A/N: Hello, everyone! Wow, it's been hectic writing this chapter. I started in late October, but then we had a death in the family, three new video games I got came out acouple weeks later, and then there was finals. Plus, research- I actually did research on burn wounds for this chapter.

This chapter got alittle long. I like to keep it under 10k, but it's more like 12, and that's after trimming alot of scenes down to the bare minimums. I'm just going to post it as it because, honestly, I've been planning about half of these scenes for so long that I don't want to shave them down any more.

Anyway, enjoy and review.


Chapter 11: Fire and Silver

The thrill of the hunt. There's nothing like it in the world. Adrenaline pumping through every ounce of blood, strength thrumming in every cell, unearthly sharpness heightening every sense. Seven dark shapes thundering across the plains, power in every muscle, every movement, all running in sync, different extensions of the same machine. An unstoppable force, an inescapable pursuit. It reminds me of what being apart of something feels like, of what being alive feels like.

I can see why some abandon themselves in the hunt, why they strive for Hircine's hunting grounds after death; it's intoxicating, consuming. The edge between man and animal blurs, and it takes so little to forget yourself, to plunge over the cliff and become a real extension of nature.

It's a siren call. Truly become the wolf- in mind, not just in body- and there may come a point where man and beast are truly the same, one unable to separate itself from the other. I've hunted down enough feral Wolves and presented them to the Silver Hand to know the dangers.

It doesn't make running as the wolf any less fun.

We come to the open, rugged plains surrounding Rorikstead. In the distance, deer graze the fields, unaware of our presence. I choose where a rock ledge sticks out when the ground dips downhill slightly as my vantage point, picking my target from the fauna.

Perhaps thirty yards behind us, I catch the sound of Ren pulling up, halting the horse and cart a safe distance back. Other than taking out one or two of the weak ungulate, for the purpose of strengthening one's connection with the Wolf, I also aim to bring down a bigger buck; one alone will usually keep us in meat for anywhere from a week to a fortnight, depending how many other things we can scrounge up to add to it for dinner.

I hop from the boulder and pad down the slope, the others falling in, silent as the grave. The hunt is afoot, and they exchange neither bestial growls nor words in the wolve's language. A breeze blows slightly in our faces, snatching our scent and carrying it away, making the grass rustle and sway loud enough to cover up our footfalls.

We start out a trot, then a loping run, and below one of the deer spots us. Once it bolts, the herd, spooked, follows, and we spring forward, shooting across the plains, legs stretching out as we accelerates to our top speeds. We gain ground, snapping and snarling, splitting into two groups; Kjor leads one, and they veer off to chase down the largest elk they can, ensuring our provisions for the next few weeks. I and the elves hunt as true wolves do, singling out a slower, older doe and dragging it to the ground.

Within minutes, I'm sinking my teeth into it's neck, tasting rich blood as my fangs open the jugular. The wolf, under control until now, rises to the surface, casting my thoughts in a red, primal haze. I allow it to take over my actions, let it's instincts overshadow my own. The blood of prey strengthens the wolf, but it also strengthens one's connection to it; the closer and more often I teeter to the edge that separates me from the wolf, the I closer I become to those instincts. It's that very connection what allows me to so often call upon the beast while still assuming the form of a person.

It's one of the reason I have for these monthly hunts; it has the same effects for the others, and it brings us together as a pack as much as it strengthens us individually. By the time I take over Whiterun, I plan for us to be just as formidable as omegas as we are together.

After several minutes, when the wolf and the three elves have had their fill of blood and organs and flesh, we set about locating the others. Their pursuit of the deer took them out of our immediate sight, and I throw back my head and howl- a call, not a challenge as it had been on the plains of Whiterun all those weeks ago. The answer sounds from someone nearby- less than a mile- and I yip to the others and spring forward. My cares fall away for those minutes, as I shoot across the hills with El and Uvela and Ren at my side, howling as we go and adjusting our course according to the returning sound.

Kjor, Nekesh, and Raen are standing guard when we arrive the untouched body of perhaps the largest doe I've ever seen on the ground nearby. The blood on my beta's muzzle shows that he's already had the heart of the other animals, and withdrawn from further feasting to keep our future dinner intact.

We exchange greeting barks and wagging tails and gather together, calling to our last packmate; Ren was left behind when the pursuit began, and her horse and cart are our only way of getting the deer back to the den in one piece.

So we howl as a group, Nekesh's deep baritone at one end of the scale, Raen's at the other, everyone else somewhere in the middle. The different notes mix together, a surprisingly harmonious thing so very distinct to us, to our pack. For a minute I want Ren to join us, to hear her hauntingly beautiful song; the only time she has a tongue is in the form of the wolf, and it's the only time we get an inkling of what her voice might have been. It fulfills the call of the pack, produces a melody-on-harmony that truly live up to the phrase wolfsong. It's one of the only positive sounds I'll never be able to forget.

Within a half-hour, Ren arrives, and we awkwardly load the deer onto the cart while Ren tries to keep the horse calm. Its an interesting feat for the both of us; though we can use our teeth to drag the body, we still have to lift it into the cart. Our paws might appear closer to hands, but there's something about the fingers, about the thumbs that doesn't want to curl right- that doesn't want to be used as an actual hand. Still, we manage to get it into the back of the rickety vendors-cart, and Ren manages to keep the horse from bolting.

"El, guard Ren. The rest of us are heading back." I say in the wolf's language, offering a lupine grin. I've been back in Markarth for alittle over a week- long enough to throw Bal's birthday party two days ago- and in that time, the fledgling couple hasn't had even a hint of alone time. Tonight is the perfect opportunity for them to get anything they need worked out, well, worked out.

We're all exhausted by the time we get home; the wolf might not tire, but the human does, and the lateness of the hour takes it toll as we all groggily pull on clothes and fall into bed. Elrohir and Ren's arrival an hour or two later, the noise and scent of blood stirring me just long enough to groan in annoyance and roll over, going straight back to sleep. When the morning comes, I'm shocked by how energized I feel; I haven't had such a restful night in months, years even.

I should've known then and there that something would go horribly, horribly wrong.


The next morning, I send a messenger to inform Aela that I'm on my way to Whiterun to begin my Trial, figuring she can pass the information on to Vilkas. I saddle the red-roan mare that I still have from Whiterun's stables and pack enough food for a day or two; I hope to make this an in-and-out operation, and don't plan on getting a room or staying the night anywhere.

I hug Bal and Fayla before I leave, trying not to stumble over their new canine companions; they're newly walking, and teeter unsteadily after the Argonian and Redguard whenever they're within sight. They've yet to be granted names, but given how much they're underfoot, Bother and Pester might be good fits.

When I get to Whiterun at alittle past noon, luck is once again on my side. Aela meets me at the gates, gives me the location of the shard of Wuuthrad, and says that my 'Shield-brother left for there an hour ago.' I thank her and ride off again, not even having to go into the city.

I didn't push my horse hard on the journey from Markarth, so I gallop across the plains now, eager for this to be over with. The sooner it is, the sooner Vilkas ceases to be anything more than an annoyance.

The silver-eyed warrior is waiting when I pull up, his back turned to me as he gazes northward across the plains. I dismount and use a length of rope to tie my mare to a pine, giving her just enough leeway to be able to graze a bit while we're in the crypt. Then I pull my wolf-helm from a saddlebag, put it on, and stroll towards Vilkas.

"Ready to do this, pup?" I ask, and the Companion turns to face me.

Dammit, some part of me snarls.

The man in front of me isn't Vilkas; it's Farkas.

I take a deep breathe, trying to take this turn of events- and my severe annoyance- in stride. So I have to put up with Vilkas for a while longer; it's nothing I can't learn to live with.

It takes me a minute to fully remember the werewolf hunters hidden in the Nordic crypt below, and when I do several more colorful curses fly past my mind.

Great; now I get to waste all that planning to cripple someone I don't even necessarily dislike- yet. Maybe he's just like his brother. Maybe he's pompous ass who's earned it. It's a comforting thought, but an unlikely one. As of yet, he's the only of the Circle I haven't interacted with. Ergo, I have absolutely no problem with him- in fact, our lack of acquaintance alone makes him on of my favorite Companions.

I sincerely hope that whatever we have to say to each other between now and meeting the Silver Hand will leave a bad impression; he might not be my first choice on who to put out of action, but perhaps not all will be lost, even with him here in place of his brother.

Farkas notices and misreads my reaction to his presence. "Aela didn't tell you?" he says, his brow furrowing as he frowns.

"No, Aela did not tell me." I grind out, trying to keep my agitation in check. "Why isn't Vilkas here?"

"Kodlak thought it'd be a bad fit."

"What, was the-" Farkas's gaze turns sharp, and I stop myself short of harsher name calling, "-pup running his mouth?"

"Aye. The old man thought I'd be more fair than my brother."

Vilkas must have really been complaining about me, for Kodlak to think he was too biased to get the job done. It must bother him, that he, a big bad Nord alpha, found his match in a Khajiit newblood. The thought makes me smug.

I gesture towards the cairn. "Let's get on with it, then."

Farkas grunts in reply, and when he doesn't make to move, I lead the way down the stairs. Uneasiness plagues me as we descend, my old aversion to underground places coming out to play. I wish I could call upon the wolf- the familiarness of it's power would be a comfort- but I've had my werewolf ring on ever since I came into sight of Whiterun, and the beast sleeps uneasily.

When my feet finally hit the stone floor, I draw the Sword of Whiterun and push the heavy Nordic-carved door open. Farkas follows behind me, and I'm starting to get the sense that this 'Trial' is going to involve me doing alot of work and him watching. I guess that's the Trial part.

I step into the ruin and find myself at the top of a flight of stairs, and unable through hearing or Khajiit smell to detect any threat in the room ahead, so I descend warily. The Sword of Whiterun is held loosely in hand as I enter and look around the empty room. A sleeping bag, a table a relativly new chest, and three dead draugr are all that's to be found here.

The Silver Hand definitely got here in time, I think offhandedly; I got a letter to Krev the day after I took down Karthspire Camp, but I was unsure whether or not there would be enough time for him to coordinate this. He obviously managed.

"Look's like someone's been digging here. And recently." Farkas remarks, nodding to the doorway across from us, a pile of rubble excavated from around it.

"It'd be just my luck to have to kill bandits and draugr."

"Too much work for you, new blood?" He asks sarcastically, taking my comment as complaining, which isn't exactly how I meant it. My ears lay back at the snarled sentence, but I force myself not to otherwise react. He'll be a cripple within a few hours, I remind myself.

I stroll through the doorway, climbing over the low pile of rubble. Farkas falls into step behind me, and we silently delve deeper into the ruin, entering a catacomb like area. We're trotting forward fast enough that I walk right past the first draugr; while I take care of two of it's fellows, my Nordic companion turns on it, his claymore hacking it apart with more speed than I expect out of man or weapon.

I let out a low whistle when it's bones fall to the ground, Farkas standing over it, barely breathing hard. "Dramatic. And impressive."

He grunts in return, but I get the sense he's amused by the statement, a hint of respect appearing in his gaze. It's confirmed when he nods to the pair of draugr at my feet and adds, "Same for you. I'm glad you can handle yourself in battle. I didn't want to have to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."

It's the longest stretch of speech I've been able to get out of him, and I give a small smile and dip my head in appreciation of the compliment. The difference between him and his twin is stark; both start off untrusting and slightly disrespectful, but what they do after they know of my competence is what sets them apart. Vilkas either refuses to acknowledge my amount of experience or disregards it entirely, whereas Farkas seems to at least have a base level of esteem for his competent allies.

Damn, I think, not for the first time. This would be so much easier if he were an ass.

I crouch to wipe the blood from my blade on the skin of the draugr, keeping it at the ready as Farkas and I plunge onwards once again.

"You know, after dealing with your brother, I didn't think you'd be so… civil, in comparison."

I sense more than see Farkas tense up behind me. I know that it's a jab, and perhaps an uncalled for one, but I want to know how much of his brother's fight he thinks is his. And, more honestly, I want an argument. I want for him to say something short or biting so I can go through with my plan with a clear conscience. Not that the prospect of an unclear one ever stops me, but every now and then I'm in the mood to avoid it.

"My brother, he doesn't trust easy. Especially strangers. It makes him seem colder than he is."

Cold isn't exactly the word I'd use for it, but I bite my tongue. He's obviously not going to rise to any bait. "So I've noticed." Is what I eventually go with.

We follow the twists and turns of the hallway, going through another draugr, a half-rotted wooden door, and a rather annoyingly large cobweb before arriving at the next room. It's more cavern-like, the ceiling rising fifteen or more feet above us. A glance around shows, most notably, a pair of thrones, an arcane enchanter, and the exit, blocked by a metal gate.

"I'm guessing we're going to have to find a lever." It's more a grumbled comment than a question; my dislike of ruins is not helped by the hoops one has to jump through to get through them.

I circle around to the slight dais upon which sit the thrones and arcane enchanter, picking a few soul gems off the dusty table-top. They could use a cleaning- acouple centuries or millennia worth of dust has caked onto them- but after that, they should work just fine, or sell even better.

I pocket those and begin a circuit of the chamber's walls, using the light of the braziers the Silver Hand have so generously lit to look for a way to open the door. Farkas does the same, and out of the corner of my eye I see the Companion disappear into an adjacent room. It's more of a large alcove, really, resembling a small workshop more than a full-blown chamber of it's own. I ignore it; it looks to be an alchemy or embalming station, and that isn't going to be of much help.

Farkas doesn't say anything, but I hear it when he pulls the lever he finds. It's followed by a familiar clang of metal, the turning of hidden gears, and a crash of steel on stone. I turn to find a gate lowered across the large alcoves doorway, with Farkas standing sheepishly behind it, trapped inside.

I stroll over to stand in front of him, suppressing a grin all the while. "I guess you had no way of knowing it didn't open the other gate." My resolve breaks, and I smile widely, trying not to laugh. "I'm sure there's a way to open it. Worse comes to worst and I'll gather up some mage friends of mine and we'll melt the bars."

A sound reaches my ears then- the pounding of armored feet on stone, a metal gate's gears clanging as it raises- and I whirl, ears laying flat as fire appears in my left hand a sword in the right. I can get out of this, I tell myself as Silver Hand pour into the chamber through the previously-locked gate. The first five I expect; the next five get my heart beating. The following three, all covered in plates of steel from head to foot, makes me reevaluate my previous thoughts.

Ah irony, thou art a heartless bitch. I think, baring my canines at the very trap I set.

You handled around forty Imperials, I remind myself for comfort. I ignore the whispers that remind me that I had my beast blood, that the Imperials were already battered from their ambush of the Stormcloaks, that I technically didn't win that fight. I can't help but picture what would happen if I go down now. Even if they don't kill me right away, which they most likely would, I'm not going to wake up on a cart with the opportunity to escape. At best, if I reveal my beast blood, I'll be tortured until my mind breaks and the wolf is all that's left.

Always the optimist, you are. I think, flexing my fingers and watching the semi-circle of people that's formed around me. If I can get my ring off, and let the wolf out to play, this will get exponentially easier. It will also reveal to Farkas just where it was we first met, which will lead to him telling his brother, which will result in unpleasant things. That unpleasant thing being having to move up the territory battle for Whiterun, something I can't afford to do yet; a Thaneship is fine, but nothing else is arranged. The pack has nowhere to live in Whiterun, lacks the gold to buy a house, and may not be able to find work there at the minute. Now is not the time for the Companions to find out that I'm a werewolf.

I back up a step, putting my back against the bars of Farkas's alcove, reluctantly resolving to only resort to werewolf strength if I have to. It's a move that has fear crawling up my spine; it's been years since I went into a fight of this scale without the power and speed of the wolf.

While these things have been flying past my mind, the overgrown bandits in front of me have been arguing back in forth, and my eyes flicker between people, planning, whatever they're saying registering as background noise.

"Who's the cat?"

"She's not one of them!"

Most of the Silver Hand are in leather armor, either studded or plain, something my sword can go through with a little effort. The three juggernaut-equivalents in steel plater are going to be the problem, though. Ideally, I can use a Frenzy spell to turn them on their weaker friends. My sole Illusion spell, and Nazir's help, were the deciding factor in getting through the Windhelm guards; like them, these steel-clad warriors will cut down their friends for me. And, if my magicka is back by the time the spell wears off, I could soften the survivors up further with a firestorm, like I did with the Imperials.

"The guy behind her, isn't he a Companion?"

"You see him wearing the armor, half-wit?"

The flames in my palm dissipate, replaced by reddish light that weaves in lines around my hand, forming a ball where fire sat just seconds ago.

"Enough of this!" One of the heavily-armored men booms. The others fall silent, and my eyes zero in on him. "Who's the guy in the cage, cat?" he demands.

In response, I throw my hand out and catch this apparent leader in the chest with the red orb of light. For a split second, he's still, body stiff as his mind fights the spell. Then he spins, greatsword swinging out and all but cleaving the nearest of his fellows in half.

I flatten against the bars of Farkas's alcove, trying to go unthought of as, in the span of twenty second, the somewhat-organized group in front of me descends into a melee, everyone trying to take down their leader before he can kill them all.

"Farkas, magicka potion, now!" I shout over my shoulder. When I hear a noise of confusion in reply, I add, "Blue bottle! Hurry up!" A hand is shoved through the bars next to me, and I swipe the bottle from it with my left hand and dislodge the cork with the claw of my thumb. I down it all in one gulp, casting a weaker version of my earlier spell on the two other Silver Hand in heavy armor before it's even hit my stomach.

So begins the fight in earnest. Dar'sein was the one to teach me how, and Gallus was the one to hone it; more like dancing than combat. It's the only style of defence that was viable at the time- I first learned before I knew about my beast blood, and before I got any meat on my bones. I would never have been able to fight like most Nords, with power and brute force and the ability to take hit after hit. The only advantage I had was the speed and balance of a Khajiit. And, of course, intellect; I've been taught well enough that I let the Silver Hand fight amongst themselves and wisely give myself only the survivors to battle with.

When I do finally jump in, it's with my blade flashing. Spinning and springing and ducking, body a blur of movement as I counter or slip around the steel of the werewolf hunters, using my free hand to shoot flames or land a unbalancing blow. I do less of the latter this time around, not having the werewolf strength to back up those strikes to the degree I usually do, but I compensate with agility and fire.

Without werewolf speed, I'm still slow in comparison to the usual, something that is shown by the time I come to a stop, panting for breathe. Eight bandits who survived the attack of their allies litter the ground around me, dead or seconds from it. I'm covered in blood, both theirs and my own; a minor gash on my side bleeds steadily where a battle axe cut into the leather of my Imperial armor, and another blow knocked off my helmet, it's follow-up evidenced by a cut the races across my forehead and took out a small chunk of my right ear, putting a constant stream of red distractedly in my eyes.

I take several minutes to gather my breath, methodically healing each of the three enough to stop the blood flow. The sharp ache that has returned to my knee doesn't ease when the pain from the injuries do, and once again I wish for the beastblood.

I glance at Farkas as my heartbeat starts to slow to it's normal pace. No use agonizing over his fate now; the trap is sprung, and he was unable to do anything other than watch it close around me. The fruitlessness of this endeavor stirs both anger and relief in my chest. I killed a scholar for nothing, but I didn't have to watch a seemingly honorable man come inches from following. I'd like to say that Kjor would be glad that I avoided further muddying my soul, but he learned long ago that that was a battle that he wouldn't win- and one that would make me irrecognizable if he did.

"I'll go take a look around." I say, nodding towards the doorway the Silver Hand opened up. "There's usually a release switch around."

I find it in the hallway now open to me, not far from the door. I hear the gate raise, and walk back the few steps to meet Farkas at the doorway. We continue deeper, through hallways and crypt-areas and rooms, unopposed all the while; the Silver Hand have killed all the draugr, and I killed the Silver Hand. The most dangerous thing to befall us during this time would have been a poison dart trap, if I weren't used to spotting the trap's pressure plate and warn Farkas of it.

A heavy, Nordic-carved door eventually blocks our path, and separates the Cairn into two unequal parts: the one we're in, that the Silver Hand cleaned up as they awaited our arrival, and the one untouched by men for centuries. We push the door open, walking cautiously through rooms and tunnels, cutting through skeevers and draugr with practiced ease.

Perhaps the only remarkable thing to happen before we reach the end is crossing the spider-filled room. The room itself is more of a cave, the walls natural rock instead of worked stone, almost every inch covered in white, silky spider-web. Two large spiders- one slightly bigger than it's fellow- and four small ones don't take kindly to our intrusion on their nest.

I warn Farkas of the smell a few paces before we actually reach the room's doorway, and in the true Nordic fashion, he charges in with his greatsword, realizing too late that the smaller spiders are too nimble to be hit by the slow weapon. The group of arachnids converge on the Companion, and I leap into the fray, shooting flames at the largest two of the creatures and drawing their attention, keeping them from also going after Farkas. By the time I've burnt one to crisps and stabbed my sword through another's head, the smaller spiders, with their constant forward leaps, have backed Farkas close to the walls. Two already lay dead, and as I watch, the remaining ones leap for him- one at his torso, one at his head. His sword cleaves the lower one in half midair, but the other one hits his head and clings on.

A sound much higher than I'd expect him to be able to make comes from his throat, a mix f surprise and fear at the loss of his vision and the sudden stomach-churning proximity of the animal. He drops his weapon, useless now, as his hands come up to try and frantically pry it from his face. Then I've crossed the distance between us, and with Farkas already slowly pulling the creature off him, I'm able to use one hand to rip it away, throwing it on it's back to the ground and stomping down on it's head. I choose to have the common decency of not mentioning his undignified screech.

We press on, encountering nothing but draugr. After several minutes, at the end of another catacombs-like section of the dungeon, we reach another intricate iron door, and push it open as we have all the rest. I lead the way through it, stopping just inside the doorway. The ceiling suddenly vaults, and the close walls on either side give a canyon-like impression. Farkas takes a step forward, but I grab his arm to stop him, eyeing the sarcophaguses set into said walls with mistrust. The whole dungeon has smelled of dust and rotting bone, but it concentrates heavily here, and it sets me on edge.

"Be careful. I don't like this." I say, drawing my sword and easing forward. The coffin-lined walls end about thirty feet later, and the room expands out to either side. A staircase to the right leads up to more upright coffins, while in front of me, a few stairs each lead to a series of broad, tiered platforms, putting the altar and the Nordic wall sitting atop the last one at a higher elevation.

We continue towards that altar, but nothing comes out to challenge us. By the time I reach the platform it sits on, I'm more focused on the wall. It could be an exact copy of the one from Bleak Falls Barrow, save for the words inscribed on it. The runic carving draws and holds my eyes, tugging me forward. A buried instinct surges- one that says knowledge is power and power is everything- and the word that seems to be moving or perhaps glowing emblazons itself into my mind. Yol, I somehow know it means, though what yol translates to I have no idea.

After a second, I blink, feeling the instinct settle in the back of my mind, almost the way the beastblood sleeps with my ring on. Unease creeps up my spine; this must be the dragonblood the Nords speak of, and it's strength unsettles me.

I turn back to the altar, glancing at the objects on it for the first time. I sweep a few dusty gold coins into my hand before picking up an odd scrap of metal, one side holding a slight curve and a sharpened edge somehow undulled by use or time.

"I'm guessing this is it?" I say, tilting it to Farkas, who stands across the altar from me.

"Aye. The scholar was right." His voice holds a note of awe as he says, "A fragment of Wuuthrad."

The familiar, loud crash of a stone sarcophagus lid onto the floor sounds, and the shard is pocketed and my weapon drawn without conscious thought. Four or so draugr, emerging from coffins at ground level or on the ledge to the right I noticed earlier, draw their own ancient weapons, charging us.

It's the first time I realize that Farkas and I work well together. His size and power compliment my speed and agility; while he swings and smashes his way through skeletons, I dance around him and his blade, keeping draugr from teaming up on him as he completes the slow, yet crippling, swings of his massive sword. In return, in the moments he seeks another opponent, he cuts through one of the usually-three bonemen I flow around.

Three staggered waves of draugr assault us, spitting out four or more at a time. We're always moving, fighting our draugr or covering the other as they fight one, falling into a natural rhythm and teamwork that I've only ever had with Kjor and on rare occasions, Mercer. It feels like hunting with the pack- automatic, instinctive. Even the taller, stronger Deathlord- who kicks open his coffin on the ledge with such force that the lid ends up on our level- falls to us, through the fus Shout to stumble him and a swing of a claymore to decapitate him.

When his bones finally hit the ground, Farkas and I stand on the level below the altar, panting, our swords covered in nicks and perhaps twenty draugr dead around us. Farkas's steel armor is dented in places, and a deep gash almost to the bone pours blood from his right bicep, but he's grinning as we regain our breath.

"Now that was a battle." he says between sucking in breath. "You make a good Shield-Sister, cat." The affectionate tone of cat makes a small smile tug at my lips; no Nord besides Kjor has ever done anything but snarl the word.

"You're pretty useful yourself." I reply.

After having spent an hour or two in the cairn, Farkas and I finally step back into the sunlight. Afternoon is approaching, and casts the plains in a warm glow as we stroll to my horse. I untie the reins, looping them back over the beast's head and keeping one hand loosely on it's bridle as I use the other to open a saddle bag, tug my helmet off, and deposit it in the leather sack.

I fish the shard from the pouch on my belt, holding it out to Farkas. "Here. Give that and my regards to Kodlak."

"You're not going back to Jorrvaskr?"

"I have to return to Markarth." I say, shaking my head. The Nord takes the piece of metal, holding it gently. "I'll swing by the next time I'm in Whiterun. It'll give you all time to decide whether or not to throw me out."

"You're a brave woman. You'll be a Companion." Farkas assures, a certain level of conviction in his voice. I can already imagine the argument that will ensue if and when he tells that to Vilkas.

"Thanks." I say, swinging up onto my horse. "Want a ride back?"

He shakes his head. "Walking's good for ya'."

"I'll be back sometime before the month's out." Considering it's the third day of Last Seed, that can be over three weeks; it's exactly why I chose that wording. "Shadows hide you, Farkas."

Then I turn my horse sharply, setting us off a canter headed west.


"Nordic ale, o'course." Kjor says.

"Truly shocking." Elrohir mumbles, smiling teasingly. It's the second- and final- day of the long journey from Markarth to Kynesgrove. The first day of travel wasn't so bad; I napped in the saddle, having arrived at the Den from Whiterun, bruised and sore, at three in the morning. Now, though, I'm wide awake, and the day is overcast, gloomy, and so humid that I might as well be breathing underwater.

"Whats your's then, smart guy?"

"Colovian brandy, my friend. It's the finest drink this side of Summerset."

"Lightweights, both of you." Nekesh rumbles good-naturedly.

"By all means, do tell what you prefer."

"Mean and ale work. But not in the amounts you drink."

"And attempting the amounts you consume would lead any normal person to their death."

"Or one helluva hangover." Kjor puts in. "What's yours, Shim?" he asks.

I glance at the sun, noting the time, and flick my reins, speeding my horse to a canter. The others follow, Nekesh's draft-horse making deep dull thuds on the road. Elrohir doesn't have to lift his hands from his lap; out of the corner of my eye, I see him lean forward and whisper a few words into his chestnut's ear, and it springs forward into a trot.

"If people didn't know you were Bosmer, they'd think you could talk animals into listening to you." I say, amused. I glance over to Kjor and add, "My favorite's mead with juniper berries. The sweetness distracts from the taste."

"Not gonna call her lightweight, Nekesh?"

The mountain of an Osimer shrugs. "Can't tell. Never really seen the chief drink."

"And I plan to keep it that way."

"Don't wish to repeat the spectacle of jumping off Dragon's Bridge into a hay cart floating by?"

Nekesh erupts into laughter at the knowledge and the image I'm sure that comes with it, and Kjor chuckles at the reminder. The wind picks up then, and a small speck of white floats in front of my eyes.

"Guys." I say. "Snow."

Sure enough, the white powder drifts lazily to the ground. Within an hour we've gone from a slightly-chilly summer day to snow flurrying around our mounts' hooves. Our little line of travelers fall silent, four pairs of eyes glowing ember as we use our Wolf senses to search for danger. The wind picks up after another hour, howling and whipping the snow into blinding flurries. We huddle into our cloaks, nearly as blind and deaf as wolf pups, squinting through the dimness and snow of a late summer blizzard not uncommon in Windhelm.

Eventually, we find the road leading up to Kynesgrove, and ascend up the sloped path. When we catch the first glimpse of a building, we put our plan into motion. Elrohir ties Kjor's wrists, and we move our horses into a tight formation around him, Elrohir and I boxing him in on either side and Nekesh's big destrier following behind. A rope tied to my saddlehorn and Kjor's mare serves to further the illusion.

Minutes later, after a day and a half of travel, the mining town of Eastmarch finally comes into full view, deserted except for the lights spilling out from under the inn's door. We nearly run over a pair of guards unfortunate enough to be caught patrolling in the snowstorm, and get snapped at irritably. By the time Elrohir's done talking with them, though, they've been lightly bribed and convinced to 'brave the weather for us' and bring their commander- and the bounty on Kjor's head- up to Kynesgrove.

We tie our horses to the inn's porch railing and wait inside, ignoring the stares of the locals surprised to find four cloaked strangers- one of which with his wrists bound- sharing their tavern. We stay relatively warm in the , mostly because of the flames the Nords glaring at us wish we would burst into.

After perhaps three hours of waiting, the inn door is flung open so hard it swings around and bounces of the wall with a crash. A Nord stands in the doorway, flanked by a pair of guards -they're most likely the pair from earlier, but it's hard to tell with the indistinguishable uniforms and the blizzard muddying scents. Said blond-haired, fair-skinned oaf wears the bulky bear-fur armor of a Stormcloak commander. Elrohir, Nekesh and I stand as one, and I make a point of yanking Kjor to his feet as well. The inn goes silent.

"My men tell me you've caught a fugitive." Yrsarald says.

"That would depend upon whether you have the gold promised for him." Elrohir shoots back cooly. He stands slightly in front of the rest of us, arms crossed, giving the impression of being the leader of the group. Yrsarald lips curl into a snarl.

"I don't work with elves."

"Then work with me." Nekesh booms, stalking forward; Yrsarald looks like a gangly teenage boy next to the Orc. "We caught Eranson. Give the chief our money and stand aside."

"Once I'm sure it's Eranson you caught." Is the undaunted reply. I roll my eyes.

Elrohir pulls the bounty poster from a pocket inside his vest, passing it to Nekesh, who hands it off to Yrsarald. The Bosmer nods to me, and I yank Kjor forward and tug his hood down. The Stormcloak commander takes his time in comparing the picture to my beta. When he's satisfied, he rolls the paper back up and motions to one of the guards.

A heavy-laden satchel is tossed to Elrohir without a word. He passes it to me, and I open it and examine the contents. The gold and precious stone easily add up to the promised amount, and I sling the bag over my shoulder and glance to my three packmates. We're just about to trample the three Stormcloaks and bolt out the door when a thunderous roar sounds from outside, shaking the building; I can almost make out guttural words.

Something in the back of my mind flares to life at the same time rage mounts in my chest, overcoming any fear with ease. I know that Voice, the same way I know a wolf's howl from a lycan's, and my hands curl into fists; I've seen myself next to the owner of that roar on a rainy day in Riften. Even if it wasn't real- or isn't real yet- it's something I'll never forget, or forgive.

"What in Oblivion was that?" Yrsarald shouts to no one in particular.

"Alduin." I snarl, with an odd accent that drags out the three-syllable word. My packmates glance at me.

"Are you sure?" Elrohir asks.

"Unfortunately." I say, drawing my dagger and cutting Kjor's hands free. Yrsarald glances around wildly as Orc, Bosmer, and Khajiit draw daggers and swords; Nekesh tosses Kjor one of his, my beta having left his own weapons behind for the sake of the ruse.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he finally manages to demand.

By way of response, I say, "FUS!"

The force of the Shout slams into the three Stormcloaks hard enough to send them stumbling into each other, and we push our way past and out the door.

"Everyone mount up. We're getting the hell out of here." I say. As much as some part of me wants a fight, a much larger part wants to live. Our feet have just touched snow when another earth-shattering roar sounds, and a huge black shapes zips by overhead, low enough that the wind it generates nearly takes us off our feet. The others look after the black dragon disappearing into the distance with awe and fear, especially Kjor; though this is the first time the others have seen a dragon, Kjor knows the tales well enough to recognize the World-Eater.

calm my panicking horse and swing the satchel off my shoulder, stuffing it into a saddlebag. A second roar shakes the ground from somewhere close by, and my head jerks up, tracking the sound without conscious thought.

"Did it circle back?" Nekesh asks apprehensively.

"No. Different voice." I say, uneased by how sure of that statement I am. I step away from the horse, shaking my head free of the cloak's hood, flames sparking to life in my left hand. I know without being told that the owner of the second roar wants nothing more at the minute than to destroy; running will only cause us to be hunted down.

Instead, I have to come up with a plan. Fighting dragons is hard enough when you're not freezing your tail off in a mild blizzard with limited visibility; it's probably nearly impossible with those setbacks. Another roar sounds, and my brain kicks into overdrive. The dragon has to deal with the same environment as us; we can use that to our advantage.

"Everyone take cover and try not to draw attention to yourselves. Nekesh, when it lands, you go for the wings. El, get as many arrows as you can into it when it's in the air. Everyone else needs to stay away from it's head and tail. And as soon as it takes off again, you guys get out of the way." I shout my plan over the howling wind, eyes flickering everywhere in an attempt to see through the swirling wall of white.

"What about you?" Kjor shouts. I smile grimly.

"I'll give it a reason to land."

The ground shakes when the great lizard lands on the inn, and the three Stormcloaks, just stumbling off the porch, whip around, blades scraping as swords are freed from their sheathes. Say what you want about Nords, but sometimes they do have their priorities straight.

"I am Sahloknir!" The dragon booms. "Hear my voice and despair!"

The words are barely out of his mouth before an arrow thunks into his forehead; I'm silently impressed that Elrohir managed to hit his head in this wind.

With a furious shriek, the greyish dragon launches himself from the roof, and I roll out of the way of his dive- almost right into one the now-panicking horses. The screams of men are snatched away by the wind as the dragon crashes onto the ground, crushing them beneath his body and snapping at Yrsarald and the remaining guard.

Between three Nords, a Bosmer, a Khajiit, and one huge Orc, Sahloknir is swarmed within seconds. He gets ahold of the other guard, but opts to take off before anyone else dies and he's hacked to pieces. After that, the dragon does everything he can to avoid landing. It becomes a challenge, watching what I can of the skies around me and trying to guess where he'll be when next he swoops down to rain fire on us. The only good things about that tactic is that it gives El the chance to pump his wings full of arrows.

After what seems like an eternity of narrowly avoiding bouts of dragonfire- I've singed off more fur than I'd like- Sahloknir's damaged wings are unable to fight the winter winds any longer. The only warning I get of his descent is the loud crash and the splintering of wood as he clips the inn roof; then he's shooting through the air feet over my head and crashing into the ground, grinding a deep gouge into the earth as he skids down the road.

Then my Wolves are next to me, and we're sprinting towards the downed lizard. When we're within twenty feet, flames pour out at us, and I drop and slide under the torrent, leaping to my feet an arm's length from the beast and swinging my blade into its cheek.

Dragons, for all their arrogance and grandeur, are like any other animal: they're more dangerous when they're desperate. Grounded, the great grey lizard still twists and snaps and breathes flames. After narrowly avoiding it's snapping jaws, It's tail swings around out of nowhere, clipping my shoulder and sending me spinning to the ground. A sharp, bone-deep, aching stab of pain pulses across my shoulder in time with my heartbeat, but I ignore it and push myself up. My feet aren't quite under me when I hear a sound that engraves itself into my mind: a dragon's jaws closing on armor and flesh. My heart leaps into my throat.

Kjor screams, shrieks at the top of his lungs like his arm's been torn off as hurls himself at Sahloknir, but the dragon has already spit out the elf he had in his jaws and has drawn his head back, neck arched, fire gathering in his throat. I scramble forward, trying to reach and distract the great lizard before he can finish Elrohir off.

It doesn't matter; I'm too late. An inferno pours forth and breaks on my packmate when I'm yards away, and instinct takes over as I Shout. The force-based attack snaps Sahloknir's head back, cutting off the wave of fire. A shape, large and somewhere between humanoid and lupine, leaps up and latches onto the soft underside of the dragon's neck.

Sense has left my mind; I can't breathe, can't think beyond Elrohir's blackened body in front of my eyes. He's dead. The thought plays in my mind unceasingly. He's dead he's dead he's dead. Then blind rage sweeps away all conscious thought, burning in my chest, setting fire to my blood. I don't think, don't register fear, don't feel the pain from my shoulder; there's the sword in my hand and the shrieking dragon in front of me and destruction.

Sahloknir has just thrown Kjor from his neck when I reach him. He snaps his jaws, and I spin to the side, swinging my sword and cutting a deep gash into his nose, grabbing his horn with one arm and transferring the momentum upward as I swing onto his head. I sink my blade straight down, stabbing with all my strenght time after time; after a few tries I break through the skull, and with one final downward thrust I burry my sword to the hilt in Sahloknir's head.

Dead, the dragon's head crashes to the ground, and I stay on only through the grip on my blade's pommel. I rise on shaky legs, my breath coming in ragged gasps. All I can look at is the elven body beneath me, charred to a crisp. Sahloknir's body starts to burn, crackling with the strange ethereal fire that rises around me, reaching for the bleak sky, then swirling around my body in a tornado. Something in my chest rises, calls the lights, absorbs them in.

Beautiful and terrible. Power and strength and pride and rage. The satisfaction of watching those who stand against you burn in dragonfire. The freedom of immortality.

At Whiterun, my pain pulled me out of experiencing this; not now. The outside world dims. All that matters is the dragonsoul twisting in my chest, starting to settle at the familiar draconic nature of it's host. It plunges me into darkness while somehow lifting my spirits, focusing my mind. This is power, real power, and it makes me something more.

"Shima!" Kjor shouts, kneeling at Elrohir's side, looking up at me. My eyes go to him, my vision sharper than ever; from ten feet away, with snow swirling around, I can see the reflection of my eyes in his, and they've changed, from yellow to red, two pieces of burning coal with narrow slitted pupils. Energy thrums through my veins, fading slowly. My beta flinches back, but holds my gaze. "Shima," he says again, voice lower, "He's alive."

I blink several times, trying to comprehend the statement. Then I'm kneeling by the Bosmer's side, taking in the ragged, barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest. Tears come to my eyes, and I blink them away; his flesh is melted, blackened in some places and a waxy yellow-white in others, all of it leathery and warped. Blood has turned to a redish ooze, though the amount of it tells me that most of it's evaporated. What I'd guess is bone is an odd, sickly yellowish color. Five wide gashes make a semicircle around the left side of his torso, barely discernible from the other damage. And he's still alive. Thank the gods he's unconscious.

Nekesh shakes his head sadly. "Won't be 'live for long." he chokes out, and he's right; our friend should already be dead. He won't last seconds more.

I don't know what about that sentence or that fact puts the idea in my head, but in the next instance I'm up, whirling to face nowhere in particular.

"Martin!" I shout. "Septim, get down here!" Nekesh and Kjor look at me like I've gone mad. "MARTIN!" I roar, and the ground shakes with the power of a Shout. I sense more than see him appear in front of me, though the usual leaden feeling is dulled; Kjor shouts and leaps to his feet, sword pointed threateningly, and Nekesh's great hulking form tenses, ready to move.

Martin's ethereal eyes go straight to Elrohir, and he draws in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry, Shima."

"Save him." I growl.

His shakes his head, stepping back. "I can't."

"Save him!" I shout, surging forward. Kjor's at my side then, yanking me back.

"If you can help him, you have ta." My beta says, tone imploring, grip almost painful. "He's dying."

Martin squares his shoulders to the Nord. "She could die."

"That's not your call." I snap, stepping forward. Kjor's iron grip on my severely bruised shoulder stops me from going farther.

"It's not." The werewolf agrees, though the tightening of his grip is a warning. To Martin, he says, "Do whatever ya can. Please. He's our brother."

Martin looks from the two of us to Elrohir and back, and I swear I hear him sigh for the love of Akatosh under his breath. "Very well." he says, though something about it- the tone, the slight, concerned tilt of the head- tells me that he does want to help.

We gather around Elrohir. Nekesh watches Martin silently, uncertain but accepting of his presence. The spirit kneels next to the Bosmer, and Kjor and I imitate the stance across from him.

"Keep an eye on her." Martin says to Kjor. "I don't imagine this will be pleasant."

It starts out slow, barely noticeable, like drifting to sleep. I ignore the feeling, looking from Martin to Elrohir. If I focus, I can see a faint stream of golden-white, ethereal light, flowing from me to Martin and Martin to Elrohir. After a minute, it becomes more painful' I can notice is now, a tugging that stings somewhere deep in my chest. It takes several more minutes for me to notice the change in Elrohir. It's not the burns that heal, at first; it's the gashes across his torso, the remnants of Sahloknir's fangs. They slowly knit together, patches of normal skin forming among the burned ruin of the rest of his flesh.

About the time the skin on his chest is beginning to reform, the stream of light thickens. It's a dragon soul, I realize, finally seeing that it's the same type of light I absorbed from Sahloknir. The stream thickens again, tugging on my chest, and I hold back a gasp, gritting my teeth. Martin glances up, though I don't make a sound. "Keep going." I growl. And he does, until my vision starts to blur and I've called so much upon the beastblood that my canines are fangs and ember eyes have replaced red. One look at Elrohir tells me it's not enough; I can now tell his torso from the mostly-melted leather armor on top of it, but only because the leather is black and his skin is- mostly- a angry, seeping red.

"I'm sorry. I've done all I can." Martin says then, and I want to snarl that all he can isn't enough, but I'm having trouble staying conscious. Then the apparition is gone, and we're left in the snow and the wind with a dead dragon and a dying friend.


The trip back to Markarth passess in a monotonous daze. I know that we commodore a wagon, a half-dozen potions, and wrap Elrohir in bandages. I know that we push the horses cruelly, only allowing them a few minutes break whenever the Bosmer regains consciousness and we stop to find him water. Two of us always lope along the side of the rode as Wolves, to lighten the weight and speed our progress, and we make it back in record time.

Twice during the trip Elrohir regains consciousness, moaning in agony for several minutes before he mercifully passed out again. We do all we can for him, pouring potions and water down his throat whenever he's awake or we think it won't choke him, but when we reach the Den after thirty hours of straight travel, his breathing is just as ragged as after Sahloknir died.

We somehow procure a side room- one of the priestess's bedrooms, I'd guess- in the Temple of Dibella to use. How we get there in particular, I have no memory of; I haven't slept or rested properly since we left for Kynesgrove three days ago, and the battle- and having what I suspect to be part of my dragon soul ripped out- has had me on the verge of collapse. That would be what I guess happens, because the next thing I clearly remember is leaning against the wall, freshly woken from sleep, watching Ren, Uvela and one of the priestesses unravel the bandages and survey the damaged Bosmer.

Ren chokes down a sob when she pulls back the cloth stips to reveal the red burns and blackened skin dappled across El's face, and I look away. His face is one of the least damaged parts of him; I don't want to see the look on the Dunmer's face when she see the rest of her… well, whatever they are to each other. Long-time friend alone would be traumatizing enough.

I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to ignore the little sounds of horror the three stand-in medicine-women make. "Did someone send for a healer already?" I ask, then add, "No offence, Ren. This is just… not what you're used to."

"The Jarl dispatched a runner to seek the aid of the College of Winterhold Restoration master." Uvela says.

"What did this?" Ren pauses to sign. There are tears in her eyes, but she's focused now; she'll stay relatively calm until she's done.

"Dragonfire." I say. "How long until we can expect some help?"

"How long must we wait for a messenger to get to Winterhold and back? It could near a week, Ri'Shima." I glance at Elrohir; he's starting to stir, face contorting in pain. Gears are turning in my mind, emotions crushing down in a wave and adding desperation to the proverbial grinding.

He doesn't have a week, I think, though I don't say that aloud.

Ren looks up as I think this, signing, "Go make Nekesh take his medicine, please." I'm not used to having my own people shoo me out of a room, but I nod and slip through the doorway.

It takes a minute of wandering around to find the main temple, where the others have spread out, waiting tensely. Raen sits against the wall, the two pups asleep at her side. Esmond sits next to her, staring into the distance, face grim; that he's not ogling the statues tells me all I need to know. Nekesh and Kjor are across the room from them, the former asleep on the floor and the latter leaning against the wall.

Everyone is at least half asleep, and don't notice as I pad silently to my beta. He looks up when I'm a few yards away, blue eyes tired and holding such deep worry that it verges on fear.

"Can't sleep?" I ask quietly, leaning my shoulder on the wall next to him.

"Don't want ta." he answers, giving me a smile that's more of a grimace. "What'd the girls say about 'em?"

"Not sure yet. They ran me off when they started to look him over. By the way, I'm suppose to get Nekesh to drink whatever potion Ren gave him. How's he doing?"

"Cracked acouple ribs in the fight, but he'll live. It's not the physical that's takin' it's toll."

I rock backwards, rolling slightly on the wall to put my back to it. Oppressive silence descends for several moments. "He can't die, Kjor. Not because of my decisions."

The Nord glances over at me- evaluating, sympathetic.

"This ain't on you, Shim. How were you suppose to know a dragon would show up?"

Anger sparks deep in my chest, and something stirs in the back of my mind, undeterred by guilt. I have no illusions; this is Sahloknir's fault as much as it is mine. It doesn't change the fact that if I hadn't insisted on going to Kynesgrove, Elrohir wouldn't have to endure agony every time he's awake. It doesn't change the fact that the Dragonborn can protect all of Nirn, but not someone who's watched her back for almost half a decade.

The priestess who was assisting Ren- if anyone's bothered to tell me her name, I've forgotten it- appears in the doorway, heralded only by my augmented hearing. She motions me over, and Kjor and I pick our way over to her.

"How's he doin'?" Kjor asks softly.

The ameteur healer looks at him, hesitates, but still says, "From everything we can see, he should be dead. As it is, his heart is straining. He's lost too much blood, water, flesh… everything. And those horrid burns. They… they resist treatment like nothing any of us have ever seen." She shakes her head. "He has days, if that. I'm sorry."

Pressure is building behind my eyes, in my chest, and I take care to keep my breathing even. "What about the Winterhold people? Their healers?"

"If they make it in time? Maybe. But the odds of that are… unlikely." She looks down and away, then back up, meeting my golden eyes. "You should know, that if by some miracle he does survive, he won't be the same. Dragonfire, it seems, damages to much, and holds to tight. Any life he might have won't be easy, and it certainly won't be painless."

There's something about her tone that makes my ears twitch. Kjor is the one to voice my question. "What are ya tryin' to say?"

She swallows, hard. "That it might be kinder to let nature run it's course."

My throat tightens almost immediately. "We're not letting him die. Understand?" The words come out harsh, threatening. Kjor shoots me a gentle warning glance, and I take a deep breath. "What would it take to keep him alive?"

"More than we can do. Magic is powerful, but miracles are the realm of the gods."

I weigh options and plans, settling reluctantly on one, turning it over in my mind. The Nord next to me notices my far-off gaze, and says, "What're ya thinkin', Shim?"

Nothing you'll like.

"Nothing substantial, yet." I look over, meeting my beta's gaze fully, though my thoughts are on the path ahead. "Take care of the others. I'll be back before morning."


Within an hour's journey south of Markarth, nestled in the rocks where Hagravens were once rumored to roost, is a weathered statue. It depicts a man with the head of an elk, a spear in his hand and a wolf snarling at his side. I discovered it by accident while chasing down a feral werewolf, and haven't returned since.

I stand in front of it now, swinging a knapsack from my shoulder and pulling a tawny sabre cat pelt from it's depths. I lay the pelt across the short base of the statue, sinking to a knee in front of it and bowing my head. Rage and indignation burns through my chest- how I hate praying and grovelling- but it's are outweighed by desperation.

Hircine, if a werewolf Dragonborn ever interested you, now's the time to show it.

I'm just starting to think that I'll have to invoke a real prayer when something catches my ear- the scrape of a claw on stone, the breathing of another creature. I look up, seeing two vibrant ember eyes staring down at me from atop the twenty-foot rock face behind the shrine. They're set into the head of a large, white wolf, and I bare my fangs and growl, trying to scare it off. Despite my golden eyes, it doesn't back down as normal wolves usually do; instead, it jumps nimbly to a lower, narrow ledge and propels off it to the ground. It lowers it's head and snarls, a vicious challenging sound.

It's only then that the idea comes to me of this being a test, and I rise to my feet, flicking out werewolf claws. With one savage bark, the lupine animal launches itself at me. I sidestep, hand flashing out as the beast sails by; my claws sink into the side of it's neck, and I use the momentum of the swing to drive my hand and the wolf to the ground. Struggling for life, the beast snaps it's jaws weakly, and I jerk my hand just out of reach. As soon as it's teeth click shut on open air, my hands are on it's head, snapping it's neck.

I step back and watch, waiting for the inevitable, though what the inevitable is, I'm not quite sure. After barely a second, a spectral wolf rises from the dead one, sitting neatly with it's tail curled around it's paws.

"My Hunter of Hunters once again shows her skill." The voice seems to come from the animal, though it makes no outward sign of talking.

"Hunter of hunters?" I ask cautiously.

"Have you not heard the stories of the Great Red Wolf? It spreads amongst the few packs that remain. Many hounds have come to my hunting grounds through you, and it has not gone without notice. And it should not; shifters are no meager prey."

Something uncomfortable crawls through my stomach; I'm getting praise for slaughtering my kin, from the person that's suppose to be our equivalent to a patron saint. This is why I have no faith in the Nine. The Aedra and Daedra play with mortal lives like they're nothing.

I make my plea, before I say anything stupid. "One of my pack is dying. Can you save him?"

"You hunt creatures that are feared by many. To beg help is beneath you."

I smile coldly. "Trust me, I know."

The creature in front of me gives a bark of laughter. "There is the famed pride of the dragons. You could use it well, one day."

"Will you help him or not?" I ask.

The wolf cocks it head. "No."

"No!?"

"No. I'm sorry, my child, but you will bring more glory to me with his death than without."

"Bring you glory? I'm not going to do a damn thing for you if he dies!"

"You will, whether you mean to or not."

"Wanna bet!?"

"Think, pup!" Hircine finally snaps. "Of the Wolves, how many are born? Of those who are born, how many inherit the dragonblood? And of those of both bloods, how many have a dragon's soul? You are unique, and there is more to your destiny than the mantle of Dragonborn."

"Then you can call me the gods-damned Wolfborn if you want, but I'm not doing anything for you if Elrohir dies. You got it? Nothing." And I've never meant what I say as much in my life.

"Oh, but you will, Wolfborn." he emphasizes the name mockingly. "You will make my children great again."

"Go to hell."

The wolf gives a broad, lupine grin and disappears from existence.


I get two steps into the temple before the priestess intercepts me, and my heart drops to my stomach when I see the grim, pitying expression on her face.

"He's not… he didn't…" I swallow the lump in my throat.

"What? Oh, no, he's... he's still alive. It's just… it's worse than we originally thought. Much worse. Infection has set in- or worsened, if it was already there." she looks away. "Either way, there's nothing we can do for him, not now. He may not even live to dawn."

I feel like I've been punched in the gut, stabbed in the chest. I take a step back, put a hand on the wall for support. He can't die, I think. He can't. But he will.

I would prefer that my chest explode like it feels it will, just to relieve the pressure contained there. I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to rip Hircine's head from his shoulders, and I do none of it. Instead I let the world crash down around me, and, with my vision blurred by tears, ask, "The others?"

"We told them as soon as we knew. They're with him."

I push past her, stumble in a daze through the room with the altar to Dibella, stopping in the hallway outside El's room. The door is closed, and I lean my head against the wall next to it, breathing raggedly, taking a few minutes for myself. I sob, I punch the wall, I sink to the floor and hug my knees to my chest as I cry some more. Eventually, Kjor slips out into the hall and shuts the door behind him, leaning on the wall without a word. After a minute I glance up to him; his eyes are red, as I'm sure mine are.

He offers me a hand up, and I allow myself to be pulled to my feet and followed into the room. The whole pack is crammed into the relatively small space. The others sit against the wall, and Ren is positioned in a chair next to the Bosmer, her hand gripping his. I'm surprised to see that Elrohir is awake: the bandages on his face has been pulled off to hang from his neck, allowing him to view the room as he sits on the stone mattress, propped up by three pillows. His eyes are clouded, distant; he looks at Ren but through her, face twisted in a grimace.

Everyone looks up when Kjor and I step in. I glance around, noting the red eyes and knowing I can say or do nothing to comfort them. I swallow my grief and cross to Elrohir's bed, easing onto it next to Uvela. There's silence for a long moment, and then I lift my gaze to his.

"I'm sorry, El. I'm so sorry." Tears blur my vision, run down my face, but I don't sob. I can keep it together that much, for at least a few minutes.

He smiles at me, pained but gentle. His voice is hoarse and weak when he says, "For what, Ri'Shima? You have given me more in half a decade than my own family has in eighty years." He looks at the others, looks at Ren in a way that points out just what it is I've given him.

Ren bursts in tears; he squeezes her hand.

"Has everyone-" Gods, how I don't want to say this- "Has everyone said goodbye?" I don't want to watch everyone go through that if they haven't already, but this could be their last chance to do it. I wish I had gotten to say goodbye to more people- Gallas, Dar'Sein, Tobias's little son Varus- and the pack should know that Elrohir knew how much he was loved.

"Yeah, Shim." Kjor answers me. "We, ah-" he clears his throat, "Just got done with that."

"Shima." El says, and my gaze snaps up to him. "I… have a favor to ask you."

"Anything."

"I know that I have perhaps a day left, but I- I can't," and his voice breaks on the word, reminding me all over of the agony he must be in, of the hell it must be to be awake, "take this. Not just so that I can have a few more hours." He swallows, blinks back tears. "So I ask that you… end it. Painlessly."

The room goes dead silent; I don't know if anyone is breathing anymore, least of all me. I shake my head slowly, trying to contain horror, revulsion, desolation. "You don't know what you're asking, El."

"I do. And I'm sorry." Something in his face is desperate, pleading. He's going to die, and he's already said his goodbyes. There's nothing left between now and passing but pain and anguish. Who am I to make the choice to put him through that, to say that he has to suffer through his last hours to ease our pain?

For just a split second, I desperately wish he'd asked someone else, but I'd have no one else do it. I know some of them could bear it, but I'd never let them, and he knows that. After nearly five years, he knows that.

Everyone is still looking at me, waiting for an answer. Gods forgive me.

I say, in a shaky voice, "Set him on the floor."

They do; the crying begins anew as Nekesh and Kjor gently lift him from the bed, drawing cries of pain as they lower him to the ground. I sink to the floor, position myself behind him, and prop him up with his shoulders on my crossed knees so he's somewhat sitting. Ren sits next to him, gripping his hand.

"My family." He says affectionately as he looks around, like it's the greatest gift the world has ever given him. His head turns as his eyes drift back to Ren; she weeps openly, body shaking, and Elrohir lifts their joined hands to kiss the back of hers.

Tears stream down my face, and I do nothing to stop them as I place my hands, gently, on either side of his head.

"You're one of the best friends I've ever had, El." I choke out, and mean it with every fiber of my being.

Then I snap his neck.


A/N: I feel guilty for doing this.