II.

The Man who Becomes a Wolf.

'There are things you should know about Hircine,' says Elien.

You sit in a long, thin room that runs along the side of the house. There are no windows, though if they were Elien would have the shutters closed.

Elien lights some candles, shrunken, fat things wallowing in their own wax. It does little to shift the oppressive atmosphere.

You take a deep breath, and feel like your lungs have inhaled darkness.

Elien pushes aside a calcinator, and a stained mortar, and plonks his glass of wine down on a table riddled with cuts and burns like pox marks. He perches himself on a stool, and pings the wine glass with a finger, smiles.

'Black-Briar Reserve,' he says. 'A favourite of mine.'

The smell of a delicate blossom and ripe twinge of grape wafts up from the glass of wine, and beyond that the stale chemical smell of the room.

'Hircine does not care who gets infected with lycanthropy.' Elien sniffs, straightens back his shoulders. 'Personally I would be more choosey and only pick those who showed potential,' and then he quickly adds, 'Not that I am saying I could do better. Who am I to judge The Prince of the Hunt? But you can be anyone; thief, member of the Dark Brotherhood, Jarl of your own bloody domain.' He points a finger. 'You.'

The Altmer waves his hands in the air. 'Just do what werewolves do. That is all he cares about, that is all that matters to him. Hunt. Just hunt. His followers are free to choose whoever they wish to share their blood with. 'Choose who thou wilt,' that sort of thing.'

Elien leans forward on the stool, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. The smile he gives you makes your inside twist. You fidget in your seat.

'However,' he says. 'One thing. One tiny, tiny, tiny thing he does care about, and one thing he has absolute say over is who becomes his companion. Who becomes his champion.'

The wind howls down the chimney in the next room.

'You have seen it, have you not? In the pictures and the statues dedicated to him? Usually he is depicted with a wolf. Sometimes two. They are the wolves he deems most loyal. The ones he handpicks to lead The Hunt.'

There's tightness in your chest. You remember the sound of Hircine's voice. In the caverns of Chillwind Depths, he'd said that one day you would join him.

Elien leans forwards. 'They say that Hircine marks the one he deems worthy,' and his eyes come to rest upon your arm.

You rub the scar on your arm and dig your nails into the puckered flesh.

In the woods there had been someone else. It could have been Vilkas. It could have been Farkas. However, you suspect it was Hircine.

The other person had spoken to you, told you that the hunt needed a leader. They had stood behind you, their skin warm, their heart a steady thump against your back. They'd stroked your hair, told you to not be afraid.

You feel heat creep into your cheeks and you bow your head and ask Elien what 'the hunt' is.

'The Hunt,' he tuts. 'The never-ending pursuit that takes place in Hircine's Hunting Grounds.'

The Altmer swipes a hand through his long, golden hair. 'I cannot believe it.' He grabs your arm, nearly yanks you out of the chair. 'I have only seen The Mark of Hircine as drawings in books, never - well never "in the flesh", if you excuse the pun.' He laughs, and takes another sip of his drink.

You ask him if there is any way to remove it.

'Remove? Why would you want to remove -' Elien sighs. 'I suppose you have your reasons. Not for me to pry.'

He slips off the stool, reaches for a bottle of red liquid on a shelf over the table.

'Allow me to demonstrate.' He sits back down, grabs a knife from the table and slices it across his wrist. Beads of blood well-up at the cut. He takes a pipette, dips it into in the bottle and draws up some of the liquid.

'A little concoction of mine. Vampire blood,' Elien says, studying you. 'And some other ingredients that I do not feel obliged to tell you.'

He squeezes the pipette over the cut, and a few drops of vampire blood drop on his skin.

The vampire blood is a thick, rich ruby colour, much darker than Elien's. The two types of blood mix, and then the skin knits itself back together. There is no trace of the cut, just smooth skin.

You hold your breath. If Elien's vampire blood concoction can do that, could it remove scars, and if so Hircine's mark?

'Patience,' Elien says. 'Watch.'

He pushes his hand in front of your face. 'See this?' There's a light yellow scar at the stub of his thumb. 'Did it last week. Burnt myself on the edge of a heated tool. Idiotic thing to do, but hindsight is not a luxury I have.'

Once again he dispenses the blood over the scar. Like the cut, the scar heals to leave no mark.

'Vampire blood can heal most wounds, cuts abrasions. Before I studied Manbeast, I was interested in 'Porphyric Haemophilia'. That Is 'vampirism', to the likes of you. The blood of the vampire is an excellent healing agent, applied to my own recipe, I have altered the chemical compound so that it is able to not only heal fresh cuts but also old wounds. But!' He jumps up, the stool topples.

You bolt upright in your chair.

'Here is where we put it to the real test.'

Elien holds your arm. His fingers are clammy.

'If you are telling the truth,' he smiles. 'Let us pray to Hircine that you are, then even after applying this to your skin, the scar will remain.'

You hope for the opposite. Even if it means invoking Elien's wraith.

This time he sucks up a large amount of blood into the pipette and drops it over the mark.

The blood is cold. It sits on your skin like the droplets of dark red Black-Briar Reserve from Elien's glass.

Elien leans forward. He is inches away from your skin. You feel his breath upon your arm, and your breathing synchronises with his.

The skin beneath the blood warms. It feels like melted wax on your skin. Then the vampire blood dissolves into the scar.

'Oh I knew it!'

A weighted knot forms in your stomach, and your stomach plunges to the floor.

The Mark of Hircine remains.

'Amazing. You are going to have to let me analyse it. Take skin samples.'

Again, you ask Elien if he's sure there's no way of getting rid of it. You notice the notes of pleading in your voice.

You'd worship someone – anyone - any Daedric Prince who might create a magic cloth that would blot out this mark and untie you from your bond to Hircine.

Your shoulders sag with the imaginary weight of the chains that tie you to the Prince of the Hunt.

You're at his mercy.

You slap your hand over the mark as if to stop Hircine's from seeing.

'My friend.' Elien's voice is gentle. 'You have just witnessed the miracle that is vampire blood. If that cannot get rid of the mark, nothing will.'

He rubs his chin. 'No, there is no removing it. Not that I know of. It has been seared into your soul. We could remove all layers of skin, and I wager the mark would be found on the bone.'

He takes a swig of the wine, smacks his lips and grins like he's just delivered the best news possible. 'No, I am sorry, friend. You belong to Hircine. You are his.'

The floorboards outside the room creak, a young woman sticks her head around the door, but the Altmer ignores her.

'Haven't you heard the door?' she says.

The woman's eyes look bloodshot. The parts that should be white are red, and her skin looks like animal hide stretched too thin on a rack. Veins, like thin threads of blue cotton, sporadically dot her face.

'No,' Elien snaps. 'Can you not see I am busy?'

'There's a young one wanting to see your guest.' The woman looks at you. 'The Harbinger, I presume?'

You nod, and the woman beckons a little girl through.

'Go away, go away,' mutters Elien. 'Can you not see, we are busy?'

'No,' the woman says. 'Whatever it is I'm sure it can wait. On the other hand what this girl needs to tell the Harbinger is - what she says - of great importance.'

The girl leads you through the streets of Windhelm, bare feet padding on stone, snow and ice. Her dress is frayed at the hem, and the patches on it don't match the original material.

There's a gust of wind that blows up snow.

You cover your face with your hands and she pulls her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders.

'This way!' she calls through the wind, and you follow her into the large walled in courtyard that surrounds the entrance to The Palace of the Kings.

Like the patches on girls clothing, the Palace of the Kings doesn't match the architecture of the other buildings it dwarfs.

The girl passes unhindered by the guards at the Palace's large wooden doors. She opens one of the doors ajar, and squeezes through the gap.

The Palace of the Kings is the last surveying buildings of Ysgramor's time. It's also home to the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak.

Ulfric is the leader of the Stromcloak Rebellion, and the Palace of the Kings is their centre of command.

Though you are tempted to look at the splendour of the palace, you look down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the servants that brush past and guards that guard the doors.

You are Harbinger to the Companions and Dovahkiin, you'd be a great asset Ulfric's rebellion, but the last thing you want is to choose sides.

Was this child sent to bring you to Ulfric? You panic at such a thought, but then calm yourself, because surely Ulfric would summon you with a soldier, not some urchin off the street.

The girl doesn't enter the reception hall. Instead she veers right, goes down a corridor and into a room with weapon racks, and rickety wooden bed lined in rows with scratchy looked linen, and tables piled with armour.

'Good job, Sophie.' A solider sitting behind one of the table stands, holds out a hand to you.

'Harbinger,' he says. 'Welcome to Windhelm Barracks. I wish your coming here was for different circumstances.'

The guard passes a basket of flowers to Sophie, and pats her on the head.

'I'll have the money for the flowers tomorrow. Could you also get some springs of lavender? I'll pay extra. My wife loves lavender.'

The guard smiles. The scar next to his lips stretches, exposing the thread which keeps the skin together.

'Okay,' Sophie says. She bobs a curtsy to the guard and to you, rubs one of her shoeless, red feet against the back of a bare leg and leaves.

The guard turns his attention to you.

'Got someone down in the dungeon who I am told you can vouch for. Not that it will make much difference. Found him unconscious at the scene of the crime, covered in blood. Not much either of you can say to change the outcome of this situation.'

You ask why this guilty man has asked to see you.

The guard leads you out of the barrack's living quarters and down a flight of stone steps.

'Says he knows you,' the soldier says. 'Well, you'll see for yourself. Don't take much pleasure in this, what with him being …' The soldier hesitates. 'My father always taught me to respect you lot. Damn shame, that's all.'

You are Harbinger to the Companions, and whilst the role brings a lot of respect your way, it doesn't give you the power to rewrite laws or gain someone their freedom. Not even in Whiterun could you do that. So you wonder what this person hopes to gain by speaking to you.'

Four cells line the dungeon. A female guard stands at the farthest one.

She bangs her sword against the bars. 'Step away,' she says.

As you approach she turns to you, torchlight reflected in her armour. 'Careful, Harbinger.' She repeats what the other soldier told you, that the man was found unconscious next to his victim. 'Covered in the innards and remains of the poor sod,' she adds.

You step towards the prison bars.

'Not too close,' says the guard.

The figure behind the bars steps out of shadow.

Beneath the one swollen eye, the split lip and the misplaced nose that dribbles blood, you recognise the man who stares back at you with intense grey eyes.

Vilkas.

'Harbinger,' he says, and lurches forwards.

'Back!' the guard snaps.

Vilkas shuffles backwards. He clutches a hand to his chest. 'Thank you for coming to see me. I - '

His eyes dart to the guard and then back towards you. 'Whatever they are saying, it isn't true.'

You ask what they have been saying.

And he looks at you and you see the concern in his eyes.

'Harbinger. They are saying I am a wolf.'