Next Deadline: October 19

I edited the last chapter a bit. Just got rid of a few unnecessary paragraphs.

Also, I'm a horrible person.

The world was a blur outside the security of his eyelids, a mass of mangled shapes and dazzling red, black dots swimming in his vision. He groaned, curling up in on himself and burying his head into skinny arms.

It hurt.

A deep headache was pounding against his skull, his right ankle throbbing. The Breton's ears buzzed, and when he opened his eyes again, there was only darkness.

He panicked, opening his mouth to shout before realizing he was still facing the floor. Not having enough energy to feel embarrassed, he lifted his head, pushing himself up into a sitting position with a lot less difficulty than he thought it would take.

The hero squinted through his blurry vision, waiting until it cleared. An unfamiliar face was staring at him with kind eyes, dark hair ruffled on his head.

"Uh," he started, voice surprisingly strong. His small fingers toyed with the loose strings of fabric from his torn greaves, glancing at his removed cuirass a little ways behind the other man. They appeared to be back in the Bowels, hiding in the entryway. The cave was lit by the glow of lava underneath the floors, light escaping through small holes in the ground along with the smell of smoke.

That seemed to be all he could make out. Brown irises framed by long ruffled eyelashes swiveled to the door, as if contemplating escaping, but he probably wouldn't get very far. Sighing, he looked back at the man dressed in blood-rusted steel armor, question lifting off his tongue.

"Where's Farwil?" That earned him a raised eyebrow, but he didn't care.

"Outside," the man answered, and he opened his mouth to say more but the Breton wasn't listening. He heaved himself up on both feet, using the cave walls for support. The rich taste in his mouth let him know that he had been fed several potions while unconscious, and he didn't know how he could tell but his Magicka felt strangely replenished. Chalking it up as a pro, he limped over to his armor behind the other man, finding his katana and daedric greatsword glimmering next to the cuirass.

The Breton slid the cuirass on, fingers pulling all the straps together as Baurus had taught him. It felt heavy, but the weight was almost reassuring, and the feeling of his blade in his hands was even better. He strapped the greatsword to his back, but he didn't see his katana's sheathe or his bag anywhere, pushing the wave of grief down in his gut as he headed outside.

"Wait!" The man warned, striding over from where he had been watching. He stopped, wincing as his leg burned, but listened nonetheless. "It's dangerous out there."

The Breton didn't know whether to snort or to scream, so he decided on neither and continued to the door. His foot caught on a rock on the way, whole body stumbling and falling over, but a pair of arms managed to grab him around the waist and pull him back up.

He leaned against the wall, looking up at the other, distinctly wondering if he had brought his helmet. His memory couldn't go much far back so he didn't push it, breathing heavily.

"Thanks," the Breton mumbled, feeling like an idiot. The man nodded, still looking much too nice.

"You should rest a little longer," he advised. "When you found us, you looked like you had taken quite a beating."

He thought about that. He had been fine until getting to the mines, in truth. In the few other gates he had closed, those were new. "You are a Knight of the Thorn?" He decided to ask.

"The only other surviving one," the man answered. "Bremman Senyan, but that hardly matters." He straightened up, steadying himself, trying to reclaim some semblance of balance.

"Of course it matters," he promised. "We're going to get out." Bremman gave him a disbelieving glance.

"All the others are dead," he told him, as if the shorter hadn't seen the trail of corpses. "If you had been our only back-up, that isn't going so well, seeing as how you're injured. We don't need anyone less than the hero of Kvatch to come to our aid."

The Breton held back a laugh at that, going to the door. Bremman shouted another warning at him but he didn't listen, looking at the boulder that blocked their path. He grazed his fingers along the ruins and it yielded, sinking into the dirt. It only rose back up as Bremman came out after him, sealing off the cave once more.

The skies above were just as bright as ever, boiling with fire, but something told him that he hadn't been unconscious for long. Farwil had his back turned to them, only turning around when his ally called. The Dunmer considered them with glimmering eyes that looked like shining rubies from the small distance, beautiful against dark blue skin and light purple lips, and he started to realize why exactly Bremman had come all this way into Oblivion.

"Finally, you're up!" He exclaimed, whiny voice cutting through the entire Deadlands, and the hero narrowed his eyes. "You're lucky that I've been guarding this whole time, or you probably would have been killed a long time ago."

The Breton was already tempted to leave them to die, but there was some truth to Farwil's words. He limped over to cross the space between them but the Count's son got there first, looking down at him with an unimpressed and snotty expression, and a small voice in his head wished that he wasn't the shortest person there. It was almost intimidating.

"Thank you for helping me," he replied, as honest as possible. "But we need to get out, and now."

"You think I don't already know that?" Farwil answered, and yes, he probably did, but he shrugged the realization off either way.

"Now," he began. "It looks like we're going to have to cross that bridge." He pointed across to the structure that lead to the tower a good ways away, already feeling sick at the concept. "I can lead us through the-"

Farwil cut him off swiftly. "You?" He questioned. "No offense, but you don't exactly look the part." He started to say something else but was swiftly ignored. "No, I will lead us out of this wretched place," he declared.

The Breton walked over, possibly to slap Farwil, but the spike of pain that shot up his leg caused him to stumble. Bremman caught him once again, holding him tight against an armored chest, being wary of his smaller form.

The Breton looked up from where he was held to see Farwil glowering at the two with a mixture of rage and jealousy. "Bremman!" He hissed, and the other man stiffened, eyes suddenly looking apologetic. The hero didn't know what was going on, probably something to do with feelings, which he definitely wasn't in the mood to hear. Farwil turned on his heel and started to the other side of the bridge, and it seemed like he didn't have to after all.

The taller knight left his side in an instant, and the Breton huffed, limping furiously towards them. Fortunately enough they were going at a slow enough pace for him to keep up, but somehow he managed to see the Dremora that came out of the shadows before they did.

He screamed out, aiming his hand at the distant form, and a ball of fire spring from his fingers and hit it in the chest. He didn't have the time to appreciate his shot as he fell, screeching. The Breton made to stand up but found his couldn't, and instead began crawling towards the two.

They were both busy with another Dremora, this one looking even nastier. He saw as the one he had just hit got to its feet, running towards the three. The Breton writhed on the ground, desperately trying to rise, but his leg was uncooperative as it burned and his ankle had been twisted in an impossibly weird and painful-looking way. He almost vomited, forcing himself to look up at the scene.

The Dremora had reached the others, apparently deciding that the Breton wasn't worth the kill. It prepared to attack and he stretched out his hands, trying to imagine coldness at its purest form, closing his eyes with concentration. He recalled the snowy hills of Bruma and the winds at Cloud Ruler Temple, and a murky image of Martin with snowflakes falling in his long hair drifted into his mind before the storm poured out of his hands.

It was a great show of ice and wind, a hurricane of pure Magicka. It swarmed towards the group, sucking up the heat of Oblivion as it went. He stared at the whirlwind, feeling shocked at the creation, feeling drained, feeling proud.

He didn't notice his mistake until it reached the group, lashing out at the Dremora and freezing their forms. They were flung back with the force of the winds, crashing down on the ground and, he hoped, being killed with the impact. However, the two knights were not spared, and his yells were drowned out by their screams.

He strangled towards the wreckage, unable to go quick enough. Bremman had been launched over the side of the bridge, flung into the lava below, but Farwil's body was still on the structure. His skin was covered in frost, but he had been the least damaged of the group, a mere icicle impaling his shoulder. It shimmered out of existence, much like the storm, and the telltale rise and fall of his chest told the Breton he was still breathing, although he didn't stir at his insistent shaking.

He let out a choked sob, pulling Farwil up. His fingers quivered as they unbound his armor, taking off the extra weight but leaving the Dunmer's body exposed. The Breton pulled Farwil's arms around his neck, trying once more to stand, but he knew that if there was a time that he would be able to rise it wouldn't be now.

He allowed the tears to fall freely down his cheeks, strands of sweat-coated brown hair getting into his eyes. The hero pulled the body with him as he crawled, being reminded faintly of Burd when they had closed that gate in Bruma, how he had dragged them both back to Tamriel. This time, it was infinitely more times harder, and he hadn't thought he would feel pain this extreme in a long time.

It was a whole eternity until the got to the tower, door stretched high above his form, foreign language twisting into words his mind could decipher and revealing the tower's name. It fell away at his touch unlike the cave door far back, tumbling down in a mass of stone. The Breton reached for the forgotten greatsword at his back, hissing when it burned his skin, and as he instead turned for his katana he prayed that someday the weapon would stop hurting in its owner. He inwardly cursed when he realized that he wasn't holding his katana anymore, lost somewhere in the struggle to get here, and Jauffre's no doubt comical reaction was almost enough to make him stop crying.

Almost.

He waited for the enemies to come out, only met with a couple clannfear. The Breton breathed a sigh of relief as he burned them with a wave of fire, hands reaching out to the pedestals near the entrance. Waves of blue light glimmered from their depths, coils of that same substance wrapping around his arms and sinking into skin. He felt his Magicks come back to him gradually, and it was enough to keep him going.

The Breton kept his view away from the beam of fire in the center of the Chaos Stronghold, dragging Farwil to one of the surrounding halls. The Dunmer's skin was still cold to the touch but at least he continued to breathe, and that was all he needed right now. The Breton watched as the door to the Rending Halls split in half, gooey substance trailing across the entrance. He shivered, pulling Farwil along through the opening.

His sobbing increased as they reached the ramp, to the point where he was fairly disgusted with himself. His face felt sticky and wet with snot and tears, headache having come back at full force. As he slowly clambered up he thought of Martin, wanting nothing more at the moment than to go back to his friend.

There was only one Dremora there, and he managed to keep it away with a few sparks of electricity. He was sure to keep away from Farwil as he used his Magicks, guilt piling up in his chest. He reached behind once more, relieved when the weapon at his back proved to be cool to the touch, and he managed to put himself in a sitting position. It wasn't too difficult to kill the slowly waking Dremoa from there, plunging the weapon through its head, and he was nearly proud at the fact that he had made it this far crawling.

Maybe he was getting better.

He let the greatsword clatter to the ground, making his way to the fountain in the corner. Upon reaching it, he realized that it wasn't another Magicka pool. The substance inside was thick crimson, coppery smell wafting off the blood, and he choked on another wave of tears.

The Breton couldn't help the bile as it came from his mouth, fingers weakly grasping the edge of the fountain as he vomited. His mouth tasted sour when he was finally done, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the structure with eyes shut close as to not glimpse at the liquid inside.

He finally looked at the runes carved at the sides, realizing as they formed that they were instructions. He looked at the blood inside again, sucking in a breath as his fingers brushed the contents. They came back up bathed in red, and it was strange to see the cold blood that wasn't his in the dimly lit room, where it looked almost black.

He brought his fingers to his lips, shuddering as his tongue took up the substance. It wasn't human blood, that was for sure, tasting surprisingly sweet. He shivered, coming forward and putting both hands into the fountain's contents, shaping his palms so they fashioned as cups. He brought handfuls of the blood to his lips, swallowing it down until there was nothing left, and when he was finished he looked down.

Sure enough, his leg had numbed over in the process, no longer bent and twisted. The skin was still raw and sore but he could stand, migraine reduced to a slight fever. He trembled as he walked unevenly to Farwil and attempted to hoist the male over his back. He still lacked the physical strength, however, and ended up simply slinging both of the Dunmer's arms over his shoulders and fastening his hands around his neck. It almost felt like he was choking himself, back hunched over with the awkward position, and he struggled to keep Farwil's arms around him as he held his greatsword in the opposite hand.

He went through the doors and back out to the Chaos Stronghold, feeling a lot more rejuvenated. The hope crawling up his heart was enough to push down the tears for now, and he gradually made his way to the next hall. There were mostly Flame Atronachs and the occasional scamp along the way up, and he started to get used to the dull throb in his ankle as he continued onward.

The Breton eventually made it to the top of the tower, body screaming with exhaustion. He was ready for the Dremora as it came after him, letting Farwil to the floor as he braced himself with his greatsword. The enemy's mace never graced his skin, pounding against his cuirass a few times, but his fingers reached for the daedra's chest and electrified it on the spot before it could do much more. The hero watched as the beast crumbled to the ground, sheathing his weapon and tearing the key that hung on a string on its neck off with a swift flick of the wrist. He slid the key between his teeth for safe-keeping, heading to Farwil and kneeling down.

He slid his arms under Farwil's legs and back, bringing them both back up slowly. The mer still didn't stir in the slightest, and the hero waited until he could properly hold the younger up. He strode to the door, not wanting to waste his strength, and managed to pick the key from his teeth and push it through the thin slot without letting the Count's son fall.

The Breton walked up the ramps made of human flesh to the entrance of the Sigilum Sanguis, readying himself before he broke off into a dash. He was slower than he wanted to be but apparently quick enough, narrowly avoiding the cluster of clannfear at the lower level. His lungs burned as he continued upwards, Farwil's head bobbing against his chest. There were at least two Dremora that he could see at the top, but he swiveled past them and continued into the Sigil stone. He finally let the Dunmer drop, snatching the stone away from its pedestal.

He turned, intention to get to Farwil, but froze in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. One of the Dremora had caught up, and he could only watch as the monster's mace pounded into Farwil's unarmored chest. An inhuman screech spilled from his lips, heart lurching out of his throat, eyes wide and full of disbelief. The fire caught up to them, burning the world around, but he hardly noticed as the mer he had promised to save was left behind.

I will be responding to any reviews in my A/N, so if you have any questions, make sure to leave a comment on your way out. Thank you to the people who have already reviewed! :3

News on my Bio as usual, and hope you enjoyed.