II: The Wolf.

Hircine gave his blood to Terrfyg.

In the days and nights that followed, Terrfyg became aware that unlike other manbeasts, he had complete control over his transformations. Not only that, but, whilst in beast form he retained his mind.

The same blood runs through you.

Another time, control over your beastly nature would be a benefit. But as you run after the stag, your heart drumming in your chest and blood pulsing through your head, you find yourself wishing that for once, you could lose yourself to the wolf.

The trees become dense. You trample through overgrowth, brambles that come up to your thighs.

The brambles snag your clothes, clutch at you like hands trying to stop you from continuing. You stop running, bend forwards, rest your hands upon your knees and catch your breath.

Your breath curls out in front of you, fine wisps of smoke.

Your lungs ache. An ache that scrabbles up from your chest and curls around the back of your throat.

There's no sign of the ghostly stag.

The darkness cocoons you.

Jagged tree branches resemble skeletal arms and hands. You wrap your arms around yourself, attempt to suppress a shudder. You envisage your sword back at Jorrvaskr, propped up against what was once Kodlak's but now yours bed.

What idiot forgets their weapon?

You rest a hand next to the spot where the sword would hang, and crave its reassuring weight.

There's a branch beneath a bush close to where you stand. It's the right size for an ideal weapon. You pick it up, and swing it, hoping to assure yourself with the noise it makes as it swings through the air.

What made you forget your weapon?

You push a hand past the side of your face and through your hair. There's beads of cold sweat on your skin, and you try to control the tremors in your hand.

The wolf. The wolf made you forget.

These past two weeks all you have thought about is the wolf. And you've become daring, reckless.

When you first took Hircine's blood from The Circle, it never affected you like this. You saw it only as a boon, something to be used to help turn the tide of a fight in your favour. Now? Now, you think about it all the time.

You've managed to resist it. Until now.

Once, you shared Kodlak's ambition to free the Circle from Hircine's contract.

Once?

When did that change?

Two weeks ago.

You place your hand over the scar. The wound you got, two weeks ago.

A sound comes from behind you. Bushes being parted. Someone walking. No, not walking. Their footfalls are heavey, lopsided. Someone stumbles towards you.

You whirl round, branch raised.

Engar stares at you with empty eye sockets.

Jumbled thoughts tumble through your head. You try to make sense of the figure who stands in front of you.

You stare back.

Engar is dead.

Engar extends an arm towards you. Skin hangs from the parts of his body that isn't covered by clothes encrusted with dirt. A skein of veins protrude from the gash at his neck.

You watched this man die. Saw the blade from the Falmer's dagger rip into Engar's throat.

In the blackness at the back of your mind, the floor is splattered with Engar's blood. The blood glistens in the dark. A permanent reminder of your failure.

Engar's fingers clutch at the air. His fingertips are bone.

'You failed me.' His voice rattles like leaves in the wind. 'I am dead because of you. My family will starve. The farm will be raided. No one will protect them. They cannot survive without me. They will die.'

Engar melts into the night, until all that remains is his voice. 'You are Harbinger? The Divine's help The Companions, for you cannot.'

A coldness settles in the pit of your stomach. Your makeshift weapon slips out of your fingers and collides with the ground.

The coldness spreads from your stomach and clambers up your spine. It sucks on the marrow in your bones until you feel numb.

You should go back to Jorrvaskr.

Your arms shake.

You should tell The Circle about the scar. About Hircine.

You should...

You should have saved Engar.

You feel the colour drain from your face.

The world feels as if it has been swept from beneath you. The sky is the floor. The ground is the sky.

You stagger forwards, choke on saliva, cough and tighten your hands into fists.

You don't want this responsibility.

You don't want this guilt.

Kodlak should never have picked you. Should never have even presumed that you'd want to become Harbinger. You have enough to worry about.

He substituted your problems, your worries, with his own. He drowned himself in his own turmoil. He was self-interested, self-seeking. He used you to fulfil his own goals, and when he could not do that he left you with the burden of them.

You feel hands upon your shoulders, fingers that run up the curve of your spine and touch the skin on the back of your neck.

The fingers are callous and rough and warm and comforting.

Someone helps you stand, pulls you backwards towards them. The skin on your arms prickles against naked flesh.

'You need the wolf inside you.' A whispered voice next to your ear. You feel their warm breath on the skin of your neck. 'It makes you stronger.'

Your nostrils fill with the smell of undergrowth and dirt, and beneath that, the smell of sweat and stale blood. It doesn't repulse you. Instead you breathe in deep.

'A predator such as you, need not be afraid.'

The chill seeps out of your bones. From their touch you feel warmth like heat from a camp fire.

Yes. You no longer want to be afraid.

You've wanted this. Haven't you? You clung to Vilkas' words when he said that Engar's death wasn't your fault.

It's okay. You can admit it. You want comfort.

Your muscles tense.

But you're Harbinger. You can't appear fragile.

Since entering Skyrim you've been shunned and pushed. Nearly executed with no apology, and people only acknowledge you when they want something.

No one said 'it's okay. You're okay. It'll be alright' though you yearned them to.

Then they heard you were Dovahkiin. Now everyone wants your attention.

You feel the chest of the one standing behind you, rise and fall, and your breathing automatically falls in synch with theirs.

You think about Vilkas.

In the beginning Vilkas hadn't any time to spare you. Then he'd softened, like ice melting in the First Seed sun. What had changed? Why was he bothered all of a sudden? Why had he wrapped a cloak around you upon exiting Ysgramor's Tomb? Why had he remarked upon your Amulet of Mara after you had defeated the dragon? He'd confessed that he'd doubted whether you'd been Dovahkiin, but all doubt had been erased when he'd seen the Thu'um for himself.

The figure behind you snakes a hand around your waist. 'It is because you are Harbinger. It is because you are Dragonborn.'

Your stomach curls in on itself. You look at the floor.

This is what you'd suspected.

Did Vilkas see you as an opportunity? Someone with power that he could use?

Fingers comb through your hair, strands twisted around a finger.

'The Hunt needs a leader. Who better than one born of a dragon?'

The Companions need a leader.

It's not you.

Fingers run down the side of your face, stroke your jawbone and tilt your head upwards.

Hands frame either side of your head, make you look at what's in front of you.

There's a stag not far from where you stand. Its head is bent and as it nibbles on a tuft of grass. It isn't the one you chased into the forest.

A growl builds at the back of your throat.

'Strike down the stag. Feast upon it, drink its blood. For me.'

The warmth that enveloped you disperses, and the cold, early morning air rushes in to fill the gap.

Shuddering, you tug at the sleeves of your ill-fitting tunic. You pull it off over your head.

You don't care.

The burden of Skyrim, The Companions - their problems - are lifted from your shoulders as you surrender your mortal form. Your emotions fall to the floor with your clothes.

Your bones snap and crack. You stagger forwards, fall onto your hands and knees.

As your throat adjusts to your transformation, a strangled howl breaks free from your throat.

The stag snaps its head up, its eyes wide. For a second it is frozen in time, and then it breaks free of paralysis and darts off in the opposite direction.

You howl again, and your howl is met with a reply.

As you surge forwards to begin the hunt you are joined by another wolf. He is bigger than you. Much bigger.

Both of you hunt the stag, pursuing it and partaking in a dance older than Nirn itself. When the stag is overcome with fatigue the bigger wolf allows you to make the first move.

You go for the throat. Feel the warmth of life and the dull tang of blood fill your mouth. Sever tendons and muscle with your teeth.

You feast.

Afterwards, you lie next to what remains of the carcass. The other wolf sits, towering over you. It dips its head and licks the patch of fur where the scar would be on your mortal arm.

You fall asleep, stomach full of food and empty of grief.

And you dream of a moon. And it is blood red.