Hey, sorry it's taken so long for me to update. Anyhow, school is almost over, and once finals are done with, I'll be able to write far more often. Until then, enjoy chapter eight :)

Chapter 8

I awaken to the feeling of a voracious hunger gnawing at the inside of my stomach. I groan, and roll over onto my back, before forcing my eyes open. Strangely, I feel no pain at the movement, and with renewed confidence, I sit all the way up. Tiredly, I rub my face with my hands, and the blanket that had been covering me slips off of my upper body, and pools around my waist. As my fingers massage my forehead, I feel something hard crusted onto the skin of my face. I scratch at it idly, my exhausted mind not quite processing the discovery. I lower my hands absentmindedly, and look down. Suddenly, I snap into a state of perfect consciousness, shocked at the sight of the flakes of dried blood in my palm. Vague memories course through my mind, images of a jumbled escape, red droplets on a white expanse, and a fall. And a very bright, very soothing golden light.

I shake my head violently, trying to clear my thoughts. I look around, and notice a small bowl of water and a washcloth sitting on a stool next to my cot. I pick up the bowl with both hands, careful not to spill any of it's contents, and look down into it's depths, studying my rippling reflection. It takes a moment, before I fully comprehend what I see.

My entire face looks dark, as if covered in a layer of dry, cracked mud. Only a few patches of skin are visible beneath the dried blood, and the stand out starkly against their dark, crusted backdrop. I curse, ad run a hand through my hair, trying to find the source of the blood. My searching proves fruitless, however. Troubled, I pick up the towel, and clean the grime from my face, pausing every so often to rinse out the cloth.

By the time I'm finished, the water in the bowl is completely opaque. Just as I move to get up and empty it, the tent's flap rustles, and Camilla enters. A pleased, then guarded expression crosses her face when she sees me.

"Oh, Daanik. You're up." She says, setting down the bundle of clothes she'd been carrying. She turns her back to me, and busies herself with an assortment of potions and vials in a table at the far end of the tent. "How do you feel?" She asks over her shoulder. The glass vials clink together quietly.

"Really good, actually." I murmur, my voice rough from lack of use. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Yea, I feel much better." I nod towards the now dirty bowl and washcloth. "Thank you, for that."

She shrugs. "You asked me not to touch you. So I didn't."

Sighing, I sit up, and rub my face with my hands. "What happened to me?" I ask, after a second. Camilla turns around, and I look up at her face. Her expression is still very guarded, intentionally unreadable.

The dark-haired woman shrugs again. "I don't know. Not really. You hurt your head, but beyond that..." She moves suddenly, gliding over to the stool next to my bed. She picks up the bowl and washcloth, and places them on the floor near her feet, before sitting down on the cot next to me. "What was it, that I did, that upset you so much?" She whispers, eyes suddenly wide with apologetic concern.

"I just...I don't like being touched." I reply, not meeting her gaze.

"Why?"

I shift awkwardly for a moment, trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. I open my mouth, then close it again. A thought comes to me, and I crack a wry, almost bitter smile

"I'm insane." I answer, simply.

To my utter bewilderment, Camilla laughs. I stare at her, stunned, as she chuckles into her hand. Finally, she says, "In my experience, Daanik, all the best people are at least slightly insane."

I stare at her, dumbfounded. I feel Amaril lift his head in the back of my min. Recognize your own words, do you? I ask the elf. He doesn't respond.

The imperial woman smiles at my expression. Her eyes soften. "Just call, if you need anything." She says, standing up to leave. "New clothes are over there." She says, motioning towards the bundle. She moves to step out of the tent.

Suddenly, something grips me. "Wait!" I choke out, probably louder than necessary. The woman flinches, and stops, startled, turning back to face me.

"I'm...I'm sorry." I mutter, looking down, not wanting to see her expression.'

She's afraid of you. Amaril whispers gleefully. I clench the blanket in my hands, and look up at Camilla.

A ghost of a smile passes across her features, just for a moment. "Don't be." She murmurs. Then, she steps out of the tent, leaving me alone. Alone, and very confused.

The sharp, rough rasp of a whetstone against Nax's honed blade puts on my teeth on edge. The repetitive action, however, is soothing, and as long as I block out the aggravating sound, my calm increases. I stare at the sword's perfect, onyx surface, as it gleams in the flickering firelight; the whispering tongues of heat casting sharp, bright spears through the infinitely black material. I raise it slightly, ceasing the motions of the whetstone, and watch as the gleam slides smoothly up and down the weapon, reflecting jaggedly off of the serrated section near the hilt.

"That's a beautiful instrument." A breton voice states from behind me. I turn around, and Kastus approaches the fire pit around which I'd previously been sitting alone. He walks around it's perimeter, before sitting down across from me, leaving about three feet of distance between us. He picks up a stick, and prods the embers, playing with the sparks that bust forth at his stimulus. "Where did you get it?" He asks. His tone is patronizingly curious.

"I made it. Them." I reply quietly, patting Bahlok in it's sheathe, laying inanimate on the ground next to me.

Kastus whistles. 'That must be a handy skill to have. I didn't know you were so talented a smith."

"Hm."

The lull in our conversation stretches, and after a while, grows uncomfortable. Kastus fidgets awkwardly, and I pick up the whetstone again, intending to resume my work.

"Well..." The Breton mutters, pushing himself up off the ground into a standing position. "I'm gonna turn in. Goodnight, Daanik."

I'm about to reply, when suddenly, a panicked voice from the east of the camp stops me.

"Wake up! Wake up!"

I leap to my feet in a flash, dropping the whetstone and grabbing Bahlok in my left hand, before turning towards the source of the call. At first, I can't make out anything between the dark pines. But then, I squint, and see a flicker of movement; a figure, sprinting towards the camp, through the snow. He flashes past the horses, and bursts into the main area, panting furiously.

"Wake up!" He bellows, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

"What is it?" I demand, gripping my blades tightly. Soldiers begin to emerge from their tents, groggily rubbing their eyes, weapons grasped loosely. The sentry bends over, panting, and rests his hands on his knees. After a few seconds, he finds his breath.

"Stormcloaks." He pants, without looking up.

"What? Where? How many?" Kastus barks from my right. He strides forward, and grips the man by his shoulders. "Come on, man, I need information!"

"About thirty." He gasps. "Five minutes. Some on horseback."

The Breton curses violently, and rushes to the nearest tent. "Hadvar! Wake up, we've got Stormcloaks!"

The massive man barrels out of his dwelling almost instantly. "Where?" He rumbles, as Camilla and Daenlin each step out into the clearing from their respective tents. The imperial woman yaws, looking exhausted.

"They'll arrive in minutes." Kastus answers. "There's thirty of them, and they've brought horses."

Hadvar curses. "We only have ten soldiers left, in all. Eleven, if you count the blacksmith. Fuck!" He barks, yanking his massive greatsword from it's sheathe on his back.

Kastus follows suit, and so do the rest of soldiers. A flurry of rasping and scraping of metal on metal as swords are unsheathed, and maces and axes are held at the ready.

"Alright. Places, everyone!" Hadvar roars, as the battallion rushes to obey his command. The petty soldiers arrange themselves in a half-moon shape, curving inwards, facing in the direction from which the sentry had come. Camilla and Daenlin take their places behind the soldiers, and Hadvar, Kastus, and I array ourselves in the center of the scoop-shape. I draw Bahlok, and drop it's sheathe, unwilling to take the time and effort to buckle it to my belt. The razor metal whines piercingly as it slides against it's metal casing. As I complete the motion, the sound stops, and silence envelopes the clearing.

For what seems like an incredibly long stretch of time, nothing happens. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. With every passing second, with every thump of my accelerating heartbeat, the tension mounts, becoming physical, tangible, relentlessly suffocating. Someone coughs behind me, and my head jerks around. The soldier who'd made the sound pales at my glare, and just as I turn back, the dull sound of hooves pounding against the snow reaches my ears.

"Steady..." Hadvar murmurs, clenching his sword tightly.

The soldiers fidget nervously, some cracking their necks, others shifting from foot-to-foot to relieve their anxiety.

"Come on..." One murmurs, twitching his sword back and forth in the air.

With every second the sound of the hoof beats grows louder, stomping, crashing through the lightly wooded area until finally, a group of ten figures on an equal number of horses explodes outwards from the trees. The massive beasts leading the charge rear up furiously, front legs thrashing and eyes wild in the moonlight as a chorus of whinnying and slamming hooves pummels my ears. The figures riding the monstrous beasts are tall, very tall, and slim, not built like typical nords. I'm taken aback for a split second, but it's too dark to make out their features, and so I push the thought down for later examination. The riders unsheathe their blades, long, thin rapiers, and just as they do, I push past Kastus and Hadvar, taking a deep breath in preparation to shout.

"FUS RO DA!"

But the riders aren't hurled back. No shock wave erupts from my throat, and no deafening report echoes across Skyrim. The shout doesn't even leave my body. Or, at least, that's what it feels like.

The force of the thu'um slams into the front of my skull, pressing against my eyes and ricocheting around in my head with an unbelievable ferocity. I let out a strangled cry, and sink to the ground. I clutch my scalp, trying to keep it from being torn in two. Blood drips from my nose, and I taste it, as it reaches my lips. My heart pounds wildly, thunderously in my ears, blocking out all other noises. I screw my eyes shut tightly. Dimly, I'm aware of figures rushing past me, the clashing of blades, and the explosions and crackling magical attacks being hurled through the air.

Slowly, my heartbeat drops, and the pain recedes. Tentatively, I open my eyes, and when nothing happens, I open them fully. Suddenly, an arrow whizzes past my face, and with a start, I remember where I am. I grab my blades from where I'd dropped them at my sides. In a flash, I'm up, leaping behind a legionnaire, about to push past him to rejoin the rest of the core. Suddenly, a thin, golden sword sprouts from his back. He lets out a gurgling choke, one final death-rattle, before he falls. In his place, stands a high elf. I have to look up to see his face; he's easily over seven feet tall. His eyes, hard, golden orbs, the same shade as his blade, meet my blue ones, and a grin stretches across his face.

"Ahh. You must be the dragon slayer." He hisses. Suddenly, without another word, he raises his weapon, and slashes at me in a downward swipe meant to be a death-blow.

Inhumanly quickly, I twist to the side, and in the same motion, slash upwards with my blade so that our weapons strike each other in a cross-shape. A metallic clang, and a tinny screeching sound rings in my ears as my daedric sword tears through his elven one, shortening it by a good two feet.

The elf stares down at his blade, dumbfounded, and then back at me with a new hint of fear in his eyes. Now, it's my turn to grin, as I slash vertically, leaving a deep gash diagonally across his chest. He clutches the wound, and falls to the ground. He twitches slightly, and his blood stains the snow beneath him a dark crimson.

I look down at the Altmer's face, his features frozen in an expression of shock that mimics my own. An ef?! Suddenly, the enemy foot soldiers arrive. Roughly twenty burly nords clad in blue mail storm into the camp, bellowing battle-cries and swinging heavy weapons. To my left, I see a legionnaire fall, decapitated by one of the remaining riders. I lunge after the elf, slashing at his horse's legs and then severing the rider's spine with a quick swipe. He topples off his animal, face turned upwards. His glassy, golden eyes stare up at the night sky, wide open, and yet unseeing.

I make quick work of the remaining elven riders, and turn to look for the rest of my battalion. I spot them quickly; or, rather, I catch glimpses of the core and the two remaining backup soldiers amidst a throng of thrashing, blue-clad bodies. I leap towards the fray, felling three Stormcloaks from behind before they so much as notice my presence. The fourth turns at the sound of tearing flesh, but too slowly. I lash out at him with my boot, slamming my foot into his chest and hurling him back into his comrades. Six of them go down in a heap, and are quickly engulfed in a roaring inferno by Camilla's hand. Their screams fill the air, and I grimace at the smell of burning flesh.

Suddenly, a bellow of pain, and a sickening crunching sound echoes through the air. I whip around, just in time to see an enemy soldier yanking his war-axe out of Hadvar's shoulder. The massive man's arm goes limp, and he drops his blade. Blood pours down his torso, and he sways, just as the Stormcloak readies his weapon for the second time. In an instant, I whip Bahlok through the air. The sword spins, once, before impaling the soldier horizontally, through his neck. He clutches madly at the metal protruding from either side of his throat, and then drops to the ground.

"Camilla!" I yell, turning my attention back to Hadvar. He sways again, and begins to fall. I rush over, grabbing on to his heavy torso and propping him up with my shoulder. I shudder at the contact, and quickly lay the man down into the snow. I look up, searching for the imperial healer. Most of the Stormcloaks are already dead; only eight or so remain. Kastus defends against them furiously, while Daenlin and Camilla keep the majority of them at bay from the branches of a tall tree.

"Camilla!" I yell again, launching myself into the fray and ending the lives of two soldiers with a vicious flurry of slashing.

"What is it?" She calls out, firing off a thick, icy spear through a war hammer-wielding rebel's helmet. She scans the area quickly, attempting to distinguish the subject of my call. Her yes rest on Hadvar's prone form on the other side of the clearing, and immediately, she leaps down, nimbly jumping from branch to branch until she alights softly on the snowy forest floor. She sprints across the camp, whilst Daenlin's arrows and Kastus's blade claim the lives of four more soldiers, and I kill the remaining two. They fall to the ground, and I drop my swords, impaling them upright in the ground before running over to join Camilla. Kastus is right behind me, and Daenlin joins us a few seconds later.

"Gods above." The breton groans at the sight of Hadvar's wound. His shoulder is completely laid open, and gushing blood. The blade had chopped through the armor, skin, muscle, and most of the bone, severing half the joint. The snow around the nord is veritably soaked in blood.

"It's lucky that he's unconscious." Daenlin murmurs. "Can you fix this?" He asks, turning towards the healer.

She bites her lip, and wordlessly begins working. Golden light flows from her palms, and washes over the ghastly wound. After a while, she replies, "I don't know. I can stop the bleeding, but..." She trails off. "His arm might be useless."

Kastus curses violently, hurling his sword at a nearby tree and stalking away, his hands tangled in his close-cropped hair. His ebony blade slams horizontally into the trunk, and it sticks there, quivering. Daenlin, on the other hand, doesn't react. He doesn't move, nor does he speak. He continues to stand in place, watching.

Suddenly, he turns towards me. "Why couldn't you shout?" He asks bluntly, his eyes narrowed. Irritation boils up hotly in my chest at his inquisition.

"I don't know." I snap, not looking at the elf.

He snorts derisively, and I turn to face him, glaring into his cold, slanted brown eyes. "What do you have to say to me, elf?" I hiss, taking a threatening step forward.

Daenlin moves closer as well, his eyes flashing. "You are a liability." He snarls. "You pushed past Hadvar and Kastus, arrogant beyond belief, and collapsed there." He takes another step forward, and jabs me in the chest with his next words. "You failed. And maybe if you hadn't, maybe if you had any sense at all, any mastery of your own abilities, then Hadvar wouldn't be crippled!" He yells the last word, undiluted fury written across his face.

For a second, my vision flashes red. "Don't touch me." I growl, glaring menacingly at the elf.

He lets out a snort of laughter. "Or what? You'll punch me?" He pushes me again, and with a snarl, I lash out at him with both hands. My palms impact the elf's chest, slamming into him with a dull thump and hurling his light body backwards through the air. The blow sends him sprawling in the snow, gasping for breath. He picks himself back up quickly, however, and whips his bow off of his back, drawing and firing an arrow in a single, smooth motion. I sway to the side, and the barbed projectile whistles past harmlessly. Furious, I pick up a mace from a Stormcloak's corpse at my feet, and advance towards the elf.

"Stop it!" Camilla screams, leaping in between us. Cursing, I stop short, and, without enough time to stop the blow entirely, I alter it's course. The mace slams into the ground next to the woman. She doesn't flinch.

"What in Oblivion do you think you're doing?!" She seethes, looking back and forth between Daenlin and I. "You're grown men. Act like it." She spits the last words.

Daenlin shrugs, suddenly calm, and replaces his arrow in his quiver. Camilla turns her gaze towards me, and I scowl, holding her icy glare for a few moments. Finally, I give in, and hurl the mace across the clearing. It slams into a tree, leaving a deep, splintered dent in the wood. I stalk back to my tent, and don't look back.

A quiet voice from outside my dwelling attracts my attention.

"May I come in?"

After a second, I answer. "Yes."

A slim hand pulls back the canvas flap, and Camilla steps in, ducking through the small entryway. She sits down beside the lantern in the corner of the room. I put down the book I'd been reading, and turn to face her.

"What is it?" I inquire. To my own surprise, I'm not angry with her over the events of earlier. It had been three hours since the end of the battle. The sky was still pitch black.

"We need your help. To get rid of the bodies." She murmurs, not meeting my gaze.

"Alright. Of course, I'll help." I reply, quickly. Then, "Is Hadvar okay?"

Camilla shrugs. "He'll live. But I won't know if he'll have any use of his arm until he wakes up."

I nod, awkwardly, not knowing what to say. After a moment, the dark-haired woman mutters an excuse, and exits the tent, leaving me sitting, alone, in the flickering light of the dying lantern.

We clean the bodies up in silence, heaving them all into one large, grotesque funeral pyre. Once we're done, Camilla steps back, and envelopes the entire thing in an incredible blaze. The flames crackle and roar, and as the stench of burning flesh fills the air, I turn away, and walk into the woods. I continue on, step after step, yard after yard, until I find myself in another clearing, out of earshot of the camp, There, I position myself in the center of the circle of tress, throw back my shoulders, and shout at the sky.

The same abrupt, searing pain lances through me, jarring my bones and crushing me to my knees with it's intensity. I taste blood in my mouth. Slowly, I heave myself up again, and unsteadily resume my position. Again, I let the thu'um build in my chest, and utter the words of power. And again, I'm brought to my knees by the sheer force of the agony.

I don't know how long I stood out there, in the snow. Again and again, I attempt to shout, repeating the cycle over and over until I simply can't bear it anymore. I drag myself to my feet, and shut my eyes, trying to force myself to speak the words. My lips quiver, but my body refuses to obey me. Suddenly, nausea wells up in my stomach, and I heave forward. The acrid taste fills my mouth, and burns my throat, until I'm left hunched over, retching, with nothing left to give.

And so, I stumble back to the camp, just as the sun begins to crest over the horizon. I stagger to my tent, and collapse onto the cot. I pull myself into a seated position, and run my hands across my face, and tangle them in my hair. I hunch over, breathing heavily, trying to keep the remnants of my sanity together. But the desperation doesn't go away; the feeling of helplessness, of being fundamentally crippled, pervades every fiber of my being.

I sit like that for a long time, trying to numb my mind. Nothing disrupts me; no one comes in to disturb me. No sound breaks upon my ears, except the rasp of my own breathing, loud and harsh in the silence of the night.

Review :)