Eventually his legs gave out.

The earth was blessedly cool against his hot skin, as if it could soothe the burning in his lungs and the dull ache of his wounds. The sparse grass tickled his hands as he clawed at the ground to force himself to his feet again. Gasping for breath, he spared only a quick glance behind him before he took off again, despite having lost sight of his pursuers. He refused to allow himself to hope they had given up.

The arrow in his thigh suddenly burns white-hot now, as if a hot iron had been shoved in the meat of his leg, and he makes a strangled gasp before collapsing to the ground again. Coughing raggedly, he manages to get to his knees, ignoring the blood and spittle he'd hacked up. His left hand, the one not holding his sword, shakes as he tried to call upon his magic again, but it remains stubbornly unresponsive. The empty hand drops to his side as he sits back on his heels, body swaying slightly. Perhaps he had been too hasty to shed his pack in his flight, but that thought was as much help to him now as his depleted magicka reserves.

He ends up crawling on all fours to a sturdy looking pine tree and all but falling against the wood, nearly as wide as himself. His battered body protests, but he has no energy left to even cry out. Resting his head against the tree, he finds himself choking out a breathless laugh to the uncaring forest around him. Funny, really, sitting against a tree while his lifeblood seeps through broken leather and beaten chainmail into Skyrim's uncaring soil. He has no company but the afternoon rays of Magnus on his dying body and the cool air around him. In truth, it's more than he deserves.

He swallows, little more than a dry heave, really, and lets his gaze wander to the sky. Perhaps he will live just long enough to see Masser and Secundus rise over the mountains to the east. That would be nice. The whispering of the wind in the trees teases his ears, almost like a lover's whispered promise. It was alike a soft melody sung only for him, a soothing balm to his aching body and futile assurance that everything would be alright. It was calming. Peaceful, even.

Yes, far more than he deserved.

The whispering wind seemed to pick up, only as it grows in volume, he realizes it is not wind at all, but a melody nonetheless, clear notes floating softly through the air from a stunning voice. The exhaustion has settled well into his bones, making it a struggle simply to turn his head, but he manages. His breath, weak as it is, does not catch in his throat from the pain, but rather the sight of the singer herself.

She seems to almost glide over the forest's carpet of springy pine needles, this goddess, for that is surely what she is. Barefoot and clad in a soft blue robe that reaches to her ankles, she sings softly, yet sadly, clear blue eyes watching the darkening sky as her hands rest on a simple cord tied around her slim waist. Her hair falls between her shoulder blades in a single simple braid, dark as ebony, and her cheeks hold a slight rosy glow in the cool northern air.

This, he does not deserve, he knows. Wretched creatures like him do not deserve to lay eyes on such gorgeous things. He closes his eyes and turns away, as if that will dismiss the beautiful, taunting figure. Still, he hears her song, and he allows himself to, because he is dying, and perhaps he has earned that, if nothing else.

Oh, I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes…

Shifting slightly against the tree turns out to be a mistake, as the broken arrowhead in his shoulderblade is suddenly twisted to one side, causing him to cry out none-to-quietly before he can stop himself. The singing cuts out abruptly as he smiles tightly to himself. He did always have a penchant for ruining everything.

A sharp intake of breath nearby reveals he's been discovered, and he lazily glances toward her, oddly feeling as if he'd been caught with his hand in the sweetroll jar. Caught seeing something he had no right to witness, more like. Truly, she looked even more beautiful up close, the sky-blue eyes that were currently narrowed at his pathetic form entrancing him as much as her beautiful voice had. Unfortunately, they did not distract him from the unnatural frost wafting off her bare hands.

He should panic, he thinks, at least feel the flush of adrenaline at being found by a witch in the middle of the woods, in addition to being injured. The natural response to a threat. Instead, there's nothing. Just an empty feeling, like the exhaustion has traveled all the way up to his head and left his mind too slow to react.

Perhaps it was the blood loss. Or the arrows in him. Or maybe it was that she couldn't really do anything to a man dying already. He chuckled to himself at the dry joke, the sound forming more of a strained wheeze from his lips. The witch looks at him in an odd mixture of concern, suspicion and… something else. It's a bit hard to discern the look on someone's face when every breath in painful and dark spots are dancing in from the edges of the vision and it's so cold-

She takes a cautious step toward him.

He cracks a bloodied grin. "Seems my life is in your hands, witch," he manages to rasp.

A flash of something crosses her face, but it's gone before he can figure it out. Nonetheless, she dispels her magic, leaving both parties eyeing each other warily. Her eyes flickered over his wounded form, brow knit in concern.

Was it the blood? It's not like it was all his, really.

"I can heal you," she suddenly says, straightening herself in a way that looks conscious. "But I need something from you," she quickly adds, to his raised eyebrow.

He gave her a long look. Making a deal with a witch in the depths of a forest sounded like the beginning of a bad story or a warning to unruly children. Certainly not a situation he would have ever thought to be real, much less a part of. Unfortunately, with the situation being very much real and consequential to him, it demanded a bit more thought on the matter. Abruptly, a worrying thought came to mind.

"N-not giving you my soul," he coughed before he'd thought that particular line through.

She gave him a confused look before a smile broke her frown and giggle escaped her lips. She quickly clapped her hands over her mouth, looking adorably mortified.

That was a cute look, he decided, before he booted that thought back to the dark corner of his mind from whence it had come.

"I… no, I don't need your soul," she said, a smile still tugging one corner of her lips. "I need your help. You are a mercenary?" She said more seriously.

He gave her a blank look and managed a half shrug. She didn't miss the pained look across his features at the movement.

"Well, you can fight, right?"

Nod.

"That's what I need from you; to fight," she declared, having schooled herself back to the mysterious-witch look.

An interesting proposition, though for all he knew he'd end up in a cauldron somewhere, sharing the boiling water with a daedra heart, a bottle of skooma, and the ass end of a slaughterfish. Perhaps he could name a price, if she truly needed his help. Though he fast decided that a dying man values few things.

"For a kiss," he said suddenly. "I will help you." Might as well make this a true tale.

She crosses her arms, seemingly taken aback by the request. "Saving your life isn't enough?"

He shrugged and chuckled, which quickly turned into a hacking cough that left blood and drool hanging attractively off his lips.

His eyes were still working enough to see the way she worried her lower lip with her teeth and seemed to look through him for a moment. The way she hadn't just given up and frozen him into a block of Imperial man was also telling. Her eyes flicked back to his she hesitantly took a step closer.

"I need your word. On the gods, whichever you worship."

He manages to rasp out the promise, slightly unnerved by her intense look. The pervasive sense of missing something was hard to ignore at this point. Witches didn't just approach dying men in the forest and strike a deal for their sword-arm with altruism on their minds.

He's pulled out of his thoughts as she lets out a sudden breath and deflates slightly, as if a weight had been lifted off of her. She murmurs a soft thank you that he almost misses before she kneels next to him and begins her part of the deal. She apologizes softly as the arrows come out first, and he tastes blood – more of it, anyway – as he bites through the inside of his cheek. Still, the sight of the arrows out of his body lifts his spirits somewhat. Next, the softly glowing light emanates from her hands easily enough, the restoration magicka feeling much like warm sunlight traveling about his body. The disconcerting feeling of his skin closing is as uncomfortable as always, but his eyes stay on her face, drawn as it was in concentration. Her absently notices the flush in her cheeks remained.

Soon enough it was done, and they both stood. Or tried to. The witch, perhaps weakened by such a large use of magicka at once, stumbled as she rose and fell into him, nearly knocking him over. Surprisingly, he managed to catch the both of them, despite some of his newly-healed muscles protesting the action. The top of her head reached just to his nose, filling his senses with something vaguely floral that he reflexively breathed in, and decided he liked. He realized he'd been holding her too long when she pulled back slightly, eyes filled with apprehension.

He abruptly released her and stepped back, muttering an apology, but the apprehensive look remained. Her arms were crossed again and her posture tense, as if expecting him to attack.

"I gave you my word," he reminded her slowly. If she doubted him, would she attack? Her magical abilities put him at a distinct disadvantage in direct combat, especially with the ability to slow him down with ice magics. Should it come to a fight, he would have to close the distance and keep it, cutting her down before she could bring anything too powerful into play. Speed was of the essence in fighting mages, especially without heavy plate to protect oneself. His hand carefully came to rest on the hilt of the sword he'd sheathed in what he hoped was a casual-looking movement.

She nodded absently; her eyes fixed on something below his own. What could she-

Ah.

"You don't need to-"

"I agreed," she reminded him, or perhaps herself. Before he can protest again, she's stepped up to him, leaving barely a hand's width separating them. Her eyes stay locked below his, and he can only stand stiffly as she slowly raises her lips to his. They're cool against his own, is the first thing he notices, but just as quickly it's over. A chaste, fleeting thing. For a long moment he only blinks and tries to recall the feeling.

He doesn't meet her gaze, not caring to see the disgust in it. She says nothing, and that's fine.

"Come." She gestures in a seemingly random direction before setting off. He nods, even though she can't see it, and follows without a word.

He keeps just slightly behind and to the left of her, right hand still resting on the hilt of his blade.