Author's Note: So yeah, it's another short chapter, but I was inspired to write this, and I really wanted to write a Gray Prince-perspective chapter before the whole thing was said and done.
Sleep.
In theory, sleep was such a simple thing. Head would rest on a pillow, eyes shut, breathing relaxed, deep and even. Dreams of immortality and victory against some invincible enemy invading the subconscious. Bliss.
When sleep became a manifestation of hellions, that was one thing he didn't know. The dreams had started out laughably. Gentle sunbeams relaxed and warmed his flesh in one; the next day he discovered that those very beams he had dreamt about burned his pale skin. Over time, the dreams began a metamorphosis into the spawn of the dark, each more frightening than the last. Vile leeches draining mortals of their precious life-blood, only to realize that these very vampires had his very own face. Most recently, Vaermina cursed him with a nightmare of starvation. Not for the food of mortals. Ambrosia would have been far too… bland. Nay, he hungered for that which flowed through him: blood. In his weakened state he had staggered toward a holy spring of what looked was water. No… not water. The spring was that of which he craved. As he crouched on all fours like the beast that he was, and as he bent his lips to drink of the nourishment, he realized in horror that he could not part his lips. A glance into the liquid told him what this trickery was: his lips had been sewn shut with an awful black thread, his own blood dribbling from the wounds still. From this, he had awoken, drenched in sweat. His reflection in the mirror was less than satisfactory: already his features were becoming more angular and haggard, and his eyes cracked with scarlet webbing.
In those days that followed, he found that he could no longer stomach the swill that Owyn had passed off as "food". Nor could he partake in the delicacies that he had ordered one night at The King and Queen Tavern. Lights shone brighter than he remembered and people themselves looking… delicious. He was transfixed by the rhythmic twitch of their chests as their hearts beat, and he could swear he could hear the contractions of the muscles. He would gave longingly at every person he passed, particularly at their throat, yearning to reach out and touch it. To rip out the vocal chords and feast.
Instinct got the better of him once. Just once. Only a few people would have missed her, those were her fellow beggars, and quite possibly the Gray Fox. Now he had one less informant, so it was rumored. That kill had been sweeter than all the other kills that had gained him his fame and glory combined, that kill had sustained him. He hadn't fed since then. Damn conscious got the better of him.
Now it was the eve before his battle with that pathetic Nord lass, Dragonheart. The days of their friendship seemed an eternity ago, and a lifetime of solace taken in from precious memories died that night. Once upon a time he would have just subjected his title to her; it was what he had planned to do all along. No bloodshed, no tears. Now… now that he had taken a long draught of blood from one victim, his thirst had yet to be quenched. A 'hero's' blood, the blood of a girl so caught up in courage, yes, that would be like a fine, aged wine to his pallet.
The Gray Prince took his cloak from a hook next to a sleeping Ysabel and wrapped it about his shoulders. With a grunt, he pulled the hood to cast an almost sinister shadow over his features as he stepped out into the cool night. He could not feel the wafting breeze caress his decrepit flesh; he couldn't feel much of anything. Though it was one of Nocturnal's most blessed nights, he could see the City as clear as a mortal would see the day. With unearthly grace, he passed through the streets to a shack that, at one time, he knew well. It was nestled on the Waterfront. Memories of this shack floated through his mind in a haze. He brushed off the feelings of nostalgia as he opened the door, for the lock had long been broken. His victims lay in a straight row, a family of six Bretons. On a makeshift table, he saw, was a pewter urn. Moonbeams shone down upon it, casting hated light into his eyes, burning them. He winced in pain as he turned his first prey of the evening, the matriarch of the family. She lay in peace on her bedroll, her tired face relaxed in slumber.
The Prince located the vein on her neck, placing his fingers gingerly over it. Precious blood pulsed underneath his fingertips as his lowered himself to his knees. As a mother would cradle her child, so did the Prince cradle the old woman, bringing her neck to his hungry lips. Her eyes flew open at the contact, but before she could cry out and awaken the entire Waterfront, she was silenced with a sharp blow to her head, though not enough for her to die. Fangs punctured her throat, the crimson fluid passing from her to her assailant.
After he had drunk her dry, he moved onto her children, killing them one by one in the same fashion. The Prince stood, wiping the dribble of blood that had escaped his parted lips away. He spared one last glance at his victims; at first glance they appeared to be asleep, until you noticed their shriveled flesh and their matching wounds adorning their throats like jewels. His attention return to the urn, glowering up at him from its perch on the table accusingly. In a rage, he picked it up, ignoring the slight burn from the light. It struck the ground with a sickly crash, and despite it being made of a metal, shattered upon impact, ashes strewn across the earth.
The Gray Prince left the shack in good spirits. Instead of returning to the Bloodworks, he awoke the proprietor of The Tiber Septim Hotel and spent the night in its luxuries, allowing for Vaermina once more to grip him by the jugular in her wicked embrace.
When he awoke before the dawn, his features were less pronounced, his skin smoothened, but the blood of his victims had stained his eyes completely crimson.