Blackfeather Woods I'm starting to notice a sound

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He's made a mistake —

No, bigger than a mistake. Alone, he'd thought, alone is the only way. And so alone he'd gone to the tree, alone to face the weavers of fate. The Daedra. Mephala — the only one who speaks to him truly, in more than myriad whispers meant to drive him mad, mad enough to be a servant of the fates themselves. He is, now, truly —
Or at least, it feels that way.
Numb pawsteps, silent yet faintly staggering, a blind trek through the forest. Away from the tree. Away from the whispers. He can hear them now —

Return to me, my child.

A sharp intake of breath, lungs burning. He can't see, he can't see anything but darkness. He can feel the dark cloud of displeasure churning somewhere above him, Mephala's wrath.

Disobedience will not be tolerated.

His legs buckle beneath him, vision flashing red then white, then blinding golden sunlight — and then he's somewhere else. Six months in the past, face in the dirt, tasting blood and sweat and fear. Screams around him. Training time. He lost again. His opponent is looming. Fuck fuck fuck fuck —
The scene changes in an instant, an abrupt fast-forward into the next moment of significance. There's a certain horror in it. Teeth at his thighs, tearing. A scream. His own? Pain, weight on his back — wait, no —
NO — Half-scream, half-snarl, all panic. The ice-wraith lashes out with razor edges, snapping teeth and flinching movements, but he's trapped. Caged by imaginary limbs, trapped in his own mind, reliving a memory he'd thought boxed and forgotten forever. All for his disobedience.