The Boy With The Crimson Eyes
Chapter 2 – The Dragonborn
We were never the marrying type, oh no
We won't buy dishes or stained glass lights, oh no
For a table we'll never sit at
In the house that we won't ever get
I won't wake up and pick out your tie, oh no
You won't come home and kiss me at night, oh no
We won't lie in this king bed for two
Say goodbye to us saying "I dos"
No more white picket fences
No more lace veils or vows
No more "You're the only one" 'cause that's all done with now
- Last Love Song by ZZ Ward
A lone woman stood on the peak of a mountain looking down at the snow-covered city of Dawnstar. The lightly descending snow was falling softly upon the snowy streets and roofs, coating the town in a fresh layer of crisp white powder. The sun was barely rising in the Dawnstar sky, its golden rays skimming the high edges of the snow-covered trees, brightening the sea of white with the advent of dawn.
The twenty-five year old Breton woman wore a heavy winter cloak that was black in color. The hood of her cloak was pulled over her head, covering her waist-length golden hair that shined like a beacon in the vast whiteness that surrounded her. A black cloth mask covered her nose, mouth, chin, and neck, concealing her identity. The only thing visible was her large, leafy green eyes that were fringed with black lashes that were so long they tangled in the corners. The young woman was petite, even for a Breton, standing just over five feet tall and weighing a hundred pounds.
She pulled her hood tighter around her face to block out the winter wind whipping her cheeks and turning them a bright scarlet. She hadn't set foot in Skyrim in years and the cold was already getting to her, reminding her of how hard it was to survive in this country when you weren't a Nord. The woman's slim arms wrapped around her slender middle for warmth as her small booted-feet shifted in the ankle-high snow. Her twin short-swords rested in the snow against a nearby tree, momentarily forgotten. She should continue practicing with her swords, she knew, but she hadn't stopped to watch the sun rise in so long and this one was… spectacular.
She forced herself to practice with her swords every morning in order to maintain her skills and stamina. Ever since she left the orphanage in Riften at the tender age of eight, she'd been raised in the life of a thief as a member of the Thieves Guild. By the time she was a teenager she could pick any lock with her eyes closed, sneak into any location undetected, lift a man's coin purse without him even noticing, but wielding a blade had never been her strong suit. She was better with a bow, but every fighter needed to be able to handle a blade in case an enemy moved into close range. When she'd joined the Companions, her friend Aela had dragged her out of bed every morning to spar and it was a habit she didn't want to break. She couldn't risk it. She was Dragonborn, after all. She needed to be ready for anything.
She'd been just a girl when she'd escaped Alduin at Helgen - a girl who'd only seen eighteen summers. A girl who'd only days later learned she was the last Dragonborn and needed to become a legendary warrior overnight and save the world. Overwhelmed and in urgent need of guidance and training, Faye had gone to Jorrvaskr, the home of the greatest warriors in all of Skyrim. She'd been surprised when Kodlak - the then Harbinger - had offered her a place with the Companions despite her few years, small stature, and lack of skill as a warrior.
More surprising was the way the Companions had welcomed her into their home with open arms. They'd done everything in their power to make her feel welcome and help her become the warrior she was destined to become. In the halls of Jorrvaskr, Faye had at once felt like she belonged, something she'd never felt before. She'd finally felt like she was where she was meant to be, that she'd finally found the one thing her lonely, orphan heart had always desired - a family.
That was also when she met Vilkas.
She'd been instantly captivated by his rugged masculinity, sharp silver eyes surround by black war paint, and dark stubble constantly shadowing his face. She was drawn like a thief to a jewel to his passion and intensity, impressed by his intelligence, and mesmerized by his heart that burned so brightly at times she swore she could feel it. The devastatingly handsome Nord warrior could turn her bones to jelly with just his nearness, could cause her breath to falter with just a look from those steel-colored orbs, could cause her blood to rush hot and wild with just a touch.
Vilkas had hated her from the start.
He'd thought her weak, childish, untrustworthy, dishonorable, and unworthy of the Companions. She'd trained and bled and fought to become stronger, to become worthier in his eyes, needing it with a desperation that had both frightened and confused her. Over time strength had come on the back of hard work, bruises, and broken bones and with it Vilkas' opinion of her had changed.
But they'd never been friends. Their personalities were too different yet too similar in ways, their interests too diverse, and they had nothing in common. Hell, they'd never even tried to be friends. Lust hadn't allowed the time. Theirs was a relationship born of magnetic attraction and overpowering want. They fought all the time, the result of two iron-wills clashing backed by mulish stubbornness. But the attraction between them was like a wildfire – hot, raging, wild, and uncontrollable. They'd gotten to know each other better in bed than out of it. That had been the crux of the problem, among other things.
From the beginning she'd loved Vilkas wildly, recklessly, with an edge of desperation that was all consuming. In was no surprise then that she had willingly offered herself to Vilkas and he had been the man to take her body's innocence with a passion and intensity that haunted her still. No one else had had that effect on her, and after all this time Faye had come to the conclusion that no one else ever would. But their relationship had been like an ember that burned hot and bright, but couldn't withstand a cold gust of reality.
The Dragonborn exhaled heavily, puffs of white mist blooming in front of her face as she shoved the unwanted memories to the back of her mind. There was an uneasy throb in her temples and a strain behind her eyes from fatigue, and the frigid winter air was only making it worse.
Talos, she was utterly exhausted. She hadn't slept or eaten in thirty-six hours. She was too busy running from the wolves that were at her back, that were always at her back. But that was what life was like living on the run, which was akin to treading water – continual motion without getting anywhere with the persistent threat of drowning looming threateningly over her head. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, waiting for the rug to be pulled from beneath her feet. She was continuously trying to stay two moves ahead. By the Nine, it was tiring. She'd never been paranoid before, but fear of being discovered was starting to rule her life.
She couldn't stay in cities or towns for fear of being recognized, which meant living outside in caves or tents. She hadn't slept in a real bed in years and had been forced to grow accustomed to sleeping on the hard and unforgiving ground or in a pile of hay. She couldn't take any jobs and make money for fear of being identified, which forced her to use the skills she'd learned from the Thieves Guild to steal from wealthy citizens of Skyrim in order to buy clothes, food, and weapons that were necessary for protection and hunting. She couldn't settle down and make a life for herself. She couldn't have a home. She couldn't go to festivals or celebrations, even those thrown in her honor. She couldn't visit old friends. She couldn't make new friends.
Tired as she was, Faye knew she had no right to complain. This was the life she'd chosen of her own free will. After so many years, her old life was just a dream - a dream that had ended with a bitter betrayal and an arrow to the heart. She'd made a decision all those years ago and it was irrevocable. She'd given up everything that she was, forgotten the Companions and the Thieves Guild, put aside everything to which she was accustomed, lost contact with friends and acquaintances. There was no going back – she could not change the past and knew she didn't want to. She'd chosen this life and she regretted nothing.
An image of darkly chiseled features framed by short, raven-black hair hanging into bright silver eyes surrounded by black war paint appeared in her mind's eye and her heart sank, as if it were strapped to a stone and tossed into a river.
Well, maybe there was one thing she regretted.
Thinking of Vilkas now brought nothing but remorse, loneliness, and pain.
Six years.
It had been six long years since she'd seen Vilkas. The night before she left him she'd been determined to imprint every inch of his face and body into her memory so she wouldn't forget him. But time had turned that memory hazy. She couldn't remember his face and she couldn't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard she tried.
Faye knew within her heart that there was nothing in the past six years that she would take back, but that didn't mean she didn't regret. A part of her had died the day she'd left Vilkas. It had been the worst day of her life. She'd never known such agony. And it had been a pain that stayed with her, that was even now a part of her. Leaving Vilkas was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, but she had no choice.
But all that was in the past, she reminded herself as she flexed her aching shoulders. She was a different person now, with a life that gave her the deepest satisfaction she had ever known. If only she could put an end to the nightmares…
Faye shifted her gaze from the sunrise to stare down at the town of Dawnstar with unconcealed longing in her jade eyes. She wished she could stay at the inn located below that had a warm fire, a soft bed, hearty food, friendly company, even if it was just for a little while…
Glumly, she shook her head beneath her onyx hood. That would be too dangerous, she thought with a heavy heart. If she were ever recognized… sweet Mara, she couldn't even consider the ramifications of such a mistake. The gods knew her life was hard enough as it was.
A memory rose unbidden from the dark recesses of her mind. She'd tried not to dwell on that memory, but it came unwanted to her now despite her desperate attempts to push it away.
Vilkas' hand fisted in her hair and yanked back gently, forcing her eyes to meet his. His striking face was taut, mouth thin and hard, sharp silver eyes piercing into her like knives. "Don't leave me, Faye. Don't do that to me," he whispered brokenly, like he couldn't bear to see it happen, the hint of desperation and echo of uncertainty lacing the severely spoken words. "If you do, I will hunt you down. I will find you. There is no place in this world you can hide from me. And I will make you regret ever leaving me."
She'd left him a week later, after having left all those tears in his bed while he'd slept so soundly and unaware beside her. Gods, what he must have thought of her when he realized she'd left him. But she had no recourse except to run far and fast, to someplace where Vilkas would never find her. That, or be trapped with no way to save her own soul.
Faye paled, the blood draining from her face as she thought of Vilkas learning of her whereabouts. An uncontrollable tremor of fear rippled through her. He would probably try to kill her, she thought miserably, and he would most likely succeed. Vilkas was always so much stronger than her - with his hard muscles and imposing height, his power and ferocity, his severe manner and intense silver gaze. He was overwhelmingly male and had an inner strength that was unshakable and matched his formidable physique. Faye admired the man more than anyone she had ever met.
Vilkas also had unwavering determination and a strict sense of honor that scared her sometimes, but she had always respected it. His mind was brilliant and he always figured things out if he wanted to accomplish something or if his back was up against a wall. He was always planning, always calculating, always coming up with some newfangled idea to get what he wanted from others or protect his brother and his Companion family.
That inner strength and sense of honor also compelled him to act when he felt he or his Companion family had been wronged. Its what sent him on a killing rampage after Kodlak had been murdered. Its what sent him to Sovngarde beside her when she faced Alduin. Its what would undoubtedly send him after her if he ever learned where she was because he thought she'd wronged him.
Faye's stomach twisted with an old, sickening feeling of guilt. She had wronged him. Terribly. She'd broken her promise to marry him like the dishonorable person he'd always accused her of being. She'd left in the middle of the night, like a coward, the night before they were to be married. She'd left without an explanation. She'd left him standing alone at the alter to be humiliated in front of his family, his friends, and the Companions.
Faye couldn't help but wince when she thought of what she'd done. She'd been so young then, a naive girl of eighteen and so full of doubt and fear, a victim of her youth and insecurities. Vilkas probably thought she'd never cared. He probably blamed her for what happened between them. He probably thought she'd betrayed him. He probably hated her and she couldn't blame him. She knew he'd never be able to understand or forgive what she'd done. But she couldn't help but wonder what Vilkas would do if he ever found out that he was the one who had broken her heart first.
Forest green eyes narrowed at the memory of Sovngarde – the memory that to this day still caused the dragon blood that coursed through her veins to froth and bubble with ire. Vilkas had told her what he wanted that day, and what he didn't want. He'd made it perfectly clear where his loyalties lied. He'd told her where he stood, and it was not on her side. It was he who had betrayed her!
Faye exhaled sharply as she rolled her neck on her shoulders to ease the tension that had built there. It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. To be honest, she never expected to see Vilkas again. In fact, she'd taken great measures to avoid him. She had contacts in Whiterun that kept her informed on the Harbinger of the Companions in order to ensure that she never met him ever again. Faye's face fell, her eyes downcast and filled with pain as she recalled all that she had learned about him over the years.
She knew Vilkas would feel honor bound to seek retribution for what she'd done to him – for wounding his pride and leaving him standing at the alter in front of everyone – but that would be the only reason he would want to seek her out. Vilkas was happy now… without her. He wouldn't want anything to do with her other than seek his revenge against her.
Her stomach twisted, tying itself into wretched knots of anguish. Her heart had died the day she'd heard that the Harbinger of the Companions had married a beautiful Nord woman six months after she'd left. It had crushed her that day to realize that she'd lost him forever.
Faye touched the slender gold band on her wedding finger and knew she had no right to be jealous or to feel betrayed. She couldn't irrationally think of Vilkas as hers when she'd married another man, despite the fact that every night when she went to bed she pretended Vilkas was in bed with her.
And, to add to her misery, she'd learned only a few weeks ago that the Harbinger and his wife had just had their third child together even after Vilkas had adamantly refused, over and over again, to ever have a child with Faye. She had posed the question to him multiple times when they had been together, expressing her desire to be a mother despite her young age. But Vilkas had refused her at every turn. He'd told her repeatedly and without leniency that he never wanted children. They cost too much, got in the way, took up too much time, prevented him from travelling the world and joining the Stormcloaks as he wanted so desperately to do. Children smelled bad and were too loud. He wasn't, he said, cut out to be a dad. Though he didn't say it, she knew the most important reason was he didn't want to become his father - a dishonorable man who'd thrown away his responsibilities and had left his own flesh and blood on the doorstep of another. But Vilkas' marriage and three children had forced Faye to confront and accept the painful truth that Vilkas had simply not wanted to have children with her.
The dragon fire that dwelled within her came to life, blazing like a forest fire across the green fields of her eyes. Vilkas may have been the first man she'd ever loved, the first man she'd ever taken into her body, but he was also the only man who'd ever broken her heart. He had cause to hate her, but it was almost as much as she had to hate him. He forced her into running. The past was his fault, not hers. It was he who had turned his back on her. It was he who had destroyed what they had!
Faye's body suddenly stilled and her ears perked up as she heard the faint sound of swords crashing against swords in the distance. The Dragonborn's weariness and grogginess fled with sharp awareness of danger as a loud Battle Cry resonated fiercely over the clanging of swords.
"Azura's light," Faye muttered on an intake of breath at the sound of what could only be a battle of some kind.
The Breton pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and thoughtfully looked up at the cave she was hiding out in a few yards away, wondering if she should ignore the sounds of the battle and return to the safety of the cave. But her conscience immediately rebelled at the thought. Someone may be hurt. Someone may need her help. She should do something.
This is a bad idea, the Dragonborn thought apprehensively, chewing on her lip. If you're recognized…
But her conscience was relentless. It wouldn't let her simply walk away without trying to help when she had the ability to do so.
Faye sighed in resignation. It's things like this that always get you into trouble, you know, she chided herself as she pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her face and pulled the black cloth higher over her nose and mouth. And the very last thing you need in your life is trouble.
She grabbed her twin short-swords leaning against the tree and took off, racing down the mountain through the snow toward the sound of the fighting. Her slim body moved like a deer through the snow-covered trees with a nimbleness and quickness that hinted at underlying grace and agility.
Her slender body leapt into the air and over a large boulder that was in her path, and she landed in the snow with a soft thud and a spray of snow before she continued running down the mountain, her black cloak billowing behind her. Her clover eyes narrowed as the wind picked up, throwing snowflakes into her eyes, blinding her momentarily. There was a whistling of the wind as she lifted her hand in front of her face and whispered a spell and a ball of flame leapt to life in the palm of her hand. The Dragonborn may no longer be able to Shout because it gave away her identity, but she could still use magic.
As the clang of sword against sword grew louder in her ears, Faye began hearing screams of death carried on the howling wind alongside flurries of snow. As she drew closer to the battle, she smelled the metallic scent of blood, the tang of hot metal, and the acrid sweat of fear. The Breton woman ducked under a low-hanging branch, her fast pace never slowing. Adrenaline began coursing through her as the sounds of the battle grew louder. She whispered a word allowing the fire in her palm to float forward, guiding her path.
With sleek litheness, she leapt forward out of the safety of the tall pines covered in snow that surrounded her and landed nimbly on her feet in a clearing, the air heavy with the metallic scent of blood. She pulled her twin short-swords from their hilts and spun them once in her hands as she had come accustomed to doing before a fight.
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A massive, ebony mailed warrior was silhouetted, large and menacing, against a thunderous sky - a dark warrior on a snow-white field that was soaked crimson with the fresh spilled blood of his enemies.
The Commander of the Blades was breathing hard as he adjusted his grip on Dragonbane in his sweaty right hand, his ebony Blades armor covered in snow and dirt and blood. His black eyebrows drew low and tight over his dark gray eyes that flashed dangerously as they scanned the enemies that surrounded him, outnumbering him twenty to one.
Despite their numbers, the scent of their fear was palpable. Vilkas' lips curled into a vicious snarl like that of a demon causing the scent to spike. The scent enveloped him. Pungent. Knife-edged. Delicious. It was like an aphrodisiac. He inhaled the scent of their fear. Fed on it. Gloried in the power it brought.
"Attack me if you dare," Vilkas mocked, his ruined voice rough and scraping, pure wicked devilment gleaming in his slate eyes.
One of them did not hesitate. The Dragon Cult member gathered his courage and charged the confident Commander of the Blades. Vilkas swung Dragonbane back, his blade slashing clean through the attacker's neck. The Dragon Cult member stood there for a moment, motionless. Then he fell to his knees at the Harbinger's feet, and his head rolled away in the snow.
"Come on, you bastards," Vilkas growled, low and savage and deadly, presenting the point of his sword to his enemies in a taunting gesture. "Who's next?"
Another enemy lunged at him with his mace. Quick as a flash, Vilkas leaned back and avoided the swipe of the mace aimed for his chest. A malevolent growl welled up from his chest as he swung his dripping blade in an arc and jammed the point into the fool's throat in one swift motion, the end piercing through the back of his neck.
Vilkas was able to rip his blade free of the man's throat before ducking under another man's swinging blade, swiftly bringing his sword up and gutting the man from gut to sternum. He felt Dragonbane go through flesh and hit bone, saw the Cult Member's eyes roll back into his head before he crumbled lifelessly onto his sword.
Vilkas pulled out his sword and spun to his right, his fine blade slashing through a Cult Member's outstretched arm, severing the limb, before biting deeply into the man's side, cutting halfway though his torso. The man screamed as blood sprayed onto the white snow, staining it crimson. Vilkas didn't have time to end his misery and with a snarl he spun back to check one sword with his own before whirling away from a second.
A massive man charged at him with his war axe over his head and Vilkas threw Dragonbane at the man. The point of the legendary sword sank into the massive man's gut and the man stumbled back, staring down in shock at the blood-soaked steel sticking out of his stomach.
The Commander of the Blades turned and landed a swift kick to an approaching cult member's stomach and the man doubled over. Vilkas rolled across the man's bent over back and pulled the hidden dagger from his boot while he did so. Vilkas stood and with a flick of his wrist sent the dagger flying into the Adam's apple of the archer that was aiming an arrow at his heart.
Vilkas rushed forward and ripped Dragonbane out of the massive man that was still staring dumbfounded at the sword sticking out of his torso. Vilkas spun on the balls of his feet in the snow, using the momentum to cut the massive man's head from his shoulders, his head rolling off his bulky shoulders to land with a thud in the snow before the rest of his body followed.
Vilkas swiftly brought his sword up to deflect the two swords aimed for his neck and a ringing clang of metal hitting metal echoed in the clearing where the battle was taking place. Vilkas lunged and slashed his sword across an enemy's throat, cutting through bone and muscle. In an instant, flesh tore and blood sprayed. The man's hands wrapped around his weeping throat before he crumbled to the snow at Vilkas' feet. The Harbinger bent back to avoid the swipe of a sword, his back popping with the sudden motion. He spun in place, his arm extended, Dragonbane cutting into the armor, flesh, and bone of an enemy's chest before becoming embedded in the ribcage of another.
Warm fresh blood sprayed across his face and beard as Vilkas carried on swinging and slashing with his sword at who ever he could reach, growling and roaring with primal rage, his ebony armor becoming a canvas to the blood of his enemies. The Harbinger fought singlehandedly with vicious, deadly efficiency as he ran his blade into his enemies, blood and corpses filling the field of battle around him, the ranks of the Dragon Cult members visibly thinning before his eyes.
It was a massacre. The Commander of the Blades was brutally slaughtering the Dragon Cult members that had tried to ambush him while he had been investigating the recently resurrected dragon in Dawnstar, as Delphine had instructed him. The other members of his unit were in Dawnstar right now questioning the citizens about the resurrected dragon and its attack on the town. Vilkas had gone up into the mountains where witnesses had spotted a cloaked figure fleeing after the dragon had been resurrected in the forest just outside of the city.
The Dragon Cult was a group that worshipped Alduin and believed dragons to be the avatars of the gods. The cult was made up of mortal men and led by powerful undead enemies known as Dragon Priests. Thousands of years ago, these priests ruled over Skyrim at the behest of their dragon overlords. Upon death they were typically buried in one of the many ancient tombs and temples, dotted all across Skyrim, awaiting the return of Alduin the World-Eater. It was the same cult that had captured Vilkas and tortured him a few years back until his team had rescued him, led by Aela.
Fury flared in Vilkas' flint-gray eyes as he stared down the leader, the set of ruthless determination on his hard mouth. "You brought a lot of men with you to try and kill me," he grumbled, iron eyes blazing with enmity.
"You keep getting in the way, Commander," the leader spat in explanation, glaring hatefully.
A quirk in the corner of his lips formed as his granite eyes surveyed the corpses that surrounded him. "It wasn't enough, I'm afraid," Vilkas stated with a sharp edge to his damaged voice. "You should have brought more men."
"A mistake I will not make again in the future, I assure you," the Redguard leader snapped, shooting a baleful glance in the Harbinger's direction. "Our lord Alduin's soul remains and one day he will return to his dragon form. He will return to his full strength and when he does, snowback, he will bring the end of days with him. He is the fourth horsemen of the apocalypse, the harbinger of death, and the doom of all those who do not kneel and pledge their allegiance to him."
Vilkas' body became taut and lethal, radiating menace from every well-defined muscle as his lips pulled into a dark smirk. "I have met your god, cultist," he murmured, his tone low and taunting, "and I smiled at him while I ran my blade through his mortal flesh over and over again until he was choking on his own infernal blood."
The Redguard's face turned red with his rage. "You will pay in blood for such blasphemy, mark me!" The rancorous words came hissing from his thin mouth.
Granite eyes narrowed dangerously. "If it's death you want, cultist, it's death you shall have." The growl in Vilkas' voice was a malevolent roll of thunder that was fiercer and more intimidating than the roar of the fiercest dragon.
The Dragon Cult member lunged forward slashing down with his sword. Vilkas blocked it; then spun to kick his opponent in the stomach. The Redguard lurched back with a grunt. Vilkas immediately went on the attack. His memories of the torture he'd endured at the hands of these monsters increased his fury as he focused his anger on his opponent. Vilkas' movements and strikes were fluid and precise, his ferocity and strength almost inhuman. The most menacing and disturbing smile curved the Commander's lips as he sent blow after blow at the man, finally knocking him off balance to the ground. Fear shone bright in the Redguard's eyes as he realized he was gruesomely outmatched and swiftly rolled out of the way of the Commander's descending sword.
The battle continued for a few more minutes – the Dragon Cult member spent most of it regaining his balance and blocking than attacking. Soon the Redguard's movements became weaker. Vilkas ducked a swinging cut that caught the top of his helmet and toppled it from his head. Vilkas lifted his forearm to block another blow, but the force of it shattered his armor and left him with fresh blood pouring down from his elbow.
Vilkas blocked another thrust with Dragonbane and sliced his opponent's arm with the dagger in his other hand. The Redguard dropped the sword, wincing in pain. Vilkas followed through and turned to land his booted foot to the back of the man's head. The cult member dropped to his knees, barely conscious. Vilkas twirled his sword, and then with one massive sweep of Dragonbane, he struck the Redguard's head from his shoulders and sent it spinning above the battlefield to land in a pile of snow, turning the pure whiteness of it scarlet.
Vilkas was breathing hard from the exertion and he used the back of his hand to wipe the blood that was dripping into his eyes from the cut that split his black eyebrow. As he drew in deep breaths, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly raised and his body tensed as he sensed more danger. His upper body abruptly snapped to the side, his long black hair whipping around his shoulders, just in time to watch a wicked looking blade slash across his chest, cutting through his armor and piercing his skin.
Vilkas immediately rolled on the ground to the right to avoid another slash of the dagger. The Nord leapt to his feet, sword in hand, and found himself face-to-face with Hevnoraak, a powerful high-ranking dragon priest that wore maroon robes with gold scales running up the middle of his robes and down the center of his arms, a unique dragon priest mask covering his skeletal and morbidly decaying face that bore a powerful enchantment.
Damn, they really want me dead, Vilkas thought grimly as he stared up at the undead Dragon Priest.
Dragon Priests had no form of melee attack and were forced to exclusively fight with their elemental magic spells and their destruction-based staff.
Vilkas tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart, but Hevnoraak parried it and activated Ebonyflesh for added protection against Vilkas' melee attacks. Vilkas turned and sent a return cut that struck Hevnoraak's decaying upper arm. With a high-pitched shriek, Hevnoraak retreated and summoned a Storm Atronach – a greater ward to protect him against Vilkas' melee attacks.
The Atronach appeared out of thin air, a daedric creature that appeared to be humanoid in form but made up almost entirely of a single, pure substance. The Storm Atronach hovered over the ground as it moved toward him, its body appearing as a shattered statue with cracked, frowning face and chunks of rock swirling about its body, loosely connected by a matrix of electric arcs and dark purple storm clouds. Vilkas rolled to the left, just barely missing the bolt of lightening that the Storm Atronach had aimed for his head. Vilkas charged at the creature, hacking and slashing, blocking and moving until the creature was no more.
Vilkas turned his attention back to Hevnoraak. The Dragon Priest's fingers moved so slightly that Vilkas missed the motion and Dragonbane was ripped from his hand by an invisible force and the sword flew from his hand. Flying end over end, it then buried itself in the snow. Vilkas ran for his sword but the Dragon Priest zapped him with an energy bolt. Hevnoraak raised his spell-staff, clapping it into his open hand. Electricity sparked and sizzled, flying away from him toward Vilkas, hitting him in the side. Vilkas fell to one knee, his hand going to his side. Warm blood seeped out of his armor and through his fingers, staining them crimson. The Priest's hand flew forward and a spell connected with Vilkas' chest, sending him flying backwards. He hit the ground hard, grabbing his side as more blood seeped out.
Vilkas' teeth gritted as his eyes lifted to Hevnoraak who was summoning another spell. Vilkas growled savagely in the back of his throat. He flipped his dagger in his hand and with a sharp flick of his wrist he sent the dagger spinning towards the Dragon Priest. The point of the blade embedded itself in the center of Hevnoraak's forehead and the undead creature shrieked as its body crumbled into a pile of ash in the snow beneath the heap of its robes beside its dagger and staff.
Quickly looking himself over, Vilkas found several flesh wounds - a deep gash on his chest that needed stitches, several smaller cuts on his legs and arms, a nasty scratch on his jaw and neck, a worrisome gash on his left forearm, but the ebony Blades armor protected all the vital organs. The gash on his chest, however, was beginning to sting like Oblivion and smelled foil. He wondered if that ugly black blade Hevnoraak had used was poisoned.
Holding the deep gash on his chest together, Vilkas managed to push himself to his feet and started heading for Dawnstar where the healer of his team was located. Vilkas took two steps before he stumbled slightly in the snow, the poison already entering his system. He cursed as he felt his heart thump abnormally slow and heavy in his chest. His dark gray eyes started to glaze over, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body, cooling him down even more.
As he stumbled in the snow, his eyes caught something in the distance. He fell slightly sideways, trying to see past the flying particles of snow that were blowing into his face. The wind whipped past his eyes and he squinted, putting a hand up to his brow. There it was again. He started for what he thought he saw, but the poison was in his blood now and he stumbled and fell backwards in the snow, falling flat on his back with a thud in the snow.
The Commander of the Blades gritted his teeth as his chest flamed in hot pain. A tingling, prickling sensation spread through the muscles of his chest. The pain seared through the bone, into his chest cavity, searing across his ribs. He fought to move, but he couldn't make his body obey. He was as limp as a rag doll, a lone warrior lost in the vast expanse of snow that surrounded him.
It wouldn't be long now, he thought as he felt the tingle of the poison spreading out from his chest and into his limbs. He had seen too much of death not to know how easy it was to die, how quickly and mercilessly death could come.
He heard a sound and turned his head sideways in the snow towards it, his vision blurring with the movement. He saw, or at least he thought he saw, a Dragon Cult member approaching him, the snow crunching beneath their feet. His vision was swimming so badly he could barely make out her form as she walked toward him in the snow.
"I am going to enjoy this," the Dragon Cult member murmured, a sinister sort of glee to what was clearly a woman's voice as she drew closer to Vilkas' immobile form, her sword held tight in her hand.
Vilkas showed no sign of fear as he held a malicious glare at the Imperial woman, his dark gray eyes glittering with ferocity beneath his long raven-black locks, the thick black beard covering much of his face as wild and untamed as his eyes.
"Do not be afraid, Commander. Death is but the time to sleep forever in the Voi-" The cult member's words turned into a gurgle of blood in her mouth as the tip of a sword exploded from the cult member's chestplate, right over her heart. Mouth still open, her jaw hanging slack, she toppled forward face-first to the snow.
Uncaring, and unable to see anything but a grayish blob anyway, Vilkas looked away to stare up at the snowflakes as they fell softly upon his face, hair, and beard from a drab, gray, impenetrable sky.
Death had come for him, Vilkas realized, annoyed and irritated with its frequent visits. For so long now, he had flirted with the specter of demise with no real sense of his own mortality. Death was a constant companion yet something he neatly sidestepped while pushing others directly into its speeding path unawares.
Whilst the elements whipped at his cracked skin, his body began to feel numb to the pain. Vilkas closed his eyes, the snowy field his deathbed. How pathetic was it that such a silly little thing like poison would be the thing to do him in, he mused with dark humor. He'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory – an explosion, a legendary battle, or a dragon fight – not choking to death on poison while it shredded his guts into vermicelli.
Vaguely, Vilkas was aware of Death's cold fingers on his skin, touching his face, his beard, his hair. He heard a voice above him, Death's voice he assumed, but his ears seemed to be filled with cotton and he could not make out the specter's words.
Vilkas' lips pulled up in the corners into a devilish smirk. Dammit, he really wanted to look Death in the eye and tell him to fuck off.
With that in mind, Vilkas slowly forced his eyes open, ready to use his last breath to damn the infuriating apparition to Oblivion.
As soon as his eyes opened, however, his dark brows knitted in confusion as he stared up into the face of a young woman, the image swimming and severely blurry from the effects of the poison.
Damn… the Grim Reaper certainty isn't what I expected, Vilkas thought sardonically as he stared into the ethereal face above him surrounded by falling snow. His eyes narrowed as he tried to stop the image hovering above him from wavering and shifting so violently in order to get a clear image.
The woman leaned down toward him, her lustrous waves of long flowing hair spilling over her shoulders and down around him, surrounding him in its sunlight and sweet fragrance. She was saying something to him, he realized, but he couldn't hear her. He could only see her lips move as she spoke to him and then, without warning, those lips pulled into the most heart-stopping smile. He wanted to see her eyes - to see what color a seraph's eyes were - but he couldn't stop staring at her mouth.
Irresistibly impelled, Vilkas somehow managed to lift his hand from where it was lying in the snow at his side, his cold, rough fingertips caressing the smooth skin of her cheek.
Soft. So soft.
He turned his head slightly to the side to breath in the sweet fragrance of the spirit's hair that was draped around him.
An angel. She can be nothing less, he thought as his fingertips trailed down the smooth, soft curve of her cheek. And she's here to take me back to Sovngarde.
His mouth curved into an ironic smile as his vision faded to black and he slipped into the waiting darkness.
Author's Note: This chapter has a soundtrack: Last Love Song by ZZ Ward. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.