Next Deadline: November 9 2014

Sorry, I'll admit I'm pushing the deadline a bit here. Either way, here's the chapter! Hope you like. :)

Branches crunched under his feet, turning into paved stones as he made his was along. It was as dark as the bottom of the sea, the twin moons unable to peek through the heavy clouds, but the gem in his hands lit his path brilliantly.

The hero pressed on well past Bruma, following the trail upwards. His bones ached, a heavy energy potion he had found on his escape being the only thing keeping him moving. He had rushed out of the Ayleid ruin before the stirring undead could catch him, running back all the way he had came from and not stopping since. He wasn't that quick by far but back there it didn't seem to matter, pure adrenaline and alchemy stretching the limits of possibility.

He missed his bag with all his healing potions, and it was getting hard to tell whether the substance dripping down his cheeks was blood or tears. He hadn't been able to use his Magicks, probably by fault of a damned disease, and his horse had left him some time ago while he had been retrieving the Welkynd stone. It had been midday by the time he had taken off and now it was the dead of night, and he had just run out of the energy potion a few hundred paces behind.

He skidded to a stop, stumbling down the roads and collapsing on the ground. His chest burned, but he hadn't been able to safely take a break after coming into contact with an Oblivion gate out in the wilds. He only hurt as long as he continued to exist, and he supposed that was understandable, seeing as he was missing a portion of his face.

Was it possible for one to live without their cheek? The bleeding had been horrible, sure, and he hadn't been able to stop it without screaming out in agony. He literally was missing that part of flesh, and if he dared to, his fingers could find a tiny exposure of bone.

He wasn't big on restoration, but he knew he needed to get to the Temple, and fast. Against better judgement he heaved himself up, dragging himself along the last few feet and up the mountain.

Cloud Ruler Temple was just was glorious as ever but he didn't have time to stop and acknowledge its beauty, instead knocking hard on the gates. The Welkynd stone glowed brightly in his fingers, and he could see the silhouette of the top of the Temple where he knew the other guards watched the areas around.

He didn't dare to speak just yet, waiting for the others. Sure enough, the gates came open slowly, and he couldn't tell which two Blades were behind them. They tried to talk to him but he didn't give them time, hurrying madly to the great hall.

The hero swung open the door to Cloud Ruler, blinking hard at the sudden light. It was warm and comforting in the main room, if not slightly quiet, only two voices making themselves heard in the large space. The conversation came to an end, both pairs of eyes finding him, both belonging to faces that contorted in horror as they took him in.

The Breton paid no mind, stumbling up to the two. Jauffre and Martin met him halfway, and he shoved the stone into the Blademaster's hands, aiming for a smile and instead wincing at the pain.

"By the Nine!" Martin exclaimed, Jauffre too shocked to do much more than hold onto the stone. He held up his hands, trying to convey his well-being, but it probably didn't work as well as he hoped.

"'M fine," he pushed out of chapped lips, breathing hard through his nose. "I jus' need 'elp."

Martin seemed to understand, grabbing his hand. The Breton looked back as he was lead away, but Jauffre was already moving on with their plan.

He struggled to keep up with Martin as they strode out of the main hall, pushing past guards and into the West Wing. The hero tripped, nearly falling, but his friend simply hoisted him up and pressed on.

They entered Martin's room, pristine and polished, and the taller pushed him down into the large bed. The former priest turned away to rummage through his drawers, the Breton watching curiously.

"What're 'ou doin'?" He asked. Martin shot him a look, no doubt about to tell him to shut it, but he was already grunting in pain. The older sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly with one hand while his other held a single bottle.

Martin kneeled in front of him, and the bed was set low enough that they were almost on the same level. His reached a tentative hand out to the hero's cheek, drawing back when the brunet winced.

"Just keep still, alright?" Bright blue irises glimmered, being met by wavering brown. He nodded.

Martin set the bottle down next to him, pulling out a small piece of cloth and wetting it with the glass of water on his bedside desk. He cupped a hand underneath the hero's chin, giving his shorter friend a reassuring smile. Softly, he began to clean the dirt off of the Breton's face, similar to the times Martin had healed nasty wounds when the other had come back from Oblivion gates. This time, the damage was deeper, and he had to be extra careful.

Martin rubbed the dust off pale skin, scrubbing until he could see the faint freckles imprinted on his features. His flesh was bright red when the heir was done, leaving only the space around the wound left. The Breton, who had been obediently quiet so far, furrowed his eyebrows and tried not to frown.

Martin slowly moved the rag to the skin surrounding the wound, being as gentle as possible. He got to the very edges of the damage, examining the dip in his friend's cheek. It was deep, imprints running inside the wound that made it look like something had bit off the flesh, and it took some effort not to gag.

"Neck," the shorter mumbled, eyes flashing apologetically. Martin nodded, pulling down the Blade chest plate slightly to examine the said part of his body. The tight leather underneath was ripped, another bite obscured by dried blood. His fingers moved to undo the straps on the cuirass, pulling off the piece of armor and setting it on the bed beside the Breton.

He looked so small with the large armor, all frail limbs and tiny stature, chest covered by a thin second layer of leather apparel. His skin had a sickly green tinge to it, suggesting an infection, and Martin realized that he looked just the same as the day they met. It was strange to think back at the day Kvatch burned and remember it in stunning detail, how the Breton had nearly fallen into his arms after coming to save him, coming to save them all.

He cleared off as much grime and blood as he could near his friend's neck, putting the now filthy rag aside and grabbing the bottle. Martin uncorked it, letting the sweet smell of the potion waft into the air. He pooled some of the substance in his palm, and when he looked up, he saw that the shorter was watching every movement.

"It's going to hurt," Martin admitted. "And your cheek will have to heal over time. Don't move." He went forward, pressing his palm to the Breton's face, letting the liquid sink into the flesh. His patient gasped, shutting his eyes tight in pain, and his hands reached out blindly. They found Martin's other arm, holding tightly onto the appendage, and the heir let him.

He removed his hand quickly to grab the set of bandages that had been shoved in one of the drawers, the Breton releasing his grip. Martin quickly tore off a piece of the bandage, dabbing his index finger in a small pot of tree sap beside his glass of water and slathering it onto the area around the bite. He used that to help seal the cloth over the wound, only moving to his neck when the heir was sure it wouldn't come off.

The other wound wasn't nearly as menacing when the blood was cleared up, simply a deep bite that was already scaring over. He rubbed some of the potion into the scratch, watching as it began to fade out.

Martin grinned at his friend, who returned the smile haphazardly and with only minor wincing. He was only slightly worried about the Breton's cheek, unable to stitch it together with how far the bite went and how little skin was left. It was better to wait for the substance to fully heal the wound instead, and he suspected he would only have to reapply the potion once again.

He put away the bandages and the empty bottle, taking a seat near his friend. Martin grabbed the abandoned chest plate, cleaning the used rag and using it to scrub away the dried crimson on the delicate metal designs. The Blades had beautiful armor, truly, and it was only right for him to keep it as neat as he could.

His friend sat across from him, legs crossed and expression thoughtful. His new greaves, replaced long ago since the Cheydinhal gate, now sported the occasional tear. Every so often he would reach a finger to the side of his face, almost touching the bandage before jerking his hand back, and Martin scowled as he cleaned.

"It'll be fine," he promised, and the brunet focused on him. "Just wait a few days or so."

"As 'ou say, Septim," he replied. It probably wasn't the best idea to talk, but his strangled words sprung a memory inside Martin's head.

"What do you think about Akatosh?" The hero blinked, surprised at the question.

"Uh," he shrugged, words slow and precise as to cause the least pain possible. "He's one of teh Nine, 'ight?"

Martin hummed in affirmation. "What about the name?"

"The 'ame?" He repeated. "What 'bout it?"

He scraped off another spot of crimson, looking at the patterns embedded in the metal. "Before Miscarcand," he reminded. "I have been trying to find a decent name for you for a while now, my friend. It seems nice."

He tilted his head. "Akatosh?" Martin met his eyes, studying the confusion buried in warm irises. He set down the rag, reaching out a hand, and his finger brushed against the shorter's forehead. Wisps of Magicka came out, encircling his small form, healing the diseases he picked up from the Ayleid ruins. He took his hand back when it was done, rerunning to the armor.

"Yes, you," Martin answered. "Why not? I think it's fitting."

"Fitting?" He quirked an eyebrow, cheeks still surprisingly red from the cleaning before. "In'it blasphemous?" He struggled with the word slightly, pronouncing each letter slowly, but Martin understood just fine.

"I don't see why it should be," he said. "Akatosh has been a name I have prayed to for years. It has brought me hope, consolation, after the sinful deeds I had done under Sanguine's will." He stared long and hard into the Breton's eyes. "The god has saved my life in more ways I can count. And now you, you have done just the same."

"Mar'in-"

"No." He held up a hand. "If you don't like the name, that's fine. But you have saved me. And I won't forget that." The Breton have a small nod, looking down at his hands, and Martin continued his work.

It was a while until he finally spoke up again. "So, uh," he faltered, considering. "'M like, teh 'ortal Akatosh?"

Martin chuckled. "I suppose so," he agreed. "The mortal Akatosh."