Note: this is fan-fiction and takes place approximately 60 years after the events of Oblivion, 140 years before the events of Skyrim and 110 years before the Great War. As Oblivion is my favorite game in the TES series, this fan-fic will focus on that.

The Imperial City had seen its share of trouble over the past sixty years. First, the Oblivion Crisis had ravaged the city as Oblivion Gates opened all over the city and Daedra poured forth. Then, Umbriel and its undead army had besieged the city and only by a narrow margin was disaster averted.

But now, sixty years after the Oblivion Crisis and ten years after the Umbriel Crisis, the seat of the Empire was at peace. Under the rule of young Emperor Attrebus Mede, the Empire was at at last stable.  Trade among the Imperial human provinces of Cyrodiil, High Rock, Skyrim and Hammerfell was flourishing. The Thalmor in the south remained within their borders, the Argonians had no intrest in the Empire's affairs and the Dunmer were too weak to cause any trouble.

One afternoon on the 17 of Sun's Height, young Colin was walking to his home in the Imperial City's Temple district. As he did every day on his way home from his tutor, he walked to the Temple of the One. Colin was fascinated by the statue there. Though the Temple had been rebuilt since Mehrunes Dagon had destroyed it, no one saw fit to add a roof over the great dragon statue that had once been Martin Septim before his sacrifice.

Most people living in the city had seen their fill of the statue, and it was usually empty. This day, however, Colin was not alone. Standing in front of the statue gazing up at it was a very old Imperial. His hair was white as the driven snow though short, falling only to his neck. His eyes were blue, but faded as if by time. He was clothed in a simple grey tunic and a pair of brown pants and boots. He leened heavily on a black cane. 

Colin was about to leave when the man spoke to him.

"An inspiring sight, isn't it?" 

Not wanting to be rude, Colin answered:

"It is. Martin is one of my heroes."

The old man turned towards him and smiled.

"Is he, now? I'd wager most boys your age share that belief."

"All the people who saved Tamriel back then are my heroes: Baurus, Jauffre, the Hero of Kvatch..."

The old man laughed at that.

"Ah, Baurus would have let that go to his head, but Jauffre would have been embarrased."

"You knew them?" Colin asked, surprised.

"I did indeed. Not as well as I would have liked, but well enough. They were good men. Jauffre passed on shortly after the Crisis was over, whereas Baurus went on to serve as the Grandmaster of the Blades. He joined Jauffre last year, poor fellow."

"What would the Hero of Kvatch thought? About being admired, I mean, "Colin asked."

The man looked at him and smiled.

"Why, I'd be flattered, of course."

Colin gasped.

"You... you're the Hero? But I thought you'd...aren't you..." he stammered.

"...Old? Yes, yes I am. I was fourty-one when Uriel Septim freed me from that dreary cell, so long ago. Now, I'm over a hundred!" he chuckled. "Ah, but time makes fools of us all, I'm afraid."

Slowly, he walked over to a bench near by the wall. He sat down, while Colin stood staring at him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to offend you."

"How, by speaking the truth? That has never offended me. Yes, I am old. Few enough alive today remember the days of the Septim Emperors. I am one of them." he sighed. "This Mede dynasty... well, I won't live to see how they do." The Hero glanced up at the dragon statue. "For the sake of Martin's sacrifice, I hope they do well."

Colin seated himself next to him.

"I've always wondered, sir, what did you do after you and Martin saved Tamriel?"

"Oh, the historians will tell you many things. That I was the Guildmaster of the Fighter's Guild and Gray Fox of the Thieves Guild. That I was Archmage of the Mage's Guild and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Why, one crazed man in Bravil named Gaius Prentus used to rant I went through a portal into the realm of Sheogorath!" he laughed.

"But, in the end, it matters not. I've not involved myself with the affairs of Tamriel for many decades. I like to live in peace, away from the politics and frenzy of the Guilds." he gazed down at his hands.

"Uriel Septim VII once told me that men are blessed to know their doom, but not the hour. That he was proud to face his apportioned fate, then fall. I never knew what he meant. Back then, I thought he meant destiny, but it is not that, young lad."

"What do you mean?" Colin asked.

"Our paths are not written out before us. The Gods do not choose for us, I've never believed it. They gave us the tools to craft our own paths. What Uriel meant was simple. We know that, in the end, we die. That is our fate. But our lives are in our hands." the Hero said.

Colin turned away and looked up at Martin's statue, the great dragon rearing and roaring his defiance at the sky.

"That's not so bad. I mean, we can't change that we die, but we can make the most of our lives."

Colin looked over at the old man. His head was leaned back against the wall, his cane laid accross his lap, a contented look on his face. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands fell away from his cane, and he stared into the distance. Colin called his name, shook his shoulder, and then ran for the guards.

So the Hero of Kvatch died, in the hundred and first year of his life. A day of mourning was decreed for his funeral by Emperor Attrebus. He was not, as many had expected, laid to rest in the crypts on the Green Emperor Way. Instead, the Emperor had a tomb built beneath Martin's dragon statue in the Temple of the One. After his body was laid to rest, the entrance was sealed permanently and bound with magic. Thus, the two heroes of the Oblivion Crisis lay forever in death next to one another, undisturbed until the ending of the world.

So, this is my first ever fanfic for anything. Please be gentle in the comments.