabelle." He places his hand on her shoulder. "The Nords claim she chased Alduin to Sovngarde and defeated him there. Perhaps she can sort this out, too."

"Don't tell me you believe that nonsense," she snaps, momentarily forgetting who she's talking to. "It just seems so outrageous."

"My dear, Mirabelle," Savos chuckles, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You are a mage. You can draw power from Aetherius and manifest it physically, and you doubt this? Did you, or did you not just witness the Dragonborn using the Voice?"

She sighs, feeling admonished. "You know what I mean. A hero defeating an evil dragon in Sovngarde — of all places — just sounds like something out of a silly, Nordic legend."

"Just as there is a glimmer of truth in every lie, there is truth to legends as well." The corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles indulgently at her. "Stranger things have happened, and I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss her. There have been fewer dragon attacks, and I believe that is her doing. If anyone can walk through Oblivion and live, it's the Dragonborn."

"May the Divine's watch over her— wherever she is," Mirabelle sighs, briefly glancing at the snow collecting the sleeves of her robe. "I'll ask Jarl Korir to assign some guards to watch the anomaly once we clear the bodies away. Someone should be here to greet the Dragonborn if— when she returns."

"He's going to ask what happened to the Thalmor," he says, scanning the bodies scattered around in the snow. "Do you think he would believe us if we told him the Dragonborn asked them to leave, and they did?"

"No," she laughs. "But that's what I'll tell him."

Savos nods. "We should write to every court mage in Skyrim. This may not be the only anomaly, and if there are others, they should be guarded."

"Oh, Savos—" Mirabelle presses her hand to her chest, her good humor fading. "Could this be the beginning of the end? Could it be another Oblivion crisis?"

"I hope not." His crimson eyes reflect the eerie green glow of the anomaly, but he quickly tears them away, fearing to look upon it for too long. "Come inside, Mirabelle. Drevis and I will take care of the bodies."

"All right," she says, casting one last look at the light before following the Arch Mage back to the college. "Good luck, Dragonborn. I hope what they say about you is true, for all our sakes."

Al, Lok, Vaaz translates to Destroy, Sky, Tear. Talk about a problematic Shout. Way to go, Lumen.