Dark Night of the Soul: Continued.

You aren't the leader of The Companions. You are something worse.

You're their advisor. The one they come to for ideas and counsel. You are meant to guide them. How can you do that when you can't even guide yourself?

Hircine's face is obscured by the stag head he wears. You can hear his breath rattling around in the bone mask, though you aren't sure whether he breathes out of necessity or for effect.

Although it feels as if Hircine has reached into your chest and squeezes his hand around your heart, you meet his gaze.

Words are frozen in your mouth. What do you say to a Daedric Prince, a creature who could destroy you for no other reason except that they desired to?

Hircine looks down at you. The antlers on top of his mask span the length of his naked shoulders.

He steps backwards.

'You are no leader,' he says, and when he speaks you hear the wild wind rattling through the branches of trees, and in your mind there's one full moon in the sky and it is the colour of blood.

'You are a follower.' The Hunter holds out his hand. 'Come follow me.'

There's a fear inside you that branches from the back of your mind. This fear has been buried since the beginning of time. A fear not experienced since your ancestors were prey and knew nothing about Nirn. Like a poisoned tree, its roots sink deep into your brain, and with every branch that blossoms the word 'run' gallops through your mind.

'Join the hunt.'

Despite the fear, you are tempted by his offer. Hircine gives you the chance to become the hunter, not the hunted. That tree of primal terror could be pulled down, uprooted.

You lean forwards, about to stand.

You could become the embodiment of fear.

From behind you, Vilkas lets out a groan, and Hircine's offer is no longer tempting.

Staying seated, you clench your hands around the shaft of Vilkas' bow.

Hircine's head tilts to one side.

'It does not matter if you do not come to me yet,' The Hunter says. 'You will. Whether it be by the setting of tomorrow's sun, or when Masser and Secunda rise together fifty cycles from this time.'

Like the hint of a breeze winding its way through the deep set roots of the forest, there is a whisper of amusement in Hircine's voice, and you imagine that behind the mask, Hircine smiles.

And then it dawns on you. You know why Hircine is here.

'For now, I will take your companion.'

Your eyes widen, your muscles tense, and you reach for an arrow from the quiver upon the floor, just as Hircine's form dissolves into the thickening fog.

Clumps of mist separate themselves and form into the shapes of wolves.

The wolves patrol the perimeter of the pool of water in front of the Falmers yurts. Their translucent bodies shimmer in the dark, like ignis fatuus in animal form.

Occasionally they spring towards your tent, their hackles raised and teeth displayed. When they snarl, ghostly spit flecks the floor.

You let loose an arrow and it zips through the dark, passes through one of the wolves. The wolf's structure disperses like tendrils of smoke from a pipe, and then reforms inches away from its original position.

The creatures never stay too long near the yurt, before regrouping with whispered yips and snapping at each other's legs. Then they begin the patrol again.

It feels as though the marrow of your bones have turned to ice.

You grasp for a log discarded close to the yurt's entrance, reaching out your hand when no wolf is near. For you fear their touch, knowing that should their ghostly forms meet with your tangible body, they'd rip your throat, tear your soul from your body and drag you to the Hunting Grounds.

With the cold setting into your body, it's hard to focus on the Dragon Word for fire. You notice your nose feels rigid, your ears become two useless clumps of flesh causing pain either side of your head. The joints in your fingers cease to respond.

You cling to the word in your head as if it is a rock you hold onto whilst you drown in the frigid waters of the Sea of Ghosts.

'Come to me little one. Little creature. Little startled rabbit.'

Hircine's warm voice floods your mind, and you snap your head around expecting to see the Daedric Prince standing behind you.

There is no one there.

No one.

No one but Vilkas who sits up in his bed of furs.

'Feel the teeth of the hunter around your neck. Embrace your death.'

The words do not come from Vilkas, and you know that Hircine still watches you.

Again, you grapple with the word for fire. Pull it out of your head, through your mouth and into the air where it takes on a life of its own and turns the discarded log into a fiery brand.

Then, on hands and knees you scrabble to Vilkas, hoping that the small fire will keep the wolves at bay.

The Nord sits as rigid as the statue of Ysgramor in Ysgramor's tomb.

You rest hands upon his shoulders and try to push him back down into the furs, but he doesn't move.

Vilkas' eyes are open, but unfocussed. Beads of sweat have collected upon his forehead, but his skin feels as cold as a corpse.

You speak his name but get no response.

He doesn't flinch as you wipe away the sticky strands of hair from his face and tuck them behind his ears. Instead he lurches forwards, as if he is about to rise, and fear heaves through your mind.

The wolves are outside the yurt. They howl and yap but keep their distance from the fire.

Your fingers dig into Vilkas' bare shoulders. You tell him that he can't go, that Farkas waits for him. You remind him the promise he made to Kodlak. And as you shake him and then put all your strength into pushing him down you tell him -

His eyes are the eyes of a wolf, a brutal yellow so different to his usual grey. Grey eyes that can be mellow and placid, but change to reflect the storm clouds over Winterhold.

You tell him he is stubborn. And stupid. And proud.

Then you ask him if he remembers yesterday. The dragon?

Vilkas breathes through his nose and his nostrils flair with every breath. He stares ahead, his chest thrust out and his shoulders back.

You pull the Amulet of Mara from the pouch on your waist, prise open his fingers and shove the talisman into his hand.

As his fingers follow the creases and bevels upon the charm, he continues to stare ahead.

The wolves howls increase. They drown out every noise in the cave, from the dripping water to the wind, until they are a cacophony of noise.

You know they call to Vilkas' soul. And you shout out into the darkness that Hircine can't have the Nord, that he'll have to pass through you first.

In attempt to push him down again, you slam your full weight into Vilkas.

Thoughts collide through your head. This is your fault. You should have noticed earlier that Vilkas had been poisoned. You should have rescued Engar. You should have protected Kodlak. And before you know what you are doing your voice fills the dark once more. You shout above the howls knowing that, though you can't see him, you have Hircine's full attention.

You.

Everything is your fault.

You.

A trade.

You over Vilkas.

Hircine can take you.

The howls subside.

Vilkas goes limp, falls backwards, and like a tree felled by a storm, you crash onto him.