Sherlock had told John they would go hunt when they left the Village, but they did nothing of the sort. The topic of hunting—the usual kind—didn't even cross John's mind, and after they saw the Bloodmoon right before their eyes, John didn't feel well enough to even think about killing and eating something.
They hurried back to the Village, and Sherlock lead the way, straight to the shaman. Many Skaal were outside, gazing up at the sky and gasping at the red moon. Some cried, dropping to their knees and tearing at their hair, their skin. Others consoled their tribe mates, trying to tell them the worst had already come and gone. John spotted Ygfel. She was in a small group, whispering. They looked gleeful. John's blood went ice cold.
"The worst is yet to come!" a young boy told his mother. "We'll be attacked soon! I just know it!" His mother shushed him and held him close to her chest.
Storn Crag-Strider was near his house, hands behind his back and looking up at the sky. His expression was unreadable. Sherlock stopped beside him, lips pressed together. He said nothing, only turning his head and looking up at the sky, too.
"It's blinding," Storn said, starting to frown. He lowered his head and glanced at Sherlock before resting his eyes on John. "This is him?"
John knew Sherlock and the shaman must have talked about him, in order to gain knowledge about the Bloodmoon Prophecy, but the thought of people talking about him behind his back, a stranger knowing much more about him than what he knew about the stranger, was a little unnerving. Still, John looked over at Sherlock before setting his eyes on Storn. "Yes, this is him." He tipped his chin up. "The... wolfman."
Sherlock snorted. Storn didn't look impressed. "My entire tribe might be massacred, and other innocent civilians on this island could be caught in the cross-fire. I don't find this very funny."
"Sorry, shaman. I wasn't thinking." John pressed his lips together and glanced at Sherlock: a mistake. The Breton looked like he was holding back laughter. John cleared his throat and worked on straightening up his posture.
"You don't seem to be like the others that live here," Storn said, cocking his head to the side. "Could that be because of your time spent in Skyrim? No, that can't be it. There are followers of Hircine even there." He studied John for a moment more. "Why would you wish to squash this affinity even more, when you have such a great control over it?"
"Do we have to talk about this here? Right now? In front of everyone?" John asked quickly, glancing around. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with the Bloodmoon above their heads, but there was always a chance that someone could be overhearing their conversation. John didn't want that at all. He wanted this quiet.
Storn stared at John, as if he didn't hear what he had said and was expecting another answer. Soon, he shook his head and turned away. "Oh, yes, yes. I forgot Sherlock told me how uncomfortable you became. We can go back to my house." He started to walk ahead, leaving John to give Sherlock a proper glare. Sherlock only paled and whipped around, following the shaman into his house.
Like Ygfel's home, it was warm and small. Unlike Ygfel's home, John felt welcomed. There was a blonde woman sitting by the fire, book in her hands. Upon their appearance, she raised her head, eyes widening. "Father," she said and stood. She set the book behind her on her chair.
"Go outside, Frea. Comfort your people."
Frea frowned. "Is it what we feared?"
"I believe we'll know in a day or two."
She glanced at Sherlock and John, but said nothing. The Skaal hurried past, stopping by the door to grab two war axes, slipping them onto her waist with ease. John looked back at Storn. "Your daughter?"
Storn nodded. He walked over and picked up the book she was reading, setting it on the mantelpiece. "Come sit. My home is open to the both of you, for as long as your endeavor takes you."
John sat in the chair Frea had, and Sherlock took the chair opposite. Storn remained standing. "We won't stay long," John started. "As soon as Hunter's Game begins, we'll—"
"—I remember your father, John," Storn said, cutting John off. "He was curious, adventurous, and he got into quite a bit of trouble in his day." John pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He and his friends believed he went through their days in this Village, as if their secret was hidden away from everyone here. But I knew. A great number of people knew. We let them go along in that little fantasy of theirs. They weren't harming anyone."
John lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Storn. "They weren't harming anyone? You should have done something! You had no idea if they were infecting everybody with their curse! Children can't be trusted with that much power!"
Storn kept quiet for a while, almost like he wasn't expecting John's outburst. He looked down and straightened his posture. "As I'm sure Sherlock has told you, I wasn't idle. I kept track of all of their activity, monitored who they spent time with, where they went during the middle of the night, everything. They didn't infect anybody else, and they didn't tell anyone about meeting Sirihe. She's just an old legend to the children anyway. Most don't even bother searching for her, or when they find her, she doesn't bother showing herself to them. I believe it was the stubborn braveness of Ygfel that caused Sirihe to bestow them her… gift."
"Is she dead?" John asked, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.
"Oh, yes. She is dead. She died quite a few years ago. Frea found her, when she searched her shack. Sirihe did have a daughter, but no one knows where she is now. Last I've heard, she was in Skyrim, supposedly studying at the College of Winterhold and learning alchemy." John glanced over at Sherlock, who shrugged. Storn waved a hand. "Never mind any of that. The past is the past."
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "How much longer after the Bloodmoon does Hircine make himself present?"
Storn hummed, tipping his head this way and that. "It's hard to say. The records of previous Prophecies are shaky at best. It might be tomorrow or a few days, a few months."
"A few months?" John burst out. He couldn't stay here for months. That was ridiculous.
"Now, now, like I said, we don't exactly know." Storn wringed his hands in front of him. "Hircine is a great man, and we mustn't underestimate him. He might fetch his Hounds tonight and order the Game to begin."
Silence hung in the air, then. John didn't dare talk, in fear of a couple bad words might slip out. He worked on calming himself down, controlling his breath, and things of that nature. Sherlock scooted to the edge of his seat. "Well, I guess we're all just sitting ducks, hm? Just waiting for Hircine to make a move." Sherlock stood up, placing his hands behind his back. "It's like an absurd game of chess." He looked over at John and nodded towards the door. "Come on, John. Let's go."
John stood, and the pair moved towards the door. Storn, however, took a step forward. "You of all people, Sherlock, should know that you should not underestimate a Daedric Prince. No matter how they seem, none of them are as benevolent and unassuming as they appear to be."
Sherlock, who had his hand on the doorknob, lowered it and turned around. John didn't know what was going through Sherlock's head, but his eyes were wild, his nostrils flaring. If Sherlock was the one that sprouted coal black fur whenever he wanted, John would be cautious right now. Storn, however, didn't seem concerned, as Sherlock marched towards him. Sherlock stopped right in front of him and looked down at the elderly man. "I think we're done talking now," he said, voice low. It sounded like a threat. John wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it. Sherlock spun around after and returned back to the door. "Come on, John." He yanked on the door and held it open for John. "I'm sure we can find accommodations in the Greathall."
He had never been afraid of Sherlock. Not even when he had fire and lightning coming out of his fingertips, John had never felt fear. He knew Sherlock would never hurt him, so what was the point in that unnecessary fear? But the tone of his voice when he spoke to Storn… It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, and he wasn't even the one the statement was towards. Storn and Sherlock must have developed a close relationship during Sherlock's first visit to the Village. Maybe Storn knew something about Sherlock that John didn't know? John wanted to ask, but he knew it would only cause trouble right now. Besides, Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to talk much. John didn't blame him.
The Greathall wasn't for random strangers to stay in. Sherlock, somehow, managed to speak to the owner, who allowed them to stay the night there. He was sure gold was involved, but Sherlock insisted it was just his charisma. John laughed in his face, and Sherlock laughed, too. They fell asleep next to the fire, under a table, and on top of an elk pelt. It was warm, but John didn't fancy snorting up the hairs very much. It was better than making camp somewhere outside, in the frigid night.
Screams pierced the air.
John snapped his eyes open and immediately woke up. He went to sit up, and he hit his head on the table. John fell back and held the top of his head. "Good gracious Talos," he muttered. Sherlock rolled out from under the table, ever alert, and had his bow in hand. John's second attempt at removing himself from the bed was successful, and he pulled out his sword, too. "What do you think is happening?" he asked. He tilted his head and breathed in.
Instantly, the wave of rancid breath, wet hair, and blood hit John's nose. He recoiled a bit and ducked his head down. It was like being struck over the head again. "Gods," he muttered. "It smells like a massacre outside."
Sherlock gave John a curious look before he moved towards the door, running low. He carefully opened it and peeked out. "I believe you're right, John," he said. "Someone's ordered the Hounds to strike." He shut the door just as another scream came. Sherlock pursed his lips and tapped his thumb against the bow. "How do you feel?" he asked.
John didn't know how he felt. He didn't give it much thought. There was too much going on outside. He could hear everything. The cries, the ripping of flesh, the sound of blood running onto the snow… John shook his head. "I don't know!"
"You have to stay calm, John. Keep your head. He has his hold on his pets outside, but he isn't going to take you, too." Sherlock whipped around and grabbed onto the door handle. "I'm going to help them. Stay in here." He slipped out of the Greathall, leaving the door to thud behind him.
He wasn't going to stay in here, while the trouble was out there. John wasn't like that. He wasn't the type of Nord to leave people in peril. He was the type to fight, to protect. To draw blood and rip and tear and kill and eat. John gripped his sword and charged to the door, tossing it aside and stepping out.
As John looked on, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. A Skaal flew past him, and John could smell the blood flowing in his veins and see every bead of sweat on his brow. He couldn't help it; he breathed in and looked around. More Skaal were fighting, hacking and slashing every which way they could. Werewolves were coming from every direction. There was at least a handful. Where did they come from?
He didn't care. He wanted to join them.
He should overcome it, but he couldn't. He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough.
He should have stayed inside the Greathall.
John let his sword slip from his fingers and drop onto the steps, walking ahead. In a matter of seconds, past the brain-splitting pain, he was someone new, reborn, and he felt like he could conquer the world.
Running through the Village, John looked each Skaal in the face and relished in the utter terror on their features. Mothers picked up their children and held them to their chest, dashing to the nearest safe zone. Fathers and other hunters had their spears and swords out, poking and prodding at any beast that passed them. A lucky few managed to strike the creatures. The unlucky were picked off easily—grabbed at the arm and ripped from their body, like they were putty.
An arrow whizzed past John's head, and he turned around. Several villagers had stationed themselves on the roofs of their houses. All of them had bows, and they were firing arrow after arrow. His brothers and sisters were wailing around him, getting hit, but they still pressed on, just enough to bite and tear into the nearest Skaal.
"My hunters! Do not fear these mere mortals! They are simple! Weak! You are gifted! Tear them apart and show them what you're capable of! My Hunt is just beginning!" A deep, raspy voice rang out through John's skull, pounding behind his eyes. What in the name of Talos was that? Who was in his head? John snarled and bit at the air.
"Fight! Feed! Hunt!"
John breathed in and shut his eyes. He listened and smelled and jumped in his spot. He was eager, ready to conquer—but the conquering wouldn't happen today.
He was hit, an arrow sliding into his left shoulder with ease. John yelped and threw his head back, howling. There was something different about this arrow. It wasn't just a simple steel-tipped arrow. They would push into the skin and sting, but this… this burned like fire. John felt as if he was being boiled alive. He had to leave. He had to flee, run away, go into the woods. Yes, that was good. That was very good.
John whimpered like the wounded animal he was, limping, half-dragging himself out of the chaotic Village. No one attacked him. Please, please, please, please. There was more fighting behind him. It sounded so close. John could hear the slicing of a sword right next to his ear.
Once he saw nothing around him but trees, John let himself fall face first into the snow. The cold powder could do nothing to quell the burning in his blood. Gods, he was going to die. He was going to die as a bloody werewolf. John whined and squirmed, kicking out his legs. The kicks turned into convulsions, and John sprawled out on his back. He twitched and shook and arched. His vision blurred, and his hearing weakened.
But at least he couldn't hear that voice anymore.
Before he passed out, John reared his head around and clamped his teeth down on the arrow, yanking it out. He cried.
He woke up in a great library. Books were stacked to the, well, not the ceiling. There was no ceiling. The books stretched to the sickly green clouds. The clouds swirled, and John watched them. It would have made him ill if he didn't already feel nauseated. John tried to move, turn his head away from the sight, but he couldn't. He felt as if he was being weighed down by something. He didn't know what. John looked up at the sky and tried not to think about the burning pain in his shoulder. It was more violent now, as he didn't have the security provided by his wolf skin. He was only human now.
"Oh, Sherlock, my dear champion, it's good to see you again."
John slowly tipped his head to the side, pain shooting through his entire body. He wanted to whither in pain, but he was paralyzed. His vision began to blur again. The clouds started to swirl, run together. It looked a bit like an artist's palette, after they finished mixing various greens to get the perfect shade for grass. He started to shut his eyes.
"I'm not in the mood to play your little games."
Sherlock?
"That's such a shame to hear. I thought you just thirsted for a visit."
"Shut up!"
John rolled his head to the side and struggled to keep his eyes open. Sherlock was here with him. The mage was looking through tome after tome, tossing them behind his back when he wasn't satisfied. John wanted to ask him so much: where were they; what was he doing; could he help?
Near the bookshelf Sherlock was currently searching through, there was a pool of water. Like the sky, it was also green. A long black tentacle crept out of the water and lashed towards Sherlock. He whirled around, jumping back, and carelessly tossed a ball of fire. The tentacle shrunk back into the water, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sky. "Leave me alone!"
The first voice laughed, cruel and deep. "He's going to die, Sherlock. Because of you."
"No, he isn't!" Sherlock tossed aside a book and grabbed another. He thumbed through the pages. "He isn't," he added in a whisper.
"Now, now, Sherlock. Don't be naïve." Sherlock quickly flipped through the book. "It was foolish to bring him here. What were you thinking?"
"I wanted to save him," Sherlock said simply. He snapped the volume shut and flung it behind him. John weakly turned his head, watching as the book flew through the sky. He blinked, and it was gone. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't open his mouth.
"What are you going to tell him when he wakes?" the voice purred.
John shut his eyes, head lolling to the side. He felt someone crouch over top of him.
"Nothing he doesn't already know."
Another jolt of pain spiked through his body, causing him to shudder and gasp. When he opened his eyes, he was in a forest. John could freely move his body, but it still felt like a ton of bricks was resting on his chest. He sucked in a breath, and he felt his chest rattle.
"John!" Sherlock appeared at his side, eyes wide. "You're awake. Thank the Gods." He moved his hands across John. "You were out for some time. I was worried you wouldn't—" He stopped talking. Sherlock shook his head and let his hand hover over John's shoulder. The wound began to gently warm, and, in the light, John could tell Sherlock's fingers were bloody. His most likely.
He swallowed roughly and managed a smile. "'m not going to die," he said. "'m John." He lifted a hand, going to cup the side of Sherlock's face. He ended up smacking his arm. Bad coordination. John dropped his arm to the ground. "Sorry."
Sherlock pressed his hand closer to John's shoulder. "No, no, don't apologize." The warmth increased, but it did little. John still felt the poison running through him. He wasn't going to die. Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed. "Oh, John," he muttered, touching the side of his neck with his free hand. It was wet. Probably covered with blood, too.
"Sherlock—"
"—this is my entire fault," Sherlock interrupted, pulling his hand back to let it hover over his shoulder, too. Double the healing. John shifted uncomfortably, and he gasped again. Sherlock laid his palms flat against the wound, only making John wince even more. "That was my arrow. I saw you out there. I knew I had to do something, because when you came to, you would regret everything you had done. You didn't really want to hurt anybody. That was Hircine. He was in your head."
Hircine? Was that who he was hearing? John's head pounded. He squeezed his eyes and curled his toes. "Oh, fuck," he spat out, snapping his eyes open. Sherlock responded by pressing harder. That didn't help at all. Sherlock was going to end up drenching himself in blood, not that he wasn't already. "You don't, ah, have an antidote for your poison?" He smiled and looked over at Sherlock. In the moonlight, with tears in his eyes, he looked absolutely beautiful.
Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, blinking furiously. "No. No, I don't." He looked back down, continuing to shake his head. He pulled his hands away and leaned in, giving John's shoulder a sniff. He withdrew, nose wrinkled. "The only reason why I would use my bow was to kill. Why would I want to have an antidote?"
John laughed, looking up at the sky. The moon was still red. "What if you got a little prick? Oh wait!" He laughed even more, shutting his eyes. Oh, Talos, his head hurt.
"This isn't the time!" Sherlock said, reaching up and grabbing John's face. He squeezed his cheeks and stared at John, eyes wide and wild and frantic. "I'm not going to lose you," he murmured.
His body felt warm, starting from his head and going down to his toes. He just realized he had nothing on but his smallclothes. "'m not going to die," he repeated. John tried to lift his hand, slower this time so he wouldn't end up smacking Sherlock again. He attempted to grab his wrist, fingers not having enough strength in them. "Gimme your hand." John guided Sherlock's hand to his shoulder. "Start healing, you tit."
"John, I can't. I've done all I—"
"—start healing, you tit."
Sherlock huffed out a breath and stretched out his fingers, letting his palm hover over the wound again. He began to use the Restoration spell, but this time, John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's. He put all of his strength and focus into his own spell. He watched as the healing light grew brighter. John shut his eyes and pressed his cheek against the snow. "There we go, you big baby."
He felt instantly calmer, and his blood didn't feel like it was boiling underneath his skin anymore. John laid there in the snow, listening to his heart beat. It was getting stronger, going back to its regular tune. He opened his eyes after a few minutes and looked down. The wound still looked nasty, but it was all closed up. Once the blood was cleaned off, a great scar would be there.
"John…"
Slipping his head from Sherlock's grip, John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He pulled him down and pressed their foreheads together. "I love you," he rasped, kissing Sherlock's parted lips.
Tears were on John's cheeks. "I love you, too," Sherlock whispered against his lips.
Sometime after, John had fallen asleep again. He didn't know how long he was out, but when he woke it was nighttime. Or still nighttime. John turned over and lifted his hands to rub his eyes. He winced. His shoulder was still sore. John pushed himself up and worked on rolling his shoulder, stretching.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked. John looked over, studying the Breton by the campfire. It was snowing. John suddenly became aware of how silly he must look.
"Cold."
Sherlock smiled. He stood up and shook out his hand. Ice spikes spilled from his palm, dousing the fire with water. "There's a nice cave near here. I found it when I was looking for food." He walked over to John and helped him stand.
John still felt weak. He held onto Sherlock a little tighter than he would have preferred. "How long was I out?" They began to walk through the woods, leaving the Village behind them. "What about everyone else?"
"The attack was… about two days ago," Sherlock started. "You were touch and go for a while." He glanced at him. "We'll talk once we get someplace we can rest. Here." Sherlock stepped away from John, pulling the fur piece off of his shoulders. He draped it over John, instantly enclosing him in warmth.
"I'm tired of fur," John mumbled, shutting his eyes.
Sherlock wrapped his arm back around John's middle. "I know."
The nice cave Sherlock had said was, in fact, pretty nice. There were no unwanted creatures waiting to ambush them. They were safe for the time being. John sat down on a pile of leaves Sherlock had swept over. He watched as Sherlock worked on a fire. "Why aren't we going back to the Village? The whole place might be a bloodbath. We have to help."
"It was quite a bloodbath when I left." Sherlock held out his palm and shot out a stream of flames. The wood caught fire and blazed. Sherlock lowered his hand and looked over at John. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked quietly.
Of course he did. He didn't suddenly have memory loss. John looked down at the fire, watching the flames dance. "You shot me with an arrow. You didn't want me to hurt anybody." He looked back at him. "Thank you. I appreciate it. Really."
Sherlock watched him for a moment, lips pressed together and eyes narrowed. He looked back down and kicked at a rock. "I'll be right back," he said, and then he was out of the cave.
John wasn't lying about his appreciation. He was thankful he hadn't attacked any of the Skaal. He wanted to tear apart their flesh and take a big bite out of their muscles, but that wasn't him. They were innocent people. He didn't desire any of that. If only he could have controlled himself, and had taken a bite or two out of another werewolf. That would have helped. He was too wrapped up in the bloodlust, though. Hircine was in his head—not a comforting thought at all.
He turned his head and looked down, lifting a hand to gingerly move the piece of fur that covered his shoulder. John winced at the sight. It was still covered in blood, though most of it was dry. John scratched at his skin with his thumbnail. Blood flakes fell onto his legs. He brushed them away.
Had he really stayed in the woods for two days? He lay on the snow-covered ground and grew weaker and weaker. How long did the attack last? How long did it take for Sherlock to find him? When did he manage to shift back into a human? And where did Sherlock take him?
Or was it just a hallucination?
John was pretty out of it. It was possible he might have dreamt the whole thing. He was sure of two things: he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved him.
He stretched out on the stone floor, wrapped up in fur, and listened to the wind blow outside. Sherlock returned minutes later with a bucket. John lifted his head and gave him a look, one Sherlock merely returned. "We need to clean that," he said, nodding towards John. He was talking about his shoulder.
"Yes," John said, sitting up with a sigh. He tossed back the fur, showing Sherlock the bloody mess that was his shoulder. Sherlock didn't let anything show on his face as he sat next to John. He dropped the bucket beside him, and John peeked inside. Water. Just water.
Sherlock dipped his hand into the water and flicked some onto John's shoulder. It was cold, but that was expected in this area. He didn't want to shiver. There was only so much you could control. John watched as Sherlock washed away the blood. He had been right. There was a nasty scar imbedded in his skin. He was thankful the entire thing was sealed up.
"Ouch," John breathed out. He twisted a bit, letting Sherlock wash the entrance wound.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, a smile on his lips.
"Tell me what happened." John watched Sherlock, wetting his lips. "After I left."
Sherlock kept quiet. He finished cleaning the entrance wound and returned to the exit. He let his fingers trace along the scar. "I shot you, and you limped away. I wanted to go after you, but I knew that was irresponsible at the moment. I stayed until the wolves died or they retreated. Then, I stayed to help the Skaal clean up the mess the best they could. There's only so much you can do with blood-stained snow, though."
"Who all died?" John asked. "I know you wouldn't be able to tell who they were if they died as—"
"Ygfel is dead, John." Sherlock dipped his fingers back into the water, removing his hand to press them against John's lips. John licked up the water. "She didn't even get to shed her skin. There was an axe in her forehead." He smiled. "Right in between those pretty big eyes."
He didn't even have to be the one to wield the weapon. He had let Ygfel go unharmed, and she died anyway. He felt… glad. Everything that had tied his father to this damned curse was dead. His mother, Trissen, Ygfel, Sirihe, everyone but Hircine himself.
Hircine was going to be gone soon.
John watched Sherlock and raised his hand. He held the side of Sherlock's neck and leaned their foreheads together. "So, you left the Village after that. Found me in the woods."
"And tried to heal you." Sherlock finished, nodding. He gave him a small smile. "This amulet didn't do me any good," he said softly, patting his chest. John's eyes lowered and rested on the talisman. "I had to have help."
"I helped you," John reiterated. He nodded, too, and shut his eyes. "Thank you."
"I love you," Sherlock breathed out. He kissed John.
Sherlock didn't mention the library.
In the morning, they left the cave and made their way back to the Village. John was more clothed compared to his arrival. When Sherlock had gone off to hunt, he returned with a set of Nordic carved armor. He said he had killed someone who aimed at him first. It didn't matter to John. It was a fine set of armor.
He needed a bit of help in it, as his shoulder still wasn't up to par, and Sherlock was glad to help. He even gave in and slipped a helmet over John's head. "Big bear," Sherlock said, smirking. John lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the helmet. It was, indeed, shaped like a bear. He attempted a growl. Sherlock laughed.
Sherlock had even taken the liberty in retrieving John's sword. He pulled it off from his back and held it out for him. "Forgot to give this to you. Though, you weren't exactly in the state to have it." Regardless, John slipped it into his sheath, instantly feeling ten times better. "One more thing," Sherlock said, just as they were about to leave the cave. He dug into his pack and held out his hand, fingers closed into a fist. John looked down at his hand, eyebrow raised, and watched as Sherlock slowly uncurled his fingers. In the middle of his palm was the gold diamond ring from Hrodulf's house. John smiled and took the ring from Sherlock. He ran his thumb over the band.
"How did you manage to get this?"
He had shrugged. "It stuck out against the snow, and it was near your sword." John pocketed the ring with a grin. Sherlock turned and began to make his way out of the cave. "I have utter faith in you, John. Do try not to shift skins anytime soon. That armor looks quite good."
Skaal Village was quiet when they walked in. A few Skaal were going about their business, like nothing had happened days before, but there were a considerable amount of the usual crowd gone. They were either killed, or they were too afraid to leave their homes. John hoped it was the latter.
"Is Storn safe?" John asked, voice low, as Sherlock lead them to the shaman's house.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. He stayed in his house during the attack."
"And Frea?"
"She was the one who killed Ygfel," Sherlock said with a smile. "The she-wolf still had your father's little charm. Did you want it back?"
"No," John said flatly.
"I didn't think so. I burned it."
John squeezed Sherlock's hand as hard as he could.
Storn opened the door for them after the first knock, and they were invited into the warm house. He gave John a look as he passed, but waited to say something until everybody was seated. "Sherlock told me what happened. How is your wound?" He looked over John, trying to spot the wound on him, despite the armor covering him up.
"It's fine. Still a bit sore, but I'm going to live."
"Good, that's good." Storn shifted in his seat and turned his attention to Sherlock. "You healed him?" he asked.
"Both of us did," Sherlock answered, glancing over at John. "As much as I regret to admit it, I couldn't do it by myself." Storn gave Sherlock a curious look, and Sherlock stared at a spot on the wall. "Do you have any news? All seems quiet."
The Skaal shaman sighed and hung his head. "It is as Frea and I feared, as well as many others. We are the prey in the Great Hunt. Hircine showed himself late yesterday night and announced it. I suppose his Hounds are returning tonight to terrorize us once again."
John frowned. "Was there an attack yesterday?"
Storn nodded. "Yes, but there were only a few of them. Not as much as that first night. It seems like they aren't really trying. Charging in, killing a couple, and leaving. Perhaps they want to drag this Bloodmoon out for as long as possible."
"Who are his champions?" Sherlock asked, tipping his chin up.
Champions? John turned his head to meet Sherlock's gaze, but the Breton wouldn't look at him. He felt a shiver run down his spine.
"He called upon three: Clugrus the Frost Giant, Eorlir the Peacock, and Captain Yrsadreid of the Isles. They left this morning, and, I assume, are waiting to be challenged at Mortrag Glacier."
"That's where we need to go, then. John?" Sherlock knitted his brows together and lightly rested his hand on his arm. "John, did you hear that?"
John did hear, but his mind was leagues away. He was back in the library, lying in agony and listening to that disembodied voice purr and rasp and call Sherlock his champion.
"Oh, Sherlock, my dear champion, it's good to see you again."
Champion. Hircine had called upon his, and Sherlock was someone else's. A Daedric Prince's.
John lifted his head and looked over at Sherlock, eyes slowly narrowing. He pulled his arm back, though it hurt. He didn't let the pain show on his face. "Champion?" John said. "The weaklings who pledge their service to a Daedric Prince?"
Sherlock stared at John, confusion written on his features. "Yes? John, what's wrong?" He straightened up, and the expression on his face slipped away. He knew exactly what John was talking about.
"You," John breathed out. He stood up and curled his hands into fists at his sides. "You're one of them! You've been one this entire time!"
"John, to be fair, you have, too—"
"—shut up!" John stared at him, slowly shaking his head. "I trusted you! I let you in, and you deceived me! This entire time!" He looked at Storn, who seemed to find the entire spectacle amusing. "You knew?"
Storn glanced at Sherlock before he rested his eyes on John. "Yes, I knew. During his first stay at Solstheim, many years ago, Sherlock stumbled upon a Black Book. I don't know how he came to have it, but he opened it and was transported to Apocrypha… I believe Sherlock should be the one to tell you this."
John didn't want to look at Sherlock, but he knew he had to. He pursed his lips and looked down at Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead. "How did you get the Black Book?" He narrowed his eyes. "Why did you come to Solstheim?"
"I was curious. I was ambitious. Nothing satisfied me anymore. I came to Solstheim, because it was someplace new, and I learned about the power of a great Daedric Prince. I visited the Dunmer enchanter Neloth. He told me more about this power, and where I would be able to find a Black Book. Apocrypha is full of books, up to the brim with vast knowledge, and I… craved more. I would sit in that place for hours, reading as much as I could. I was allowed to gather as much forbidden knowledge as I liked, and in return, I served Hermaeus Mora. Well, I still do." Sherlock looked up, staring at John, then. "I'm still myself. I've always been this way. I haven't changed."
"You serve a bloody Daedric Prince, Sherlock! You don't think that would have been something that you should have told me? That's vital information."
Sherlock shook his head. "It wasn't a big deal. I didn't tell anyone I didn't have to, though people still knew, of course. Apparently, they can smell it on me."
Bad blood. His father had said that about Sherlock. Oh, John was such an idiot. He had thought it was about Sherlock being a mage. And his reputation… Victor…
"My father knew," John said, lifting his hands to rub his face. "And Victor. The talents he heard about had nothing to do with magic, right?"
"I have an enormous amount of knowledge."
John dropped his hands. "Well, you're in luck. I have an enormous amount of knowledge, and I know where we're going." No, no. John clenched his jaw and looked at Sherlock. "How could you do this?"
Sherlock shut his eyes and placed his hands on his knees. "There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Hermaeus Mora does not have any hold on me. I am in complete control of my actions."
"You underestimate him, Sherlock. How many times do I have to tell you?" Storn said. "You can be required to do his bidding whenever he calls upon you, and the consequences if you don't comply will be dire."
"I am in control," Sherlock insisted.
John flexed his fingers. "Like I am?"
Sherlock met John's eyes. He watched the blue eyes pierce him. "That's different."
John rolled his eyes. He turned away. "Yeah, it's different. Whatever." John sucked in a breath and marched to the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock."
A chair scraped across the floor. "John—"
"—I said goodbye."
He pushed open Storn's door and stepped outside. John didn't bother to look behind him. He didn't want to. He couldn't believe Sherlock had deceived him from the very start. At any moment, Sherlock could have killed him, if Hermaeus Mora had called for it. Those black tentacles… That voice.
No, he couldn't do it. Not now.
Sherlock would be of no help to him. He didn't want anything to do with him. How could he do this? Did he care and respect John so little that he didn't even think about telling him what he really was?
Sherlock loved John, and John loved Sherlock, but he couldn't do this now. He had to get to Mortrag Glacier.
John was going to defeat Hircine, even if he had to do it alone.
