Everything exploded into movement, but I froze. The Altmer cursed under his breath and pulled free his blade, already swinging, Luke was up and charging with teeth bared, and the skeletons with that horrible rasp closed in quick, so quickly -

It took the sight of sharp metal heading my way to finally snap me out of it. I felt the whoosh of air as the mace aimed squarely for my head missed by a fraction when I squeaked and ducked, felt the vibrations as it hit the cavern wall. If that had been my head -

No more considering, no more apprehension. This was here and now and real, suddenly fighting for my life.

I ducked down on instinct again, this time to all fours as legs moved all around me – furry, clothed and skeletal. The spell! I lashed out to grab the one above me by the tibia, rolling over in the dirt as it twisted in confusion, shrieking. Grow. Grow, I pleaded, channeling the spell into my fingertips.

A hell of a lot more challenging with chaos around me, trying not to get stepped on or get in the way of my allies, praying I could get away with dealing with this one construct without grabbing the attention of another. Sensation – a sort of clicking, stiff, calcified growth spearing out and consuming rounded hinges and joints. I kept my grip tight enough to creak around the bone even as I rolled to avoid another blow, the mace coming down into the dirt and stone just beside me.

I scrambled on all fours, facing up now, watching as the construct flailed its rusted weapon, tried to step and found its leg useless. Hah! I could do this! I could do this! I pushed myself up and drew my blade in the same movement, lunged forward –

And found myself blinking as the thin, tapered point – made for puncturing, plunging – slid remarkably pointlessly between the empty spaces of its ribs. It seemed almost confused as me for a moment, staring down at the point of my blade, then glared at me and gave another unholy screech.

Oh. Well.

The mace came back fast, too fast. I didn't have time to think, not even time to regret my stupid, stupid mistake –

It stopped. Half an inch from my face the blow ended in the air. What? I felt the tingle of magicka and turned, seeing Astarill's brow furrowed, hand outstretched. A telekinetic barrier. The skeleton pulled back and moved to swing again, then Luke leapt up beside me and brought it down, apparently the last of them here. Around us were scattered bones, the almost tangible fizzle of conjuration that had maintained them hissing in air that smelled of ozone.

I could only blink. Breathing hard, glancing at my new partner. "The, um. The spell." I gestured vaguely to where the construct had fallen, Luke still gnashing teeth through the spinal column and separating the skull from the neck. "The spell worked."

He deadpanned. "Congratulations." Then his gaze jerked away, down the hall, and mine followed. Movement, shouts – the necromancers were coming, all four of them. Living, thinking people, a lot more dangerous than their constructs –

But they had bloodstreams. They had heartbeats.

"Can you put up a barrier in the tunnel? Push them back?" A nod. He raised both hands, brow furrowed in concentration as I turned my attention to my satchel, digging through, feeling the shapes of the glass bottles within. The shouts grew louder, footsteps closer. No, no – yes! There it was, round glass to fly better.

Simple powdered egg yolks to bind proteins, glow dust to attract and extract them, bergamot and funnel cap to devour it – all magicka, as ethereal as it was had basis in the physical and could be detected. Could be destroyed.

They were at the barrier now, figures cloaked in black, one at the front raising their hand with a spell of their own. Astarill growled under his breath. "If you're going to do something…"

"Drop it!" Now. I took a few steps forward for momentum and threw the poison. The invisible barrier fallen it cracked on one of their heads – I winced at the sound, but their coughs, their sudden panic as they tried and failed to summon up spells instilled some measure of satisfaction. "There. They – "

No time for explanations. They were lunging at us, some attempting spells and finding their magicka drained, others simply resorting to daggers and swords. Four, like he said. I took a step back, grip back to my dirk knife, out of the sheath again. You can't hesitate. Lucien's voice. As much as it made my mouth turn bitter, the warning from our lessons was true.

Clashing metal. Luke snarling, screams. One came for me and what training I'd been given flooded back in – I pulled back from their blow, twisted to the left, lunged forward with one of my own –

It was a sensation I'd never felt before, knowing I'd skewered flesh like that, deep enough to hit bone, to need to withdraw before the tip could get stuck. Sickening, somehow wrong even knowing I had little choice. A guttural grunt and the necromancer – a woman now, I saw with her hood falling back – stumbled, my blade returning from her chest wet and glinting. Nausea bubbled up, made me clumsy.

She wasn't done yet. The punch to my face, so crude, was unexpected. As was the push that came after, a shove driving me up against the wall, knocking all the air out of me with a gasp and a crunch.

Crunch?

My potions!

I swore, first at feeling the satchel at my hip leak, then at nails digging into my neck. I returned the favour, wheeling to grab a fistful of hair and pull hard, kicking under the robes. Where I hit didn't matter – I wasn't thinking anymore of strategy. Just instinct taking over, trying to keep the end of that dagger from burying inside me. She stabbed forward as I did the same and I knew she'd hit her mark, it couldn't possibly have missed but somehow I didn't feel pain at all.

She stumbled back, clutching at her stomach. Her black robes gave away no hint of the wounds but that blood streaked hand, desperately clutching at her gut – that told story enough.

I made the one mistake I told myself I wouldn't.

I hesitated.

She glanced around herself, gasping, wide-eyed at the fallen allies around her. Luke and Astarill had been efficient, brutal while I struggled. The elf came grim faced at her, a heavy blade swinging to her head, then she moved and there was a flash of steel downwards, a gout of blood –

"No! No, no – "

A crack. She fell to the ground expressionless, mouth agape, eyes glassy. I thought it was her who had shrieked but it was me, me as Astarill sunk to his knees and cursed through his teeth, clutching at the wound she'd made in her final moments. It spurted blood, stemmed only by his hands as the dagger fell loose.

Bright red, quick, constant flow. Already the leg of his pants was well stained red, and it just kept coming. I knelt beside him, but I already knew. Femoral artery. He'd bleed to death, in minutes.

No, nonono, not again, not again -

I'd tried to escape death, tried to escape the blood and dark the Brotherhood wanted me to bring, and brought it anyway.

"Don't panic." I spoke more to myself than him as I ripped off my satchel, digging through. Useless – every potion smashed, contents soaked into the material. Fast, think fast. I dug through the shards, ignoring the sting on my fingers, to pull free a string of linens, tearing them apart into strips. "I – I'll make a tourniquet. Do you have any magicka left?"

"No." Growled through his teeth as he held the wound, trying to stem it without luck. Gods, so much blood. He was pale already, brow tinged with sweat, breath coming shallow. "Atronach. It won't come back."

Shit. I'd hoped to absorb some, have enough to reach deep past flesh and muscle to heal him. I had some, barely enough to slow the bleeding, but it wouldn't be enough to stop it.

He was going to die. He was going to die because I hesitated, all my fault, again, we'd just barely met and I'd condemned an innocent man –

Don't panic. Not now. Think. I tied the tourniquet tight, tight enough that it must have hurt for how his breathing grew harsher. My healing had stemmed, but not stopped the flow. Only delayed the inevitable. Born under the Atronach, his magicka wouldn't restore. Mine would, but it would take precious time we simply didn't have. I needed the blood to congeal, now.

Congeal.

A spark in the back of my mind came alight like flame flickering up a wick, tingling, the hairs on my neck raising. I was reluctant to leave him but this – this might work. I had to try. Luke hovered nearby, stoic and somber, almost as though he understood. "I'll be right back. Stay here, alright? Don't move."

The laughter took me by surprise. Was he delirious with blood loss, or just grimly laughing in the face of death? "Oh. Well. If you insist."

I ran. Back out the way we came, trying not to trip over bones or corpses, praying I wouldn't return to one. Out into the afternoon, looking desperately among the scrub and cliff rock for that green lace –

Yes!

I gathered handfuls as quick as I could, fingers cut from the glass in my bag now dirtied. It didn't matter. Nothing else did but getting this done. Back inside, practically flying, pulling out my travelling mortar and pestle – mercifully unharmed – and stripping the leaves in, grinding it down.

"What." He spoke through clenched teeth, his eyes – were they unfocused? Hurry, hurry. "Are you doing?"

"Wormwood congeals blood. My potions were destroyed, this is the best chance we have." Water made it into a paste, green and gritty and bitter-smelling. "With my healing, it might be enough." Please, gods, please let it be enough. "It might sting."

His hands parted. Another cloth to wipe away the blood and water to flush the wound, make it visible through all that red. There. I smoothed the paste on, coaxing it in with my magicka as best I could. Work, I pleaded with it. Eyes closed, trying to nudge the tissue to accept this invader, let it do its work. Congeal and slow the blood, give the severed artery the time it needed to seal itself up and heal. Give me the time I needed for my magicka to return.

Breathing slow, in and out even as my hands trembled. I wanted to keep my magicka going as long as I could in a small, but steady stream. When emptied, all we could do was wait.

One minute. Two. It still bled, but had it slowed? I thought so, but it was difficult to tell. I held my breath, kept wiping away the stains so I could see what was really happening. Poor Astarill somehow kept his patience, kept his head even as inside I panicked.

A full minute passed without blood burbling up before I finally let myself relax. I felt suddenly boneless, both relieved, so relieved and yet near pushed to tears. "It's – it's stopped. It's alright. You're going to be fine. Thank gods."

He met my gaze, his own understandably exhausted, before giving an affirming grunt. His hands moved up to the linens I'd wrapped tight around his leg. "We should remove this, then, before nerve damage sets in."

"Oh – oh, yes, of course." I fumbled for my boline, digging the tapered end as best I could under the tight cloth until it sprang free. That had to hurt, to throb. Still, he didn't show much discomfort, just taking long, steadying breaths and closing his eyes as I wrapped bandages around his thigh. I pulled forward my bag and pulled off the bedroll, thankfully mostly untouched by my spilled potions, and slid it behind where he sat by the wall.

"You should lay down, and rest. We should be safe now. I – I can administer more healing once my magicka comes back, too, or if they have potions in here somewhere. But for now, you should rest."

A nod, then the narrowing of olive eyes. He shifted gradually over to my bedroll, watching me. "You're wounded."

"I'm…" Only now did I become aware of it, the faint throbbing from my collarbone. I reached gingerly for it, fingers meeting wet warmth and coming back red. "Oh." She had met her mark, after all. Or, no – her mark must have been my heart. Instead the blade had scraped and carven along the bone of my chest, injuring, but not fatally.

Pure luck, that. A slow bleed, as much as it throbbed. It would scar ugly for a few weeks, but that was a better alternative than dying here. Luke whimpered, nosing my bloodied hand until I reached down to pat him with the other. "I – I think I'm alright. I'll heal it when my magicka comes back." A giggle at the cold wet of Luke's snuffling whine. "It's okay, boy. I'm okay." The punch hurt more, really, an aching thud through my jaw and teeth in time with the beat of my heart.

But it did beat. We were alive. Adrenaline began to sink, leaving me weary, but there was still a job to do if I wanted to prove myself to the Mages Guild.

"I'll go look around for the flora Deetsan mentioned. I wish we had more details." A frown. Still, we had nothing but time now. I glanced back at my erstwhile companion, at Luke who regarded him with a tilted head. "I'll try to be quick. Do you want Luke to stay here, watch out for you while you rest?"

He seemed – not quite taken aback, but puzzled, perhaps, by the question. A moment of consideration before he spoke, plain and heavy like words graven in stone. "I'll be fine."

"Alright. Just shout if you need anything."

It wasn't a large cavern – those few rooms we'd seen and some branching to either side, a final large room straight ahead. I saved that for last, instead investigating what must have been their living quarters first, then a makeshift kitchen to the other side.

… A strange, empty feeling lingered. There was still fresh bread half-sawed on the table, plates scattered. Still a bucket of soapy water, awaiting dishes that would never come from mouths that would never eat again. Their bodies and the bodies of the constructs, scattered or slumped through the halls. I tried not to look at them, tried to dismiss it, but…

I'd helped do that. It wasn't murder, not with the threat they'd presented to the locals and their crimes against the dead, but...

I thought of Voranil, his head lolling in my hands. My stomach churned. But I did this, defended myself here because I chose a different path. At least this way, it wasn't the blood of innocents. At least this, I did of my own will.

The corpse of the woman lay still, facedown in a stain of black.

I took a deep breath and set to my search.