A/N: I'm back :D And I come bearing gifts: The first chapter to the sequel of "When Mourning Comes". Sorry it took so long, I had a lot on my plate. Well, that, and I'm a lazy bastard. But anyways, go, shoo, read the chapter, and let me know what you think. I hope it's worth the wait. Enjoy!

EDIT: Again, this is the SEQUEL to When Mourning Comes. I'd suggest you read that first.

CHAPTER 1

Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom. The thud of an enormous drum reverberates throughout my entire body. I can feel the vibrations, as they travel from the tips of my fingers, to the soles of my feet, and into the recesses of my mind. Boom. Boom boom. I look up; the cloudy sky, hovering above the flat plain, is blood red with the light of the setting sun. Boom. Boom boom. The grass beneath my feet is crushed and mangled, trampled flat by thousands of heavy footsteps. I look down at my hands, and notice the presence of two swords, one clasped in my left palm, and the other in my right. Boom. Boom boom. I stare blankly at the twin daedric blades, until I suddenly recognize them. As I should. I forged them myself. I clench the hilts tightly. Bahlok and Nax.

Boom. Boom boom.

And then, the chanting begins. It starts quietly, from somewhere far behind me, and I don't pay attention to it. But it grows, the guttural sounds spreading like wildfire, armored boots stomping in unison, voices echoing across the field. "Rah, ro, ha! Rah, ro, ha!" Over and over again. Boom. Boom boom. The chant grows louder and louder, and I turn around, eyes wide. Behind me, clad in red and brown armor, stands the entire Imperial legion. "Rah, ro, ha!" Boom. Boom boom. Tens of thousands of soldiers, all stomping, chanting, fury increasing with every second, arrayed behind me in a massive display of force.

Then, on the other side of the field, a line appears. And then another. And another. Boom. Boom boom. Thousands upon thousands of armored figures, their numbers growing every second, lining up against me like a tidal wave. "Rah, ro, ha!" They're too far away to make out clearly, but their battlecries are loud enough to be heard over the chanting, the constant chanting, of the legion. "Rah, ro, ha! Rah, ro, ha!" The vocalization and the stomping reaches a fevered pitch with every addition to the enemy's ranks, growing faster and faster, louder and louder, making my blood boil and my heart hammer in my chest. And then, with one final roar, a final drumbeat sounds with an echoing reverberation, signaling the end of the chorus. The battlefield is dead silent.

Why did they stop? I wonder, confused. I turn around to face the now silent soldiers. But they're gone. The field behind me is completely and eerily empty. The only sound is a sudden gust of wind, that blows my tresses back and stirs the short grass. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, as I turn back to the opposing behemoth. I gaze at the menacing body of soldiers in fear, as they now begin their own chanting. It's discordant; broken, unorganized, furious. And then, as the bloody light of the setting sun dims, turning into the color of red wine held up against a lantern, the army charges, coming at me like a black wave from Oblivion.

The sky flashes once, brightly, as the crimson sun disappears below the horizon. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid the blinding light, and just as I do, a bellowing roar rends my ears apart, splitting my skull with it's immense volume.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

My eyes snap open, and I sit up in bed, panting. With the motion, the thick covers slide off of my upper body, and the cold air hits my bare skin. The sheen of sweat covering my body grows cold almost instantly, and I shiver in the darkness. But, I welcome the cool, Skyrim air. I always have. It calms me. I shift slightly, and tiredly rub my eyes. Sighing, I place my hands on the bed, resting my weight on it. I gently knead the fabric of the sheet between two fingers, absentmindedly marveling at the movement. Then my consciousness catches up to the rest of my mind, and I squeeze my hand into a fist, crushing the fabric in my calloused palm. I look up, and glance out the window, to judge the time. The stars are still out. Can't be past three in the morning. I let out a tired breath of air, and rub my eyes again, resting my face in my hands. I feel myself become more and more aware as the seconds pass. This was a rather recent development; I used to laze around all day, taking naps when I could, laying in the shade of the Northland's majestic pines. But that had changed. Now, when I woke up, I truly awoke. It was almost instantaneous.

I bring my hands away from my eyes, studying them apathetically while my conscious mind dissects the dream that I'd just had. This particular recurring nightmare had started about a month ago, maybe a little more. This is the fourth time that I've had it. With each time, it has gotten longer, clearer, and even more vivid that any previous installments. My brow furrows, as I recall the sequential progression of the dreams. The original one had been nothing but the powerful drumbeat, and flashing images of a red sky. Gradually, the picture had become clearer. The newest element, the one from tonight, was the disappearance of the legion. Such a tiny change, with such far-reaching possibilities.

They're just dreams. I chide myself. But the sense of foreboding doesn't leave me. I comfort myself with the fact that each dream has, in fact, been different form it's predecessors. The picture could still change dramatically, for all I know.

A soft, yet firm voice cuts through the chilly air. "The future isn't set in stone, mate." Amaril says, appearing from within the shadows of a corner. I rest my hands on my knees, and turn my gaze to him. The elf hasn't worn his Brotherhood armor since I left the sanctuary almost two years ago, and tonight isn't an exception. Currently, he's wearing black leather pants, black boots, and a blue shirt that hugs his lithe frame. His long, light-brown hair hangs down to the middle of his back. It swishes slightly when he walks. A few stray strands always seem to resent being tucked away behind his ears, or into a ponytail, and so elect to fall across his face. A long, very slim sword in a silver sheathe hangs at his side. His "instrument", as he calls it. The description is usually accompanied by a lopsided, rather macabre smile on his part.

But the elf isn't smiling now. He paces through the room, and leans on the wall to my left, next to the window, golden eyes studying me all the while.

"Maybe not." I answer. "But what do the events matter, if they all lead to the same conclusion?" Every time, the dream had ended in the same way, with that thunderous call, that primeval summons of my kind. Dovahkiin…

Amaril doesn't answer, but he doesn't look away, either. His gaze remains fixed on me, silent, thoughtful.

I ignore him, and push the rest of the blankets off of my semi-clothed body. The air seems to grow even colder, and I'm relatively pleased at the feeling. I stretch vigorously, feeling my muscles flex and coil.

"Aren't you tired?" The elf asks, though he already knows the answer. We've been over this countless times in the past year and seven months.

"Why try to sleep, when I know that my efforts will be in vain?" I mutter. In truth, I am tired. Exhausted, in fact. But I won't be able to sleep, especially not after a nightmare. They used to be so rare, so far between. But…not anymore.

I get up, neglecting to put on a shirt. It's freezing. I consider crawling back into bed, but determine that I really couldn't care less about the chill. What doesn't kill you…Either way, I'll work up a sweat soon enough anyway. I pad across the floor of the small bedroom, out the door, and into the kitchen. I walk over to the cabinet to my left, and retrieve a stone cup. Underneath the cabinet is a counter, and underneath that is a tall, stone, cylinder-shaped bowl. It's about three feet deep, two feet across, and filled with clear water and a sizable chunk of ice. Basically, a small, above-ground well. It's usually enough to drink and cook with for about a week. I built it after I got sick of walking the fifteen miles down to the Solitude well every day. I prefer the quiet up here, on the mountain, to the oppressive crowds of the city. Amaril always finds that amusing, saying that I prefer solitude over Solitude.

I fill the cup I'd grabbed with the icy water, and begin drinking thirstily. The cold makes my jaw ache, just a little bit. I welcome the feeling, and down the rest of the liquid. I place the cup back into it's cabinet, and retrieve a chunk of bread from the one to it's left. I gnaw on it slowly, as I make my way out of the small cabin. I place my hand against the front door, the rough wood rubbing against my calloused palms. It squeaks as it's weathered hinges strain. I take a step outside, shutting the door behind me. I look around, taking in the tall trees, a mixture of perennial and pine that's unique to the border between Haafingar and Hjaalmarch. The mixture of colors; reds, yellows, browns, and oranges, against the dark green, almost black pines, is really quite beautiful. I scan the familiar clearing in seconds, before glancing slightly up at the sky. I do so often at night. Glancing, but never gazing. My mood darkens, and I make my way around the side of the cabin, fallen leaves crunching beneath my bare feet.

I round the corner of the house, arriving at my destination. I wonder, slightly apathetically, why I never built a back door into the small building. The thought slips from my mind with a mental shrug, without leaving any consequence in it's wake. I focus my attention on the impressive array before me. Hanging on the wall directly to my left is a display of four different types of one-handed weapons, two of each, made out of thick, sturdy iron. Each shows signs of wear; denting, dullness, chipping, and general roughness. About ten feet beyond the weapons array stand three sets of practice dummies, each cluster another ten feet to the left and right of the center set. Each individual group is made up of either one, two, or three dummies, going from left to right, respectively. Each different arrangement offers a new battle scenario. Beyond the dummies is a makeshift shooting range; a lone tree with a target carved into it on the far left side of the clearing.

I cock my head slightly to the side, debating which set seems to best fit the morning. After a few seconds, I find myself shifting towards the single dummy, and so decide on that one. It would probably be a better idea to practice hand-to-hand combat with the larger arrangement, but I don't really care. It's not like I need the training; that's all I've done for the past year and a half, since I began living in the little cottage.

Without picking up any combination of the practice weapons, I step towards the single target. The thick burlap sack covering it's straw body is weatherbeaten and torn; a testament to it's constant state of use. I grasp it's shoulders roughly, shaking the entire structure to make sure that it's firmly planted in the ground.

When I'm satisfied that it is, I step back, and square off against the dummy. I place my feet about a shoulder's width apart, grinding my bare heels into the leaf-covered ground in order to create some semblance of traction. I take a deep breath, and focus on the target, letting the edges of my vision go black. I exhale, and raise my fists. I inhale once more, and then, fast as lightning, I draw my fist back, step forward, and slam it into the dummy's chest. The entire structure shakes as a I let loose a flurry of blows, a fist to the chest, a haymaker to the right temple, a jab to the abdomen. My hair whips back and forth with the momentum of my twisting body, and with each strike, I feel my weariness slowly dissipating, and I increase the speed of my blows.

After a few minutes, muscle memory takes over, and my mind begins to wander. I purposely flex my right arm with the next punch, watching the muscles coil and bulge. The lean figure that I had had throughout my entire life is, well, completely gone. I'm nowhere near as hulking as Captain Aldis, or some of the warhammer-wielding legionnaires, but I've grown very muscular over the past year. That's part of the reason why I'd forged two twin daedric swords to replace my daggers. After I lost the first one, I'd used the second to fight for a few months. But, once I reached the pinnacle of speed, but wasn't getting the most out of my newfound strength, I'd decided to lay down the last piece of my Brotherhood life. So, one day, I went outside, and stood in the center of the cabin's clearing. I took one last look at the slim blade, and without hesitation, hurled it straight up into the air. As it reached the peak of it's flight, I inhaled sharply, and shouted at it. And with a boom, the wine-red dagger was hurled out of my sight, flashing as it whirled through the air. I felt a pang, as it vanished, and bile rose in my throat. I forced it down, however, stalking slowly back to my training arena.

The next day, I'd walked down into the city, and bought the materials for two daedric swords. Solitude's smith, Beirand, allowed to let me use his forge, with the stipulation that I compensate him for lost work time. I agreed. It took an entire week, but my new blades were perfected into instruments of cruel beauty. Odhaving gave them their names, after watching me tear through a bandit camp. I'd called him to help me clear it out, but he ended up just sitting, and watching, his assistance wholly unnecessary. I fell into a bloody rage that day, hacking and slashing with vicious abandon. You are angry, Dovah-sos. The ancient dragon had rumbled, gravely. You thirst for punishment, for blood. You are Bahlok and Nax, when you fight. These are your blades: hunger, and cruelty. His voice contained a strange mixture of admiration and pity. It made me sick to my stomach.

My mind whips back to the present. I grow furious at the memory, and lash out at the dummy with my foot. My heel impacts it squarely in the chest, and with a creaking snap, the thick wooden support goes flying. The action satisfies me for only a moment, as my already boiling blood is fueled even more by the prospect of having to build and entirely new target. Scowling, I stalk over to the back wall of the cabin, towards the practice weapons, deciding to finish my morning training before working on the replacement dummy.

I debate which weapons to use for only a second. My eyes scan the four sets: the two war axes, daggers, broadswords, and maces. I yank the the pair of swords off of the wall, and whip around, making my way into the forest, still growling under my breath. I hear the clatter of metal behind me, as one or more of the practice weapons falls, but I elect to ignore it. I walk past the dummies, across the makeshift shooting range, and into the tree line. I continue for about a hundred yards, before stopping in front of a thick, sturdy tree. Normally, I would inspect it first, or at least make sure what type of tree it was, but not today. Today, I just want to break things. I square off against the thick trunk, hefting the swords in each hand. I squeeze the cloth-wrapped hilts tightly, flexing my arms, testing the weight of the blades. And then, in a flash, I'm swinging, the heavy iron whistling in the air as it makes it's way towards the trunk. Splinters of bark and wood-pulp spray through the air, as I hack, slash, and stab with a graceful, but distinctly wild, skill.

I'd taken up this element of my training a week or two after I forged Bahlok and Nax. My goal was to build my endurance by hacking away at a tree until it fell. The blunted weapons that I'd purchased for the practice dummies were perfect for this; the daedric blades would have sliced through the wood like it was butter. The first tree that I'd ever attempted was two feet thick, and it had taken me three days to chop it down. Now, it doesn't take me any longer than a few hours. It isn't a technique-centered exercise, obviously. I go down to Castle Dour for that, on occasion. But, honestly, no one in Solitude is even close to a match for me.

I grow annoyed at my unfocused mind, and renew my assault with a growl.

The tree begins to tip around ten o'clock, six hours later. By that time, my chest is heaving, I'm covered in sweat, and each blade feels like it's heavier than the tree itself. With a final, titanic effort, I bring my leg up and slam it, foot-first, into the trunk, kicking and pushing with the same level of ferocity. The splintered remains of the timber creaks dangerously, and shudders. Finally, with a tremendous thundering racket, it crashes to the ground.

Two years ago, I would have smiled at the success. But all I feel now is no more than a bored acknowledgement. It's good. But no less than I expected.

Each time I fell a tree, I try to lift it. Not really because I think I can, but because of something Amaril had said. He'd always joke about my training regiment, disapproving of it for some reason. One day, after I'd cut down my third tree, he'd rolled his eyes and said, "Now carry it down to Solitude, and present it to Jarlessa Elisif herself." I'd given him a withering glare, and even though I was minutes away from collapsing to the ground, I'd placed my shoulder underneath the fallen trunk. Of course, it hadn't budged. I'd heaved and strained until the veins stood out on my neck, and my vision blurred. And when nothing happened, I'd shouted it off the side of the mountain in fury.

Even now, I haven't been able to budge the massive weight even an inch. Shouting it away, however, proved to be a relatively efficient method of discarding the trees. I only ever kept one or two for basic things, such as firewood, or for repairs. But the rest of the fallen trunks always seemed to land perfectly in the middle of the East Empire Company's port. I just have to make sure that I don't hit a ship. I think dryly, flinging the massive object away with my voice. I wonder what people think when they see entire trees rocketing through the air. Honestly, I doubt anyone really ever notices. Except the guards, that is. It's their job to notice things. But they all know me. I'm their hero. I scoff to myself. Anyway, the occasional merchant would just assume someone had mixed Skooma in with his mead the night before. A thought occurs to me, and I scowl. They wouldn't dare ask me to stop, anyway. Glowering, I walk back to the cabin, mood suddenly soured.

The smooth rasp of the sharpened stone against the dry hardwood is comforting. I grip the leather-wrapped section of the long, slim instrument, holding it like a pen as I add another stroke into the slab of pine. The wood is about twice the size of my hand, free of bark and rubbed smooth. I trace the design with the tips of my fingers, feeling the contours of the carved material. I frown, and continue my work, ignoring the wood shavings on the mattress. It's dark outside now; the window is open, and the small flame of the candle on my bedside table flickers in the breeze. The soft light casts long shadows across the walls, living tendrils of darkness, grasping at something unknowable. I ignore them, and continue carving.

"What are you doing?" Amaril asks quietly. I look over; he's sitting in the window, with his right side facing me. One leg is bent, resting on the window sill along with the rest of him, while the other leg is dangling out the other side. He leans back against the frame, and looks out into the night. His long, brown tresses stir in the breeze, and the candle flickers again.

"You know what I'm doing." I answer, looking back down at the wood. I raise the steel instrument again, etching details where they're needed.

"I do." He murmurs, still facing away, gazing out the window. He turns his head towards me, hair swinging, golden eyes unreadable. "Just making conversation." He doesn't smile.

Sighing, I place the razor-sharp knife on the table next to the candle, and hold the carving up for the elf to see. His face darkens, and multiple emotions flash across his face, among the, pity, anger, and grief. I drop the wood with a curse, angry at his reaction. I curse again, hurling the wood into a corner. It clatters to the ground, leaving a splintered dent where it struck the wall.

"That's not healthy, you know." Amaril states quietly. I let out a bark of derisive laughter.

"Health? Recovery?" I shake my head, still chuckling grimly. The idea is so ludicrous.

The elf sighs in defeat. I turn around, and lay down, pulling the blanket over my icy body. I don't feel any better. I face the wall, trying to get rid of the barbed knives in my stomach.

I toss and turn for a while, but eventually, I fall asleep. My dreams are filled with a haunting voice, singing, murmuring, whispering. It's words are sweet and malicious, all the same, but never truly audible. And I can never find it's source. All I see is a deep, purple flower, shot through with pearly white, it's petals floating in the wind. Nightshade.

A/N: One chapter down, twenty or more to go. Reviews are always appreciated; let me know what you think!