Upon reflection, John was positive he was an idiot. He couldn't be an expert on Daedric Princes when the journey started, but he should have realized there was something up with Sherlock, besides the obvious fact he was a mage and a bit eccentric. None of that had mattered to John. He was just thankful for the company. Everything that had occurred to them and what Sherlock had told him could go back to the "I'm a mage" excuse. It was a good cover, though it still made John feel like an idiot.

He had a sweet smell that was in every one of them… Daedra be damned.

John wanted to hate Sherlock, but he couldn't. That was impossible. They had shared stories, meals, a bed, for Gods' sake. John had even given Sherlock an amulet of Mara. There was no going back from that. Marriage was a one-time thing. Once you stood in front of a priest of Mara, you were bound to that individual. Absolutely nothing could separate you, not even death.

Even if they hadn't taken that extra step, the implication was there, and no matter where Sherlock and John ended up, they each left their mark.

He wished to go back to Skaal Village, find Sherlock, and drag him back along—like nothing bad had ever occurred. That was never going to happen, though. Sherlock had to apologize. He was probably leagues away now. Off by himself or with Redbeard.

John hoped Harry made it home unscathed.

Resting when he could and scavenging as often as possible, John made it to Mortrag Glacier in a day. The walk was easy, simple, and John hated to admit it, but his strong sense of smell helped him navigate. The stench of wet fur could be overcoming.

It was a great frozen cave that greeted him. He was reluctant to walk across ice, but it seemed thick enough to withstand his body weight. John carefully walked inside, fingers wrapped around his sword, ready to strike and kill.

Silence. He didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe screams? Scrapes across the ice as werewolves ran about? As John walked further past the entrance, jags of ice and rock stood, leading to the ceiling. He moved past the wall and walked around. More walls were waiting for him, and he realized he was going through a maze. Now, that wasn't very reassuring. John flexed his fingers and breathed in. The smell that had lead him to the Glacier was still wafting through the maze's halls. John paused at an intersection, and after careful thought, he turned left.

The quiet was beginning to get to him. There was nothing in his head, nothing going around after him. John didn't feel safe at all. He walked a bit further and turned the corner. A man lay face down on the frozen ground, and John yanked out his sword. He held it in front of him, pointed towards the fallen man. When he realized the man wasn't moving at all, John lowered his sword. He looked around and saw nothing. John walked over to the man and slipped his sword back into its sheath. He crouched and pushed his fingers through the man's dirty blond hair. John pulled his head up and noticed the pool of blood underneath him.

He looked like an Imperial. His throat was slit, ear to ear. There was a staff some feet away. Perhaps he was taken by surprise, approached from the back. Either way, he didn't look to be much of a champion. John dropped the man's head and watched as he crumpled to the ground, back in his puddle of blood. His clothes were very flamboyant, feathers adorned on his jacket's shoulders. "Eorlir the Peacock," John murmured. He slowly stood and turned his head, looking down the corridor. He was going the right way—the smell was coaxing him forward. John gave Eorlir one last look before following the scent. He was thankful one champion was dead.

Two more were still alive: Clugrus the Frost Giant and Captain Yrsadreid of the Isles. He didn't fancying killing the Giant. Maybe he would get lucky once more.

Don't underestimate Hircine. He called upon these particular champions because they were worthy. They showed extraordinary strength and power. Not every one of them would be dead. Where would be the challenge in that?

Hircine. Hircine was the challenge. Don't underestimate The Huntsman of the Princes.

John kept a firm grip on his sword and turned down hallway after hallway. The maze was making his head hurt, but he had to go through. Hircine would be at the end, and, with that, his hope for a cure.

Snarling came down the right pathway, along with yelling and swords slicing through the air. John stopped in his tracks, staring down the hall. He was hesitant to charge down there, though he knew he would have to partake in the bloodshed sooner or later. He wished Sherlock was there. One against two didn't seem particularly fair.

He took a chance down the left hall, breathing in as deeply as he could. No, the smell was dying down this way. "Of course, John, what were you thinking?" he asked, turning around and marching down the correct pathway. As he got closer to the end, the sounds grew louder, and the smell grew stronger. His heart raced. He didn't have to shed his skin and transform into a manbeast to take care of trouble. John was good with a sword; he knew what to do.

The path lead to a great chamber, and inside, was the Frost Giant and the Captain. The Captain was on the Giant's shoulders, crossing her two swords and slashing the creature's throat. Blood spurted out like a fountain, and he fell. Yrsadreid came tumbling down along with him, but she managed to roll away to deflect a harsher fall. John slowly pulled out his own weapon and walked into the chamber, but neither of them seemed to be up to fighting. Captain Yrsadreid was on her knees, swords tossed haphazardly to the side. She seemed to be struggling to breathe.

John kept his sword out as he moved past Clugrus, noting the cut from ear to ear. It looked the same as Eorlir's. Why was Yrsadreid killing Hircine's champions? Wasn't she one herself?

"Don't you worry about ole Clugrus," the Redguard said, raising her head and looking at John. She smiled, trying to hide her wincing. "He'll be out for a while."

He found himself sheathing his sword. "A long while, it looks like," John replied, making his way over to her. He held out his hand, but she only shook her head.

"I'd rather stay down here." Yrsadreid twisted around, leaning against the maze wall. There was a wound in her side, her threadbare tunic stained with blood. Yrsadreid saw John looking, and she waved her hand. "Don't worry about that. I'll be up and out of here before you know it."

"You killed Eorlir."

"He was a tit."

"And Clugrus."

"He was an even bigger tit."

"Why?"

Yrsadreid lifted her head, staring at John with honey-colored eyes. She roughly swallowed before she smiled. "Are you going to face Hircine?"

John glanced down at his feet, shifting his weight on his other leg. "Yes."

"That's why." The Captain tipped her head back. "You have no idea how long I had that Prince wrapped around my finger. He honestly believed I was loyal." She started to laugh, but it was cut short with a wince. Yrsadreid held her side, eyes squeezed shut. "I was going to hack his head off myself, but good Clugrus here saw me kill Eorlir and figured out my plan. He chased me down, we fought, and, well, you know the rest." Yrsadreid pulled her hand back, shiny with blood. "Oh, balls," she breathed out.

"So, you were unwilling, too?" John crouched next to her. The Captain wearily looked at him. "You didn't want to be one of his creatures. You wanted to end him."

Yrsadreid smiled at John, studying his face and looking pointedly at his helmet. "That's right, you big bear. If it isn't too much trouble," she started, wetting her lips, "if you get out of this, send a letter to Hammerfell. Faeniath. Tell him how dashingly brave I was." She returned her hand to her side and breathed out. "Now hand me one of my swords." Yrsadreid stretched out her other arm, shaking. "A Captain needs to die by her own hand or not at all." She winked.

John left the chamber, just as steel clanged to the ground.

He had gotten lucky, he realized, as he walked deeper into the woods. He didn't have to raise his sword once, didn't even have to defend himself. At this point, John was beginning to feel antsy. All this pent up tension was growing, and he knew he would be slower with a sword, but he yearned to fight. He didn't think he would ever want that. A lot of things had changed.

Just like before, the cave was quiet again. John's breath was visible in front of his mouth, but he hadn't noticed the temperature drop. He must be getting closer. John lowered his hand to his sword again.

The way seemed to be straightforward now. The stench was stronger. Along with wet dog, blood and sweat came into the mix. Hircine was close, oh so close.

In the middle of the path, a cloud of purple mist gathered. John paused and immediately drew his sword, eyes narrowing. He had seen this sorcery before, in the mountains. It seemed to be a lifetime ago.

Redbeard came bounding towards him, tongue lolling as he got on his hind legs to greet John. John's face broke out into a smile, and he crouched, giving the familiar a good head scratch. "What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. "I take it that my sister made it home safe?" John heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn around. He knew who was there, and he didn't want it to seem as if he was too pleased with his return.

"Hello, Sherlock."

The wolf disappeared from under his touch, only leaving behind a trace of the purple mist. John pressed his lips together and slowly turned around. Sherlock was standing some feet away, looking as if no time had separated them. "John." He hung his arms at his sides, fingers wiggling. "I-I owe, ah, I owe you an apology." He took another step forward. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the complete truth about myself. I knew everything about you after I saw you in that inn. It was unfair, and I know it was hurtful when you had to find out this way." Sherlock looked off to the side, biting his lip. "I will not do it again—withhold information."

John stayed still, standing there and looking at Sherlock. The apology was sound, and John was ready to forgive Sherlock. How could he not? This was Sherlock, and he would walk to the edge of Nirn for him. "I don't like deception, Sherlock," he began. "Or lying."

"I know. I'm an idiot for not telling you, and I cannot promise you will be safe if you stay with me."

"I can't promise the same either."

John and Sherlock stared at each other, then smiled.

"How did you find me?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I followed you." John turned away, huffing out a laugh. "As soon as you left Skaal Village, I was following you. I wasn't far behind at all." Sherlock laughed himself. "Have I mentioned I'm an idiot?"

"Yes," John said, pushing his sword back into its place. "Come here," he murmured, lifting his hands and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't hesitate this time. He rested his hands on John's arms, kissing him back again and again.

If they weren't standing in the middle of a frozen glacier, housed to dead bodies and a Daedric Prince, John wouldn't have minded taking Sherlock against a rock. But they had a task at hand, and the taking would have to wait until they were safe and sound. Whenever that would be.

John laid his palm flat against Sherlock's chest and pushed. "Okay, okay," he murmured, looking down and wetting his lips. "We have to stop."

"You're the one who kissed me," Sherlock said smugly. John shot him a look, but Sherlock smiled and glanced over his head. He nodded down the hall. "You were going the right way. Just through there."

He slowly turned, then, almost as if Sherlock was directing him. John placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, lips pressed together. He held his head a little higher. "So, Harry is safe."

"Yes."

John paused for a second. He looked down at the ground. "Did you know there was… something more to me?"

Sherlock took a step towards John, standing behind him. "I knew you were a spectacularly ordinary man, and you were going to get me in loads of trouble." He raised a hand and lightly touched the nape of his neck, the sliver of skin that was underneath his helmet. "However, if you want me to be honest, I had no idea saving your sister would lead to this." He dropped his hand.

This. Millions of things could mean "this", but John knew exactly what Sherlock meant. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, smiling up at Sherlock. "Me neither."

John set off walking, Sherlock right beside him. Right around the corner would be Hircine. There was no hiding that smell. It was stronger than ever before, and the strength made John all the more nauseated. He didn't know how Sherlock was managing to remain composed.

At the end of the corridor, John didn't hesitate in the turn. He was going to do this. No turning back now. The way was paved for him. The least he could do was make sure Yrsadreid didn't die in vain.

A clearing, much like the one he had left, was waiting. Unlike the clearing before, this one was a dead end. The end to the maze, and at its end, the Huntsman of the Princes.

Hircine was seated near the ice wall, on a throne of bones. It seemed to be crafted of animal bones, though the occasional human was like to slip in. The voice John heard in his head seemed to be a good match for this man. He was burly, thick-chested, and very large. John couldn't describe him any better. He was unable to see much of his facial features, as a stag's skull was covering his face. The antlers branched off like a magnificent tree. Through the eyeholes, a pair of dark eyes looked upon John and Sherlock. "Ah," the Prince said, voice booming and echoing off the cavern walls. He pushed himself off his throne, letting the skulls at his waist clink together and the mass of furs he adorned fall into place. "Is this my sole champion?" He examined John, head cocking. "I believed I called for quite a few, and none of them were you."

John shifted in his spot and glanced behind him at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes; he was glued to Hircine, eyes narrowed in concentration. John was left to his own devices. He looked back up at the Prince. "No, no you didn't." Good start, John. He shook his head. "I am, however, one of your—"

"—you do not have to tell me something I already know," Hircine interrupted. "I can smell it on you." He took a step forward, lifting a hand and pointing towards John. "Your blood was tainted by Sirihe the Whitemane." Hircine laughed. "She was one of my more faithful children."

"She has a daughter," Sherlock said.

Hircine snapped his head towards Sherlock, tipping his head in an almost feral manner. "Her daughter! She is a witch! More focused on alchemy and books rather than what she could have become!" His fingers twitched at his side. "And you. You reek of one of my brothers."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and slipped his dagger from his waist. He twirled it in his hands. "I assure you, I kill nothing like him." His eyes flicked to a spot near the throne, and John followed his gaze: a spear rested against the throne, the point sharp enough to show its fatal strength.

A growl came from the beast Prince, and John drew out his own weapon. Hircine turned his attention to John, eyes widening at the sight of his sword. "All of your champions are dead, Hircine. One of your own betrayed you, slaughtering the others when they came upon her. May Yrsadreid of the Isles pass your dreadful Hunting Grounds and sail upon the Far Shores, where her worth is rewarded."

"That wench was worth nothing," Hircine spat out, twisting around to face his throne. The stag headdress didn't cover the back of Hircine's head, and a mess of brown hair was pulled back in a tangle of a bun. John glanced over at Sherlock, nodding slightly. The Breton lifted his free hand, fingertips sparking. "I'll tear her pretty head off and feed it to my children. Make a fool of me." Sherlock snapped his wrist, causing a bolt of lightning to strike Hircine on his shoulder. The Prince yelled, gripping his shoulder. He yanked on his spear and charged across the clearing.

John stumbled backwards, reaching over and pulling Sherlock behind him. He held out his sword, arm steady and shoulder not a bit sore. "That wasn't me," John said, and he immediately shut his eyes, shaking his head. Sherlock shoved his arm into John.

"Thanks, John," he muttered.

He opened his eyes and looked up. Hircine loomed over the pair, spear standing stick straight at his side. He glanced at John's sword, as if it were only a tooth pick and not something that could kill. "When you chanced upon this glacier, what did you expect to happen?" John's grip on the sword wavered for a moment, and he thought about lowering it. He raised it back up immediately. Hircine watched in amusement. "My champions were supposed to meet with me, and we were going to hunt that Village to extinction. Now, they are all dead, except for you." Hircine pushed away John's sword with his spear. "I am willing to forgive that little slight"—he tossed a look towards Sherlock—"if you will join me and my Hounds for the Hunt." His voice was soft, but the baritone rang in John's head.

John carefully lowered his sword, eyes on the Prince's covered face. Behind the mask, his pupils dilated. John tightened his grip on his weapon. "You'll let me come with you?" he asked, wetting his lips. "Allow me to hunt with you?" John ignored the heat that ran through his body. "With the great Hircine?"

The Prince seemed to relish in the attention. He placed the spear beside him and nodded. "Yes."

"And what of him?" John asked, nodding towards Sherlock, but not looking at him. He felt Sherlock's eyes burn the back of his head.

"I think you know what to do," Hircine murmured.

John didn't need to be told twice. He grinned. "Not a bloody chance," he laughed and jammed his sword towards him, striking the beast of a man in the abdomen. Hircine leapt back in surprise, and his hands flew to the sword. John only grunted and yanked up, tearing the sword out with a shower of blood. As Hircine clutched at his side, John wiped his cheek. "That was for everyone's lives you ruined. Now, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a step forward as John moved back. He had exchanged his dagger for his bow, and readied an arrow, firing one, two, in quick succession. They struck Hircine, one in the chest, the other opposite of his abdomen wound. Hircine stumbled back with each blow, growling and stabbing his spear into the ice to gather his bearings. "You—" Hircine growled, turning and whipping back around to strike Sherlock across the face with his spear. Sherlock shot back, landing on his side and rolling, his bow sliding across the ground.

"Shit," John hissed, running towards Hircine, sword raised. He brought it down, meeting Hircine's spear. He pulled back and swung again, Hircine and he seeming to do a sort of dance. John ducked underneath a would-be nasty blow from the spear, glancing over to see Sherlock pushing himself up. It looked as if the blunt end of the spear had caught his cheek, as a huge bruise was beginning to form. John looked back towards Hircine and stood up straight, slicing his sword across his torso while he was recovering from his swing.

"Ungrateful Nord," Hircine roared, lashing out his spear and striking John through the leg. John fell to the ground with a yell, losing his hold on the sword. He pressed his palms to the ground, fingers curling into the cold surface. The spear was still in his leg, and Hircine cackled. "This is how we make sure the prey doesn't get back up," he said, quickly twisting the spear. John squeezed his eyes shut and yelled again, leaning forward and pressing his face against the ground. He didn't want to get up. He much preferred the ground right now.

A wave of heat rippled above John, and he managed to open his eyes to see a blast of flames cloaking the Prince. He swatted it away like it was just a nuisance. John couldn't see much more through the tears. He tried to push himself back up again, which only resulted in another yelp.

Sherlock rushed over to him and grabbed the spear. "Sorry, John," he murmured and tore the spear right out of John's leg. Another yell sounded through the cave, and John arched off the ground.

"Oh, Talos," he said, voice shaking. John worked on getting back on his feet—he had to, he had to—and he managed, with Sherlock's help. Sherlock handed John the spear, letting him lean his weight on it.

"The bastard," Sherlock breathed out, and he spun around, flinging an ice shard at Hircine, a chord of lightning, anything to make the Prince go to his knees. Sherlock slid across the floor and kicked John's sword clear across the cave, out of any one's reach. Hircine snarled and shook his head from side to side.

John took one step forward, pain blasting through his leg and up through his torso, to his head. He sucked in a breath and held it, walking towards Hircine. His speed and strength increased with his step, and soon, he was standing in front of the fallen beast. John brandished the spear, breathing heavily, blinking away the tears of pain.

Hircine looked up at John and laughed. "Are you going to kill me with my own weapon?" John pursed his lips, seeing Sherlock move in his peripheral vision. He wanted to turn his head fully around, but that would be disastrous right now.

"Doesn't a good hunter take advantage of their resources?" John asked, sniffing.

That only raised another laugh from Hircine. He turned and looked over at Sherlock. John kept his eyes on the Daedric Prince. "What do you think you're doing?" he shouted. "Waving your hands around like a damned fool. Did my brother teach you that?" John's eyes traveled down the length of Hircine. Blood coated his skin, sticking to patches of hair. The arrows Sherlock had shot were still in him, and the wound to his abdomen was still bleeding steadily. The ground beneath them was bloody.

Sherlock chuckled himself, but he didn't give a vocal reply. John chanced it and turned his head, eyes widening. Someone was walking into the clearing, dragging themselves across the ground. Groaning came, and John was immediately reminded of a Draugr, but he didn't let the spear waver from Hircine. As the figure got closer, John noticed that it was Yrsadreid, a large blood stain on the front of her tunic, showing where she had taken her life. She stopped next to Sherlock, her swords in each hand.

Hircine began to move, lurching forward and grabbing onto John's leg. John gasped, but that was it. He forced himself to jump, and he landed on Hircine's back, pressing the shaft of the spear across Hircine's throat, tipping his head back. The Prince gurgled and clawed at John's face. John reared his head back to avoid the hits, the man's nails like talons.

Yrsadreid walked towards Hircine and John, all the light gone from her eyes. She was under Sherlock's control, now, but that didn't necessarily mean in life, she wouldn't have done the exact thing she was doing now. She twisted and turned, and slashed her swords across Hircine's throat, fashioning him with a red necklace like his champions.

The gurgles grew in volume, and blood pooled out of Hircine's mouth. He looked up at John with wide, desperate eyes. John spun off Hircine, moving in front of Yrsadreid. He adjusted his grip on the spear and swung it, knocking the headdress off him. The stag skull fell and shattered against the ground. A rugged, scarred face looked back at John, hands gripping at his throat.

John put all of his strength into his stab and stuck the spear through Hircine's throat. The Prince seemed to look at John in shock, the spear stabbed through his hands and his neck. John left it there for a second longer than necessary, though it didn't matter. He yanked it out all the same. Hircine fell on his side, eyes still open and haunting. He looked like a simple mortal. Besides his massive stature, he was the same as John. "Have fun in your Hunting Grounds," he said softly, holding out his hand. His sword was placed in it, and when John turned his head, he met Sherlock's gaze. Yrsadreid had fallen next to him, her duty finished.

No judgment was on Sherlock's face. He understood. He always understood John. John pressed his lips together and let the spear drop to the ground as he got a better grip on his sword. "Get his ring." John nodded towards Hircine's hands. As Sherlock ducked down to fetch the ring, John lifted his sword above his head and brought it down. It took a few tries to completely separate Hircine's head from his body, but when he did, John kicked it away.

He fell to the ground, hissing in pain, and watched as the Huntsman of the Princes' head spun around and stopped some odd feet away. John turned over and lay on his back, lifting his hands to remove his helmet. He tossed it aside and rubbed his face. He could feel blood smear across his cheeks.

It was over.

John began to laugh.