Everything depended on your mother, John learned. What you'll turn out to be was what your mother was. Growing up, John thought that was a load of nonsense, but now, he didn't really mind turning out like his mother. She was a kind, true Nord, who was filled with warmth and didn't stray from a challenge. Maybe he had idealized the wrong parent. Idealizing either of your parents was always a negative thing. They would always end up disappointing you. There was no joy in that. Besides, she had sold out her children to Hircine, too. It wasn't just his dad, though it was known he did manipulate her to do his bidding. John wished his mother had remained strong and was able to fight him off. Who knew what kind of situation he would be in now.

He probably wouldn't be on his way to Skaal Village, would he?

John had felt dirty ever since he talked to his father. He knew there was nothing wrong with his outward appearance, but that didn't prevent him from feeling like a putrid smell was hovering around him. John had heard the guards in Solitude joke about people who were affected with lycanthropy, and taunting about how hair grew out of their ears, how they smelled like wet dog. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about his smell, but John didn't know if he was just being kind, in fear of what John would do. Then again, Sherlock was pretty blunt. He had nothing to worry about.

The trip to Solstheim took several hours, and the last few moments of daylight greeted them when they ported at Raven Rock. John stumbled a bit once he walked on solid land, causing Sherlock to help him get steady. John waved Sherlock away and laughed. "I'm not some old man," he said.

Sherlock hummed, a smile playing on his lips. "No, of course you're not." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to John's forehead.

Raven Rock was small, and John was surprised to see it so populated by Dunmer. Sherlock must have noticed the expression on his face after they walked past another short elf. "Dark elves," he said quietly. "They evacuated from their homeland after a volcanic eruption destroyed it."

"I've never seen so many," John whispered. He looked up at Sherlock. "I know of a Dunmer group in Windhelm, but…" he trailed off. There was nothing to express his astonishment. Sherlock smiled again at John and rubbed at his back. "Let's get a room, and we can set off in the morning. I don't particularly fancy traveling during the night, do you?"

John snorted. "I don't even know my way around here. Did your mother make a record of the places here?"

"Sadly, no. Thankfully, I've been to Solstheim once before. I can manage to find Skaal Village. I sketched out a rough map. I'll show you once we're settled in."

The Retching Netch was the town's inn, and John wasn't interested in finding out how the place got that name. The dark elf at the counter didn't question Sherlock and John's presence on the island. He must have assumed they were beggars and other sellswords. "That's all we manage to attract here," the innkeep grumbled, handing Sherlock the key once they stopped in front of the room. "Enjoy. Don't trash the place up too bad," he added, turning away and heading back to the front counter.

Sherlock held the key in his hand, running his thumb over the notches in it. He gave John a look before he stepped inside.

They didn't have sex that night. Sherlock was more interested in curling around John and holding him as tightly as he could, not that John was upset about that. He liked being around Sherlock, no matter the circumstance. He held Sherlock with the same closeness he received and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Why were you in Solstheim before?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded strange in the darkness.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's collarbone. "It wasn't for business. It was for fun," he answered. "I heard about a house not too far from here where a Nord had died. I wanted to check out the scene."

"Was there something strange about it?"

"Murder is murder. I can show you the house tomorrow, if you'd like. And the boat where another man was. It was rather sad, when I found him."

"Why?"

"You can see for yourself tomorrow."

John laid there for a few moments, listening to Sherlock breathe. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, before he turned over in bed and pulled the blankets close to his chin. Sherlock scooted closer and wrapped his arms around John's middle, using his back as a makeshift pillow. That was completely fine.

He woke up the next morning alone. John shot up in bed and widened his eyes, looking around the room. There was no sign of a struggle. Sherlock's weapons and pack were still there, but where was the man himself? His question was answered in a matter of seconds, when Sherlock stepped into the room, a basket of rolls and cheese in his arms.

Sherlock carefully shut the door, narrowing his eyes at John. "I'm here," he said, walking over to John and sitting next to him on the bed. "I'm not going to leave."

John felt ridiculous, but he needed to hear that. He wouldn't tell Sherlock that. The Breton would know, though. He always knew. John reached out a hand and picked up a roll. He tore it apart and began to eat.

Sherlock's map of Solstheim wasn't much. It labeled Raven Rock as the capital, and he had included the murder house some miles away. Skaal Village was clear on the other side of the island, but Sherlock assured it would only take a few hours to get there. It wasn't like Skyrim, where traveling across the province would take days.

Along with these landmarks, Sherlock had also written where specific monuments were, the house of a powerful elven mage who he visited from time to time, and a few caves he stayed in during his time here. Sherlock also told him Solstheim was home to Ash Spawn, fire-based creatures that enjoyed using Destruction magic whenever possible.

"I lost half of my eyebrow when I looked at one of them the wrong way."

John glanced between Sherlock's eyes and his eyebrows. He laughed. "You did not."

"No, I didn't, but I nearly did. I stumbled on a whole group of them. I had my nose in a book. I didn't see them."

"Shouldn't have been reading out in the open. Too dangerous."

"Mhm, you wouldn't believe the half of it."

Staying true to his word, Sherlock lead John to the house before they set off for Skaal Village. This part of Solstheim was sandy and warm, but Sherlock told him they were stepping on ash rather than sand. "Ash Spawn, John."

"Oh, yes, of course."

The house was small and utterly destroyed. John stopped in front of it and gave Sherlock a look from the corner of his eye. "I thought the house would be, well, intact."

Sherlock smiled and walked past him. He entered the ruins and stopped next to a spot on the floor, pointing. "Trapdoor. Leads right to the safe place, where I assume the poor man perished. Did you want to take a peek? I have to warn you, though, it does smell rather nasty."

John instinctively wrinkled his nose. "No, thanks." Sherlock turned around and moved out of the house. He walked across the ashy ground and approached the coastline. John had no choice but to follow him. Sherlock stopped walking once he reached a boat, which was resting on the land. Another man lay a few feet away from the boat, slain as well. John tilted his head and frowned at the sight. "Bandits?" Sherlock shrugged.

He went towards the boat, then, looking inside and spotting a few gems, weapons, a bloodied helmet, a ring, and an amulet. The ring was underneath one of the oars, and John had to shove everything aside in order to reach it. He straightened up once he got it and held it in his palm. John squinted at the item, noticing that it was gold and had a diamond in the center. He turned his head and dipped down again, pulling the amulet out. Dangling it in front of him, John noticed that the amulet was one of Mara's, the goddess of love. He slowly lowered it and looked over at Sherlock. "What happened to these men?"

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. "The house over there belonged to a Nord named Hrodulf. He had a friend back in Solitude named Bjornolfr. The man here is Hrodulf." He pointed towards the Nord near them, face down in the dirt. "In his house, he discovered an old Dwemer tunnel underneath. There was this sort of equipment, which ultimately led to his obsession. Hrodulf lost his mind, and Bjornolfr knew it by the letters he was receiving. Bjornolfr made his way to Solstheim as soon as he could. What happened inside the house, when he met with Hrodulf, I don't know, but he died inside. Hrodulf, then, ran out here to this boat, and was killed."

"How?"

"This." Sherlock stepped over Hrodulf's body and nudged his foot against a Burnt Spriggan, the wood-like creature twisted and contorted in death. "It's sad to see how Hrodulf endured whatever drove him insane inside his house, just to be taken down so near his home. Maybe seeing his lover dead drove him madder."

John furrowed his brow. "Lover?" He looked down at the items he held in his hands: the ring and the Amulet of Mara. "Oh." John frowned. "Bjornolfr was going to propose to Hrodulf." He stared at Sherlock. "Why did you want me to see this?"

Sherlock walked over to John and stood in front of him. He lifted his hands and closed John's fingers around the ring he held. "Love is dangerous," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads pressed together. "But I know if I lost you, it would break my heart."

He could feel his heart beat faster. John didn't want to acknowledge what Sherlock was saying. He couldn't. It was dangerous, just like Sherlock said. He wet his lips and looked down at his hands. Taking a deep breath, John lifted the amulet and placed it over Sherlock's head. He let it fall naturally against his chest, before he worked on tucking it in his armor. He didn't want anyone to grab at it and choke him. John kept the ring, though. He pocketed it as a reminder. Not today, but later.

John lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's cheek. He leaned in and carefully kissed him, soft, sweet, and a little needy. They couldn't do much, not when they were standing out in the open like this. When he pulled back, he looked up at Sherlock with a small smile. John took a step back and cleared his throat. "That doesn't mean anything," he said, gesturing at the amulet Sherlock now wore. "Doesn't have to mean what it typically means. It helps with Restoration spells, too."

"Maybe you should be the one wearing it, then."

"That's hilarious, Sherlock. Truly."

After the side trip to Hrodulf's house, they were on their way to Skaal Village. The more they walked across the island, John noticed how the ash covered ground they were moving across were slowly disappearing. Snow was beginning to become more apparent, and John couldn't help but curse. He had thought they left all the snow behind in Skyrim, but you can never get rid of the snow. He didn't want to admit it, but he was looking forward to returning home. At least it was consistently sunny and warm.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind the cold, and, once again, John was envious. He tried to not make it show, but he knew Sherlock knew. He could tell just by the way Sherlock looked at him. The great git.

"I think it would be fairer if I had the fur armor."

"Not a chance. Besides, you have your own fur. You just neglect to use it."

John reached over and hit Sherlock's arm. The Breton recoiled and lifted a hand to protect his arm, as if John was liable to strike again. "What was that for?" John only glared.

Sherlock didn't have the same opinions over Daedric Princes like John did, but the way he spoke about John's… problem made it seem like John shouldn't be seeking to cure it. Instead, he should be embracing it. Learn to control it and use it to his advantage. When Sherlock told him the story about Clavicus Vile, he told John he wasn't trying to change his mind about accepting Hircine's bidding, but why else would he talk about how Daedric Princes' rewards could be beneficial? John didn't see anything beneficial about that, but Sherlock knew that, too.

They didn't encounter much trouble as they traveled to the Village. When they passed a particular landmark, Sherlock did ask if they could stop for a while and look around. He wanted to see if everything was still the same compared to the last time he was there. More often than not, they were, but it was still nice to see Sherlock's face light up when he examined a specific spot on a ruin or ran his fingers over a nick. He didn't know what the memories Sherlock was reliving were, and he didn't bother to ask.

When they got closer to their destination, John could feel his nerves start to climb. He expected to see savages, madmen who were exactly like his father. It was silly to assume that, but it was all he had at the moment. When he was a child, his father spoke of the Village he grew up in with high regard. John had even showed interest in traveling there one day. It was strange that John's childhood wish had come true. He only wished it was under different circumstances.

Would his father be remembered? What sort of legacy did James Watson leave behind when he traveled to Skyrim? As outsiders, would they even be welcomed? There were some tribes of people who turned away others regardless of intent or origin. These were all common worries.

The settlement grew closer, and as they entered, Sherlock and John weren't stopped or questioned. They were allowed to walk freely in and move along the other Skaal like they were already one of them. To be fair, the Nords of the Skaal looked much like the Nords of Skyrim. To strangers, they might be able to be grouped together with the Skaal, but to a native, there were subtle differences: the way they talked, the way they carried themselves, the clothes they wore, the Gods they worshipped.

"The shaman is the man we must speak to," Sherlock muttered in John's ear. "I'll find him. You stay here. Chat or something." He took a step back and turned away.

"Should I go with you?" John asked, but Sherlock was already walking through town, head down low. Sherlock had traveled to Solstheim before. Perhaps he already knew who the shaman was. It would have been easier to deal with him alone than drag John along.

John stayed by the fire, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't really feel like chatting with anybody. It was surreal to be here, finally. The Skaal seemed like normal Nords. Nothing particularly strange stuck out to him. Most of the Skaal must have been around when his father was growing up. Were they werewolves? Could the other Skaal smell how Hircine had affected his blood? Did he smell as filthy as he felt?

"Excuse me, young man, do you need something?" John turned his head and caught the eye of a woman with wild brown hair. She looked curiously at John, head cocked as if she was trying to get a read on him. John wasn't about to help her.

"Oh, no. I'm just waiting for my friend to come back. He's speaking with your shaman."

Her eyes grew wide. "Your friend knows Storn Crag-Strider?"

"If that's your shaman, then yes, I suppose."

She studied him for a moment. "You're different. I can smell it on you. Where do you hail?"

John shifted, pursing his lips. That didn't sound good. "Skyrim," he said. "Specifically Solitude. The capital."

"Skyrim, huh? I had friends that went there. One of them died." She narrowed her eyes, then. "Do you want to go back to my house? It's a lot warmer there, and we can talk more."

Red flags were obviously the images that were flashing in John's mind, but he ignored them. There was something about this woman. She had a crazed look in her eyes and a crooked smile to match. He glanced around, checking to see if Sherlock was anywhere nearby. When he saw the Breton nowhere, he faced the woman again. "Sure, let's go. Lead the way."

Her house was a small thing, but John suspected all the houses were small. Made everyone more humble or something. It was warmer inside, and the woman moved to sit next to the fire. She pointed at the chair next to her. "Come on. Nothing to be scared of."

John eyed her and sat down. He placed his hands on his lap, fingers curling and uncurling. If there was trouble, John was seconds away from grabbing his sword. "So, you've never been in Skyrim?"

"No, no. I never wanted to. There was an opportunity for me to go, but that was years ago. It was scary—traveling to a whole new place. And Skyrim's big, isn't it? Much bigger than this small island."

"It's a lot warmer, at least where I'm from. I don't know how you can handle the cold."

"You get used to it. Plus we have all this fur to keep us warm." She patted her chest, indicating the thick layer of fur armor she had on. John examined it. Compared to Sherlock's armor, it must have been made from a bigger wolf or at least one with a thicker fur.

"I don't think I like fur," John said absently.

"You get used to that, too." She smiled and gave him a look with those wide eyes.

John stared at her, and he found himself captivated by those eyes. This was a wild woman, a skilled hunter, he assumed. She had rough fingers, weathered by use of a bow. His father had them. John carefully stretched out a hand and took hers. He pulled it closer and examined the pads of her fingers. He roughly swallowed. "What's your name?" he asked.

The woman didn't seem to mind the examination she was going under. Maybe she knew John, like John knew who she was. "Ygfel," she answered.

"I'm John," he replied, letting go of her hand. "I'm James Watson's son."

Her eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared. "I figured. You look like him a bit, but you have a kinder face." She stretched out a hand and lightly touched his cheek. "James had a hard face. You knew you shouldn't mess with him. It would only end up badly."

John knew exactly what she meant. She lowered her hand and turned her head away. "My father told me about Trissen. What happened to him."

Ygfel rolled her eyes and sighed. "He was a fool. He expected me to follow him to the province, but I knew better. I tried to get James to come back home, but he wouldn't listen. Skyrim isn't the place for us, I told him." She stood up and moved over to the table, rustling through papers. "Your father and I have been sending letters to each other. He needed to come back here. Something big was coming." Ygfel raised her head and studied John. "Has he come with you? Has he told you?"

"The Bloodmoon Prophecy?" John turned in his chair and watched as Ygfel smiled and eagerly nodded. "He would never have known if it wasn't for you."

She shook her head. "That isn't true. It sings in our blood. I know how stubborn he can be, so I sent a letter. Made sure he knew it wasn't just in his head."

John huffed out a laugh. "Oh, he knew. I don't think he would have missed a chance to live through this."

"Really? Where is he?" Ygfel straightened up and walked over to John, who stood up. "It's already underway. The horkers have been washing up dead. And the Fire! James missed the Fire!"

"The horkers? My dad didn't say anything about horkers. Just… Hircine's Hounds and the Fire from the Eye of Glass."

Ygfel lifted her hands and clasped them in front of her mouth. "The horkers are the next part! Tide of Woe!" She licked her lips and rubbed her hands. "Oh, the other Skaal are so worried. They think the worst is coming. Well, they aren't wrong."

"How many of you are there?"

She lowered her hands and shrugged. "I'm not sure. Four? Five? When we meet, the number seems to be growing. Soon, I think, the whole Village will be full with Hircine's followers. Wonderful."

John felt his blood was boiling. "Wonderful?" he asked, voice low. "Do you know what my father did to me and my sister?"

Ygfel leaned in, tilting her head and burying her face in John's neck. He stiffened, and he shut his eyes. She smelled once, twice, three times and pulled away. She had the wild look in her eyes again, her pupils blown. "I could smell it the first time I looked at you." Ygfel took a step back, biting her lip. "Where's James? Did he come with you?"

He paused. At first, he didn't want to tell Ygfel. He wanted to hold that piece of information above her head. She didn't deserve to know. John reached into his pocket, though, and removed the Stalhrim his father wore around his neck. John tossed the hunk of rock at her feet. "I killed him."

At first Ygfel didn't react. She stared blankly at John, like she didn't understand what John was saying. After a moment, she blinked and shook her head. "No," she said. Ygfel looked and dropped to her knees. She picked up the Stalhrim with shaking hands and held it up to her face. She seemed to be close to tears as she pressed her lips to the stone. "What did you do with his body?" she muttered.

John gazed down at her. "I burned it."

Ygfel shut her eyes and held the Stalhrim in her palm, obscured from view. "He's at the Hunting Grounds now. May he find plentiful prey and have a prosperous hunt."

He couldn't explain it, but John lowered his hand to wrap around the hilt of his sword. He shut his eyes, tried to clear his head, and opened his eyes. "I think… I think I want to kill you now," he told Ygfel. John drew out his sword and held it at his side.

"The man I loved is dead, and now your father. The Bloodmoon Prophecy is here, and I have little to do except wait for Hircine's call. He is to tell us who the prey of the Great Hunt is."

John tightened his grip on his sword. "What are you talking about?"

"We don't know who we'll be hunting this era. The whole tribe might be prey, or just a single man." She lowered her hands, but still kept them enclosed around the rock. "We'll find out after the Bloodmoon. Can't you feel it in your blood? Him calling to you? It's irritable. It makes your blood boil until you can sink your teeth into something." Ygfel looked down at the floor and shook her head, her hair moving to reveal her pale neck.

He could do it. He could bring his sword down and slice the she-wolf's head off. "I don't feel anything," he said, voice sounding more strained than it should. John didn't want to think about it. How his skin prickled, how he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He had assumed it was the knowledge of bearing this curse that made him so uncomfortable. Could it really be what Ygfel was describing? The yearning to shed this skin in favor of a greater one? To run and howl and tear into warm flesh? To hunt?

"No."

John and Ygfel raised their heads and turned towards the door. Sherlock was standing there, with his hand still on the doorknob. He flicked his narrowed eyes between the two and tightened his grip. "Leave her be. She's as good as dead."

He wrinkled his nose and looked down at Ygfel. She met John's gaze, and John noticed something in her eyes. A flicker of fear? He shook his head and looked down, sheathing his sword. "It was good to meet you, Ygfel," he said and then turned away, slipping past Sherlock and heading outside. A moment passed before Sherlock followed him out and shut the door behind him.

They kept quiet as they walked through the Village, passing Skaal after Skaal. John stopped walking once they passed a hunter selling his wares. He looked up at Sherlock with a raised brow. "I hope you didn't go house to house, trying to find me."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course not. I talked to the shaman. His name is Storn. He's aware of what's happening in Solstheim, and what's to come." He looked down at John, studying him for a moment. "Come on," he said quietly, reaching over and cupping John's arm. "Let's go out. Hunt or something. We can talk more."

John wasn't about to disagree. He followed Sherlock as he led them out of the Village and towards the woods. Sherlock had his bow out, holding it in a hand, but John didn't know if they would be doing much hunting. As a precaution, John pulled out his sword, too. "If Storn knows," he started, "then does he know how many of his people are werewolves?"

"Yes, he does. He keeps tabs. There's one or two of them that aren't as malicious as their siblings." Sherlock ducked underneath a branch. "They're like his spies, if you want to call them that."

"Does he know what the Bloodmoon Prophecy holds? Ygfel told me horkers were turning up dead along the coast." John glanced over. "Are we heading to the coast?"

Sherlock's answer was a nod. He held up his free hand and conjured a candlelight. He let the ball of light hover between him and John. "The Prophecy itself has five stages. You already know about most of them. The first is called Hounds, where werewolves start to appear on the island, in abundance. The second is Fire from the Eye of Glass, a pillar of fire that appears on the surface of Lake Fjalding. Ygfel told you about the third: Tide of Woe. It's a horker massacre, and the bodies wash up all along the northern coast. I doubt it's just coincidence. A horker or two dying now and again isn't suspicious, but once more manbeasts come to the island, much more than werewolves, then of course the complete massacre of a species will raise a few eyebrows."

"These are the Skaal," John said. "They're supposed to respect nature and everything the All-Maker gives them. Tearing the horkers apart like they were just a… a chew toy isn't showing any respect."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "Perhaps they don't follow the All-Maker anymore. Just Hircine."

John sighed. "What's the fourth stage?"

"Bloodmoon," Sherlock said simply. "You know the two moons? Secunda and Masser?" John slowly nodded, looking over at Sherlock. "Secunda turns red from the blood of the Hunter's Prey."

"Ygfel told me about the Great Hunt. Is that the last stage?"

"Hunter's Game. It varies from era to era. Storn said this game might involve the hunting of an entire tribe of people, or just a simple man. Either way, the Hunt ends, and Hircine returns to his realm for another era."

"That's what Ygfel said." John pressed his lips together and looked ahead. "So, Storn knows it's going to happen? And he's just going to… let it?"

"Essentially."

"That's utter shit." John lifted his arm and swung his sword down, striking a branch from a tree to the ground. He stopped walking and stared at it. Sherlock turned around and eyed John, the candlelight easily bobbing behind him. "Why doesn't he stop it?" John asked, waving his sword. "He has the chance to! He doesn't have to let his whole tribe be slaughtered just to appease this Daedric Prince!"

"He doesn't know if the prey is just going to a single man. It's easier to sacrifice one of your people, rather than sending a whole pack to try and deal with Hircine." John angrily shook his head and shoved his sword into its sheath. "It is nonsense, John, I agree, but people are reluctant to act. It's much easier to accept your fate than fight."

"I don't believe that," John said. "The rebellion started with actions like this, and look where it has gotten. All you have to do is try." He shut his eyes and hung his head. "What about a cure?"

Sherlock was silent. He looked down and kicked a rock.

"Sherlock…"

"There was a story of a cure being possible. Storn spoke of the Dragonborn helping the Companions in Skyrim. There was a section of the Companions, the Secret Circle, who consisted of warriors affected with lycanthropy, but their situation was different. Their affinity was cursed on them by the Glenmoril Witches, and to cure those individuals, the Dragonborn supposedly hunted down the Witches, chopped off their heads, and tossed them in this sacred fire."

"Then why can't I do that?" John protested, voice rising. "Why can't I lope off one of their damned heads and toss it into a fire?"

"John, the Dragonborn killed all of them. We don't know if there are any—"

"—so, there's no cure?" John smiled for a moment, shaking his head. He, then, held his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "Let's just find these horkers," he mumbled, turning away and walking ahead of Sherlock. He felt the candlelight follow him, the warmth radiating against his skin.

The leaves crushed, letting him know Sherlock had began to follow him again. "You can end this, John," he said softly. "Not completely, but it's possible." He caught up to John and wet his lips. "If you challenge Hircine when his Game is going on, and you defeat him… you'll be able to obtain his ring."

John rolled his shoulders and kept his eyes ahead. "What's so special about his bloody ring?"

"It won't get rid of your lycanthropy completely, but it'll help smother the symptoms. I know you've never had a problem with it before. You've changed, though. I've noticed. You seem… uncomfortable." John pursed his lips and said nothing. Sherlock went on, "The ring will stop any bloodlust that might be tempting you now. You'll still have the ability to transform into a wolf, though you'll have more control over it." He scanned John. "Isn't that one step below not having lycanthropy at all?"

Yes, it was. It was certainly better than nothing. He had hoped Sherlock wouldn't have noticed how his demeanor changed since leaving his father. Sherlock noticed everything. He was a fool to think otherwise. John stopped walking and looked over at Sherlock, watching him for a while. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against the side of Sherlock's neck. He breathed in, and was instantly reminded of Ygfel. John pulled back and cleared his throat. "I would like that," he said softly.

Sherlock carefully raised his hand and cupped the side of John's face. He turned his head to look at him. He gave John a gentle smile. "Also, a little extra incentive: if you manage to defeat Hircine, you defeat the Bloodmoon Prophecy."

"What? The Prophecy?" Sherlock nodded. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's fingers. "Why hasn't anyone tried to before? This terror could end."

"It only happens once an era. People forget." Sherlock leaned in and buried his nose in John's hair. "Besides, most don't think it wise to go head to head with a Daedric Prince." He laughed. "Especially Hircine. He's a natural hunter. You'd be a fool to challenge him."

John laughed, too. "I suppose we're fools, then," he said, resting a hand on Sherlock's side. He squeezed. John stepped back and turned around. He started walking again. "So, it's decided. When Hircine calls for… whatever, we're to go to him. And kill him. Is that right?"

"Not exactly kill him, but yes."

"We're mad." John lifted his hands to scrub at his face. "Absolutely mad. Almighty Talos, save us." Sherlock walked beside him and draped an arm over his shoulders.

The pair walked on. It was getting increasingly darker, but the candlelight Sherlock had created continued to float in front of them, guiding their way to the coast. Once there, John detached himself from Sherlock and walked on, seeing bodies upon bodies of horkers lying across the ice. John moved between aisles of the creatures, his blood running cold. This was a complete disaster. The ice looked black in the light, stained with blood.

John crouched down next to a horker and cocked his head. He reached out and lightly touched the animal. Freezing cold. John ran his hand up the horker's neck, stopping once he noticed bite marks. They were violent, torturous. John would never want to be damaged like this. He was lucky his father never took a great bite out of him or Harry.

"Werewolves," John said, standing up. He placed his hands on his hips and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"And werebears," the mage added, from where he was crouched next to another horker, some feet away. "I have to say, these appear to be much more fearsome beasts, compared to their wolf counterparts." He stood with a sigh and glanced at John. "No offense."

"None taken." John looked back down and frowned. "I want to do something for them. We can't bury them. There's too many." He bit the inside of his cheek and kept quiet for a minute. John walked towards Sherlock, then. "We could say a prayer. To the All-Maker. I remember my father saying one whenever we took down a deer."

Sherlock stared at John and slowly began to nod. "I'm sure that would suffice. It's obvious these creatures weren't killed with honor."

And so they dropped to their knees on the ice and bowed their heads. Sherlock remained quiet as John spoke. He didn't know what was going through his head, and he didn't bother to find out. John needed to do this, not only to show respect to the mass of horkers, but to further separate himself from those beasts. He was nothing like them.

John felt a bit better when the prayer was finished, and Sherlock and he got to their feet. A small weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and that was more than he could ever ask for. He could go to sleep soundly, and when he woke up, he would be able to face whatever came to him. The Bloodmoon and the Hunter's Game. John didn't know how long each phase would last, and Sherlock didn't say so either. It didn't matter. He felt like he could sleep for a century.

"Look."

He stopped in his tracks and turned his head to look at Sherlock. The Breton was some odd feet away, and his head was tipped back, looking up at the sky. His expression was calculated. John slowly tilted his head towards the sky and immediately paled.

Secunda, the lesser of Nirn's two moons, was crimson.