Spottedfyre: Thank you for your kind reviews! I'm very relieved that I'm portraying his vampirism well enough. It's a very important key element for the plot of this story, so I am trying to get it right. And it's fun writing both Melisande and Tar-Meena, honestly. They both are rather minor quest characters, and I took some creative freedom in writing Melisande. It's wonderful to write insane people, I've found out. Tar-Meena, though...

All he felt was burning, and he screamed.

The scream tore itself out of his mouth, clawing up his throat and pushing past his lips. It could be heard for miles, washing over the forest, rustling trees as the creatures hidden in the woods stirred at his screech. The scream was followed by another, and then another, and he drew back, clenching his arm to his chest and trying to calm himself to prevent another wail.

Akatosh stared down at himself, stared down at his small, weak, crumbling form, down at the ragged clothes he wore, at the wool cloak covering him, at his hands, at his arm, his skin, oozing… He looked down at what he was with sadness trapped behind his eyes, hot tears running down his cold, cold cheeks, and whether they were from pain or from misery, he didn't know.

He waited until the forest around him had quieted down, watching as his burned and melted skin slowly patched itself together. It was a disgusting sight to him, making uncontrollable shudders race down his spine, and finally, he covered up his arm with the sleeve of his cloak once more. It felt raw against the rough cloth, and all he could manage was the softest sound of despair, raising his sleeve to his face to brush away the tears.

Akatosh tried this again, kneeling down in the withered grass. In front of him lay the crumbled remnants of an Oblivion Gate, long since closed, broken Daedric metal rising in jagged pillars buried deep into the ground and a soft orange glow coming from the base of the empty portal. Smoke rose off of the ruins, making a great ashy column that snaked far up into the sky, and he had been able to see it plainly from far out into the countryside. All around the Gate, tall blades of grass sprouted at his feet, colored in the dark shade of crimson.

This time, he made sure his sleeve didn't slip down his arm like it had, tucking it down past his wrist. His stitched brown gloves covered his hands, two times the size of each finger and barely managing to cling to his skin as it was, but it grasped the bloodgrass and tugged. The plant was uprooted, and he held it in his trembling fingers, watching as blood rubbed off of the weed that oozed it and stained the rough material covering his palm. Akatosh's pupils dilated, focusing on the soft red substance, watching it trickle down his hand, drip to the ground, and he shuddered again.

Akatosh raised the blade of grass to his lips, and he shakily wrapped his mouth around its form, trying to suck away the liquid dripping off of it. The blood was cold, and against his tongue, tasted revolting, as burning as the sunlight to his skin had been moments before. It wasn't human blood, nor was it animal's, and he winced and drew back, another pitiful sound escaping him.

Akatosh stayed there, kneeled on the ground, unable to move, to find the will to want to. Tears built up behind the surface of his eyes once more. Instead of shedding them, he tucked the bloodgrass into his cloak, getting to his feet thereafter.

Immediately, his legs gave out underneath him, and he had to quickly grasp at one of the jagged edges stretching out from the pillars of Daedric metal to keep himself up. His knees shook and trembled, hands just as shaky, weakly clinging to support. He counted the seconds it took him to find his strength, and then he counted the minutes. Finally, Akatosh let go of his support, and clung to himself instead.

He felt as light as a feather, and just as weak. Akatosh's bones may as well have been built brittle, and he felt as if they threatened to crumble with each moment, each movement. His skin was dry, and it felt papery, even to himself, only gaining texture when it hit a single ray of light, texture akin to melted candlewax.

Akatosh let out a scream, a loud, horrendous scream, louder than the one he had gave before, longer. He let it stretch into the silence and shatter it, let it travel over the woodlands and the mountains and raise into the sky. Akatosh screamed, and he screamed until his voice gave out, screamed until he couldn't. When he was done, releasing his stress and torment as much as he could with the deafening wail, he felt some semblance of better.

Knock, knock, knock , went the door, with his knuckles against its surface.

"Argh!" Went the woman, behind that door, her voice a screech. Akatosh winced, and waited.

The door flew open, then, sending a gush of air against Akatosh's cloaked features. His wrist was grabbed in a tight, tight grip, and the Breton was hauled inside the cottage without another word.

The same door slammed behind him, like it always did, and he was dragged to a familiar couch and pushed down into it, all done before he could blink. He looked up, and the crazy, vibrant pair of green eyes greeting him was a disconcerting sight to say the least.

He spoke before she could. "I brought them," Akatosh said, knowing she knew what he would mean, and she did, like always, nodding and clicking her tongue. Her long strands of hair were messily pinned into a bun, a silken dress on her form. She was nothing like the old woman she had been when they first met, but he had only seen her twice before, so it wasn't too jarring in the slightest.

Without talking, she got up again, dancing and humming a beautiful tune that sounded wretched in her high pitched tones. A few moments, and then she came back, holding a stone mug filled with steaming water and topped with a handful of tea leaves. It gave off a disgusting scent, but she drank it down, put the mug back, and ambled right over, plopping down roughly next to him.

He scooted back. The silence sept in, the cottage smelling old and dusty, making him sneeze. Akatosh didn't say a word, however, waiting for her to speak. He knew that if he tried to, he would only be ignored.

"Well?" Her voice came suddenly, without a trace of warning, and he jumped. "Show me them, will you?" Akatosh nodded, pulling down the large, long hood of his cloak, reaching into the pockets inside of the garment. She had given it to him, knowing he would need it, and during the few weeks it had taken for him to get all the items she had asked of him, she had only proved correct.

As he rummaged, she spoke again. "Melisande."

Akatosh glanced up. "What?" Soft puzzlement layered his features, and she clicked her tongue again.

"My name," the witch said, soothingly, a smile taut on her lips. "Melisande, the witch. Glenmoril witch Melisande. Isn't it a great name? Beautiful? Fitting for such a face as this one?" She gestured to her pristine features. Truly, she was quite lovely, but he knew it to be the work of old witchcraft, and knew how she looked inside, how she would have looked out. He didn't reply, unnerved, and she tutted. "Oh, come off it, I wasn't going to ask your name, I know you won't tell. We're talking about me, and only that."

He nodded. "Good." With that, he pulled out a bag and two clumps of plants. The bag smelled of garlic so strong it pinched his nose, and the bloodgrass was there, blades tied together delicately by string. Nightshade, too, with purple petaled flowers and red stems, smelling of sweet poison, was bounded together by a thin rawhide rope, and Melisande observed the ingredients with care.

"Where'd you get the garlic?" She asked the words curiously, asked about the most ordinary thing of the bunch. Akatosh shrugged.

"From some shop in the Imperial City." He didn't know the name. Akatosh still couldn't read, and although he had asked for a shop that would sell alchemy ingredients and had been told the name to get there, his awful memory had buried it. She hummed again.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. The shopkeeper sold to you?" He glanced to her, unsurely.

"Yeah," Akatosh murmured, "Why wouldn't he? I have gold."

Melisande cackled. "Your face, idiot! It's pale as ever, and your eyes, that disgusting shade of red. You look starved and wretched, oh, but you're lucky to still maintain some youth to your features, aren't you. I'm sure it doesn't feel like that at all, with your poor crinkly, papery skin. It falls apart whenever I look at it. You haven't had a drop of blood, I can tell. Or am I wrong? I never am." Akatosh frowned to himself, merely turning away from her.

"I kept my hood over my face. No one saw what was underneath." She tilted her head, leaning in, eyes expectant. Finally, he relented. "No, I haven't had any blood."

The witch clapped her hands, almost joyously, excitedly. "And why is that? Oh, it's all fine and well if you're just too guilty to drink from a man, pretty thing you, but there's other ways of getting proper nourishment. Animal blood, have you tried?"

Akatosh shook his head. "No. I'm not fast enough to catch an animal."

Melisande raised a delicate, arching eyebrow, pouting her lips. "Well, I've got a solution for that! Just take a little stroll through the woods, that'll do it. Wolves and bears'll be all over you in a second. Oh, but I suppose you're badly weak, hm? You'd probably keel over at a glare. Let me try, let me see." She narrowed her eyes, then, into the most venomous glare she could muster, shooting daggers into his mind.

He stared back, and waited, and when Melisande stayed like this for too long, the Breton finally continued. "Please, I just want the potion." She wagged a finger at him, reprimanding him for rushing her, and he felt annoyance crawl up his throat and make him have to bite back his tongue to keep the snide comments in.

Finally, she spoke again. "So, the cloak?" Akatosh nodded, silent. He was grateful for the gift, but would be more grateful if she hurried things up. "How did you get away with that? Aren't you their precious Champion?" He seemed shocked, and she rolled her eyes with such violence that they disappeared into the back of her head for a moment. "Don't think I didn't know! I may live out in the woods, but I pay attention to current events! That, and some angry orange thing opened up right outside my window a few months ago, it was quite bothersome. Had to stay in the inn for a while, I did. All those people in Cheydinhal are absolutely mad about you, I have to say. Makes my toes tingle, you being so close." She paused, then. "Well, no, not really. I'm much prettier."

Akatosh crossed his own arms over his chest, growing more and more annoyed as this woman went on. "What's next? For the potion? Is this it? Do I need more?" She was about to scold him once again, he could tell, and his fists clenched tightly. "By the Divines, woman! Listen!"

Melisande's mouth gaped open like a fish's, before it closed, clamping shut. Her expression was indignant but her eyes were amused, and Akatosh felt like he was losing this little game between them, even when he had gotten her to do what he wanted. He felt regretful for raising his voice, and he despised himself for it, but didn't apologize. Not at all.

"Please." His voice was much more gentle as he calmed himself down. "I need to know what happens next."

The lady nodded, and she stood up, then, straightening out the skirt of her dress. Her four-fingered hand swiped at the items on the table and tucked them into her chest, an action he modestly looked away from, and then she was wandering off to the back of the cottage. It was uncomfortably quiet without her dreadful humming, and he let his mind wander until she returned.

"Here." She gestured for Akatosh to hold out his hands, and he did. In them, a simple, even slightly dull dagger was placed. It was silver. There was nothing extraordinary about this blade, and he didn't know what to do with it, looking up at her questionably. She went on. "With this, I need you to extract a man's blood."

His eyes widened. "What?"

Melisande gave out her cackle again. "I jest, I jest!" He felt slightly calmer but all the more confused, until, that was, she continued. "An Argonian's blood I need, not a man's. Close but not at all close, yes."

Akatosh frowned. "What?" She laughed, but at him, at his surprised and silly expression, and she took that moment to pinch his cheeks painfully. Akatosh had to make a conscious effort not to bite off her remaining fingers.

"The blood of an Argonian, silly boy. Have you lost your ears? No? Then LISTEN!" She shouted, her voice low and deep, bellowed inside the thin cottage. He jumped, then, and the knife clattered to the ground, but indeed, he did listen. Melisande stood there, red faced from the force it had taken the petite woman to shout with, and then she grinned brilliantly, bending down and picking up the dagger to set it back into his hands.

"Now, then," she went on, sitting down elegantly beside him. "The next ingredient for your potion requires their blood, the blood of one of them. You needn't kill them, 'course not. Just slice one open and get the precious juices inside. The knife is rich with an enchantment to absorb the blood you capture, and I may extract it from that little dagger later, so take care not to lose it. All I need is a drop."

Akatosh took this all in, registering it slowly. Finally did he nod. "Okay." The words were quiet. "Okay."

Melisande gave him yet another smile, just as brilliant as the last. "Well, then," the witch excitedly whispered, her tea-smelling breath hitting his face, "Go on your way."

His hands were dry and creased, and it hurt to even clench them. He counted each worn in line on each small finger, looked at the dirt kept hard-packed under his nails, looked at the soft calluses and the way they trembled. Akatosh had taken days of days and even longer, weeks, large chunks of time, just to be able to hold up and wield more than a shortsword in them. Only his Daedric blade had been light enough to hold and had brought him honor to use, but it had died in the hands of another.

He missed Eldamil.

Their time together had been short, he knew. But that whole realm, Mankar Camoran's Paradise- oh, how the memories burned in the back of his mind. Akatosh couldn't dare forget the beautiful world, shaped to pure perfection, and even as morbid as it truly had been, traveling it with that other elf had been an inspiring adventure. Akatosh, as he went against Camoran; Akatosh, as he gave out his speech, to protect Tamriel and all her people, her glory; Akatosh, swearing to always be their hero, to be Martin's hero-

"Akatosh?"

The Breton gritted his teeth at the name. He hated it, despised it, resented that title more than he thought he was capable of disliking anything at all. But when he spoke, he made sure it was calmly, not letting the words leave his mouth until the fleeting spike of anger he had felt had passed. "Thank you."

Tar-Meena, taking a seat beside him, seemed quizzical. "For what, my friend?"

"For coming." He ignored what she had called him, ignored everything else but his hands, still keeping his gaze right down at his palms. His hood was let down, and the moons were up, Masser trying to swallow Secunda as they chased each other in the slowest race across the night.

She nodded, then, understandably. "I wouldn't say no to the hero of Kvatch." Her smile was warm and her words were, too, but all he felt was cold.

Akatosh didn't say anything to that, simply pulling the silver dagger out from his robe. She didn't back away, she didn't move. Tar-Meena stared at the polished weapon, and it caught some falling moonlight and winked back at her. "I need your blood."

Finally, that elected some amount of surprise. He wasn't surprised himself, what with the way he had worded that proposal. "For what reason?" She wasn't denying, and he knew that even if he didn't say a single word to answer her with, she would willingly give him what he requested. Akatosh couldn't fathom how truly, truly kind this woman was, and by all the Nine, he wished a part of him didn't hate her for it.

He explained it to her, about how Melisande needed the drop of blood for his cure and how the knife would take it, with some bizarre enchantment or another. Tar-Meena listened carefully, and seemed even intrigued, but all the same, she nodded and smiled. The woman pulled back her sleeve, tucking it up behind her shoulder. Her scales were of beautiful hues, and glimmered in the soft lights of the stars above them. In the underside of her arm, he could see the rough skin, and she turned that side towards him for Akatosh to cut.

"Do be careful." They both knew the risk, and knew it well. But Akatosh, as hungry as he was for something so disgusting of him to crave, had faith he could control himself. Just a drop of blood was all he needed, and then he could be on his way and closer to getting rid of this curse.

Akatosh waited for his own hand to steady before he let the edge get close to her, and he pressed the soft, dull end against what passed as her skin. She was patient all this time, and the night quiet, and when he pressed harder with his fingers still wrapped around handle of the dagger, letting it dig deeper down, she didn't give out so much as a flinch.

Steadily, he trailed the knife down, letting it scrape along her arm. Akatosh didn't know if he had gone deep enough, couldn't tell, and when he lifted the blade, he could confirm that he hadn't, only managing to draw a pale line where he had meant to mark with red instead.

Tar-Meena didn't say a word, patient. Again, Akatosh lifted the blade, setting it down on her arm. He didn't try to drag the cut out along it, but merely attempted to prick at her skin. The end was too dull, and it did nothing.

"You don't need to be too careful," she reminded, and his hand clenched around the hilt of the silver dagger. "Don't worry, I can take it. Best to make sure you're not stranded out here after dawn." He shakily nodded, shakily breathed an empty sigh, but his hand wasn't shaky in the slightest as it came down again.

This time, he didn't hesitate, didn't hold back. The knife cut through her flesh, and immediately, it seemed to gleam, as if to tell him that was all the knife needed to absorb. Akatosh was about to draw back, moments from doing so, and then he froze.

That smell…

Akatosh's hand starting shaking hard at the scent that wafted into the air, one so incredibly alluring that he couldn't explain it, couldn't begin to put words to how attractive it was to his senses. It was a second, maybe two, before his shaky hand was cutting down, and a jagged line was sliced across the length of her arm, blood spilling out of the wound.

She drew back in astonishment, in pain, crying out as she clutched at her arm. For a moment, his mind flashed with fear. Fear of himself, fear of her, of her hating him. An apology started to stumble from his lips, to trickle out from his voice like her blood was to her skin, before the smell came once more, but stronger.

It was her. Of course it was her, it could have only been. Akatosh didn't feel surprised, not at the discovery, not at himself. He wanted to be closer to it. He wanted to do more than just smell it, he wanted to taste-

Tar-Meena was knocked down to the ground, where she let out another cry. He kept her pushed down, and he found strength, strength in the adrenaline pumping through him that he hadn't noticed until he found the ability to keep her pinned. His fangs were cutting holes in his lips, tearing at the skin, tearing up his eyes, and- and he didn't care! He didn't care anymore! Out of all people, Akatosh deserved to cry!

"I'm so sorry." Those tears were running down his cheeks, giving his cold skin warmth once more. "I'm so sorry, Tar-Meena, I'm so sorry." These were the words he was supposed to say after he got up from her, after he helped her up, after he gave her a healing potion of some sort, after all these things he didn't do at all. He repeated the apology, again and again, choking it through his tears, and they spilled out on her own cheeks as he looked down at her.

She was quiet, letting him cry, watching him with the most sorrowful eyes. He didn't understand it. "Why?" He asked this of her again, his hands going to her shoulders. "Why?" Akatosh shook her thin shoulders violently in his own tight hands, and another cry escaped her lips, but it was quieter, and her eyes closed. They both knew, stranded out in the back of the Arcane University and in the dead of night no less that only their ears would be the ones to hear her screams.

"I don't understand w-what you ask of me." Her voice was as shaky as his hands were, and he finally let go of her shoulders, trying to grab at her wrists again to hold them down. He latched onto her arms instead as she flailed them, and his hand was coated in warmth. Sticky, red warmth. He didn't know why he was doing this. Akatosh didn't question himself. He couldn't let go of her, he couldn't move away. More than anything he had ever wanted, he wanted this, and he was breaking, tearing at the seams at this realization.

He asked again, coughing out the words. "Why are you letting me cry? Why aren't you crying, Tar-Meena? Why aren't you crying?" His cries grew louder, and his voice was desperate, but when she looked up at him, it was with her own watery gaze, and he took in a breath that he couldn't keep, letting his voice get stuck in his throat and watered down by sobs.

"You deserve the tears." He was clenching harder to her arms, and the blood oozed out of the cuts painfully, covering his papery skin. "You deserve the tears more than anyone I have ever known."

"But not you?" Akatosh tugged at her arm, and tugged hard, hearing her screech, his ears swallowing the sound. Tar-Meena shook her head, her struggles growing weaker and weaker. She could kill him with her spells. She could try harder to escape. She could, she truly could, and he knew it, believed it, had faith that it was true. She could save herself, she could, but she just- she just wasn't trying to! This was her fault! It was all her fault!

"No." She said the word simply, softly, and she was calm. He wanted to tear the calm expression from her face. He wanted her to scream again. He didn't understand it, didn't understand his wants, didn't understand this. Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he just leave? Akatosh didn't want to do this, he knew he didn't want to. Why wasn't she trying harder?

His nails were digging into her skin, trying to tear at it, wanting to feel the heat of the liquids spilling out of her wounds on his corpse flesh. "Why not? T-tell me why not, tell me!"

He screamed the words, he sobbed them. Tar-Meena's eyes were closed again, and they were closed so he wouldn't see the pity in them, just the acceptance on her features. She knew that he wouldn't want to be pitied.

"Akatosh-"

He didn't hear her response, didn't listen. His vision was blinded with rage, anger white hot, crawling down his neck, his spine, ripping out screams from his lips. "Don't use that name! Don't use that name!"

His teeth went down, clinging to her arm. She spasmed, she cried, the barest trace of a spell starting to tingle around her fingertips. He was desperate, desperate the moment her blood reached his lips, the moment it crawled down his throat. It made him crave more, and Akatosh didn't want this to be taken away from him.

His hand went to her chest, and then it faltered, drawing back. He reached to the knife, blindly, still laying next to them both. Akatosh raised it and brought it down, but he faltered, stilling his hand moments before it reached her.

A spell of flames flew through her palm, firing at his form. It burned, as fire always did, but to him, it was dreadful, eating away at his clothes, at his skin, at everything he was. He screamed and screeched, spasming in pain, and the fire died in a moment, a louder scream swallowing his own.

Tar-Meena had stopped moving underneath him, and it took him a few moments to comprehend why. His hand had been brought down without his control, piercing her chest, lodged in her heart newly unbeating. Akatosh stared, stared down at her eyes, reflecting the sky in glossy orbs, and then down at her form, at the blood gushing from it, tainting the cloth of her robes.

Akatosh tore the dagger from her heart. A whole new wave of blood gushed from it, and all he could smell was the scent it gave. It coated his hands, his clothes, and his mouth, as he brought his head down to drink.

"Don't use that name..." His words trembled, shaking, hanging in the air above him, above Tar-Meena's corpse. "Don't use that name…" He repeated the words, as choked as they were, struggling to break from her blood, from his tears.

Don't use that name.