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“Will you please let me look at that wound?” Miraak grunted as he sat in the snow across from her, the fire crackling between them. Gods, how many times had she asked? When would she stop?“No.”The Last Dragonborn sighed, pulling her knapsack into her lap. She unbuckled the straps and began fishing through it—her provisions had already been low on Solstheim. Why hadn’t she stopped in Raven Rock before they left? Fool. “I said no, ahtlahzey.”“I heard.”“Apparently not.” She extracted a roll of bandages and a glass phial no larger than his finger.“I heard, and am choosing to ignore you. Take your robe off.”His back stiffened. There was no way in Oblivion he would be taking it off. No, not after thousands of years of having it torn off his body. Not after millennia of living on edge, wondering, waiting for Hermaeus Mora. How insulting. Did she really think he was at her beck and call? That’d he follow directions like a dog? When he didn’t budge, she circled the fire and knelt in front of him. Miraak raised his hands instinctively in defense, magic crackling around his fingertips. A cool tingling sensation enveloped his palms and a light sheet of ice dusted over the lengths of his fingers. The last thing he wanted was the Last Dragonborn sitting between his legs to treat a wound. Gods, Hermaeus Mora must be laughing at him. “Hey, relax. I’m just trying to keep you safe.” Tharya muttered, eyeing his defensive stance for a moment. “If you let that thing fester you won’t have the intestines required to bellyache about me being a fake.” She chuckled but when he still didn’t move the smile on her lips faded away. “Miraak, come on.” He hated the way she said his name. So friendly. As if they had known each other forever. Hated it.His attention pivoted when she began unrolling the bandage, draping one part of it over his knee.""“” "Fine, then, I'll just trade you back to Hermaeus Mora. Not like I saved you or anything."
Without another word she reached for the dusty hem of his robes, readying to pull the fabric free of his belt and off his torso. Reflexively he lowered his icy hand to smack her arm, the sound seeming to echo in their ears against the silent backdrop of night. Gloved fingers circled her wrist, so much smaller than his own, and frost spread from the point of contact. For a long, cold minute, all she did was stare at him. Miraak’s spine bristled at that stare; all he wanted to do was slap it off her face. And he would’ve, maybe if they were on Solstheim, or even facing each other in Apocrypha again. But not here, and not anymore. Some part of him knew she was right; she could just as easily throw him back into Apocrypha without him knowing until it was too late. Then he wouldn’t even be afforded the choice of taking off his robe.She glanced up at the moons a couple times and back to him, taking in his calculating features before speaking again.“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”“You saw leverage and you used it, ahtlahzey.” He paused, gaze moving to the twin moons. What did she find so interesting? “You would make a good Dragon Priest.”She smiled, laughed, albeit uncertainly. When she looked up to him to see if he was actually trying to be humorous, the sight of his fingers releasing her wrist obstructed any view of his eyes that may have given him away. Miraak reached to his collar. The smile that graced her lips had been oddly...comforting. He tugged the first layer free and shouldered it off, eyes remaining on the moon. The north was cold, but not as cold as Atmoran winters. This weather felt like the last days of a long summer to him. The belt clicked out of place in his hands, and he shrugged the first layer off. Gods, how many years had it been since he’d removed his own clothes? Next came the gauntlets, falling one atop the other into the snow beside him. Their pinecone-like decorations rattled against each other. The second shirt was tied at the chest and stomach, but it didn’t matter much. Only the outer layer of his robes had been mended on Solstheim--he still didn’t know by who--and there was a gaping hole left in the fabric. It was troublesome getting it off over her prodding fingers, but somehow he managed to roll it far enough off his shoulders. With the front of his torso bare to her now, he watched as her eyes fell in mild shock to the three-pronged scar across his chest, dark like the one splitting his eyebrow and the other adorning the bridge of his nose. But not as openly surprised by it as he thought she would be—she’d seen equal or worse, then. Maybe bore a rival herself. For a mere second, she reached out to feel it, spreading her fingers to drag them down each line of scar tissue. Beneath her touch, his dovah roared to life, so abrupt it made his chest constrict and twist around his next breath. “ Ahtlahzey,” Miraak growled, catching her wrist. She murmured an apology before setting to work. Her fingers were wetted with something thick like honey, cool to the touch. Tharya had healed him to some extent on Apocrypha, and no doubt tended the tentacle wound on the boat trip from Solstheim—of which he still had no memory of—but it hadn’t gone away. Daedric influence, no doubt. He didn’t understand why she didn’t simply use her magicka, instead of the balm, but he didn’t bother asking. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough for something like that. Fool. The tightness in his chest grew warm, soothing almost, the three-legged scar tingling where her fingers had been. Something made him relax under the feeling of her hands. Something had made his dovah burst into being and quiet again. For the first time since he could remember, something felt right. He lingered on the exact moment her skin met his, reliving it in his head, the gravity that seemed to be pulling him ever downwards miraculously lifted. Gone, with a single touch. His dovah roared again, something melodic, something intended. But that made no sense--he listened. It sang. He sang . No sense, still, unless it was singing to her, he was singing to her, for her , hoping maybe in the great darkness there was a light, a light cast by ahtlahzey, his ahtlahzey- -“Miraak.” And just like that...the song died. His eyes fell open, unaware he had ever closed them.“Are you alright?” There was cloth wrapped snugly around his middle, some kind of paste on his wound. Confusion crossed her eyes. For a moment, he thought maybe she’d felt something too.
But no—this was the Last Dragonborn, and though she may be ahtlahzey her power was not a fraction of his. Miraak doubted she’d ever been in touch with her dovah. Fool. “ ” He grunted in reply. Without waiting for an answer his fingers grasped his robes and pulled each layer back on with practiced speed, moving without his head directing them to. Tharya retreated to her side of the fire, her gaze hardly ever leaving him. The moons dragged their feet across the blanket of stars.
“We’ll reach Winterhold by tomorrow afternoon,” she murmured, pulling her staff-turned-spear into her lap. “You should get some rest.” Winterhold. She hadn’t said much about this place, but he only hoped it was better than the disappointment of Windhelm. “, big guy.”At first he believed she had no right to give him such nicknames, and frankly, he found it beyond irritating. But exhaustion ebbed at his body, his sore, beaten body which had hardly survived Apocrypha, the aftermath, or the boat ride back to Skyrim, and it demanded rest. A scoff weaker than he cared to admit left his lips.
“Pruzah vulon, ahtlahzey.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Winterhold, to his glum surprise, was even more than a disappointment than Windhelm. It was a dreary little town; at first he believed they had simply stumbled through another one of the outlier settlements that dotted Skyrim, but as Tharya began to name buildings as they passed along the road, the realization set in that this was Winterhold. The tavern, the Jarl’s house, the merchant’s shop. Less than a handful of houses. The cobblestone street—because that was all Winterhold needed, a single street, perhaps even half of one—was covered in snow and frost, slippery under his boots. Looking to the outskirts of town, all the way to the cliffs, there were husks and crumbling foundations of buildings that had been destroyed, by what, he knew, had been the Great Collapse. Among the snow drifts he counted more ruins than standing homes.“” She looked back at him, but didn’t reply. People gave him glaring looks; each new face he saw was already trained on him, and on the Last Dragonborn. They followed each footstep towards the College with an eagle-like precision and were locked on them still as Tharya stopped in front of the tavern porch, stooping to a bare bush that held small red berries surrounded by dark green leaves.
“Ooh, snowberries,” she picked a handful and tossed one into the air, catching it in her mouth. Snowberries? Though the name wasn’t familiar, the berry itself was. He hadn’t seen their like in a very, very long time. Briefly he wondered...but no, that couldn’t be. Unless they had been brought over in the waves of immigrants that left Atmora late in its life, they would’ve frozen over with the rest of the continent. “Oh, these are perfect.” Tharya smiled to herself and extended her hand to him. Normally he would’ve ignored it, but curiosity got the better of him and he gingerly took one from her palm and turned away to eat it. There was no doubt about it. These were- To interrupt his thoughts the tavern door above them swung open, and a hardy-looking woman with dark hair exited, wearing a cotton dress and holding an old broom. He almost laughed. Did she...did she mean to threaten them with that? That knobby old stick?
“You best be on your way now, Arch-Mage,” the woman said gruffly. Tharya, somehow, conjured up a smile for her.
“Of course, no problem.” She gestured to the snowberry bush. “These are perfectly ripe, you know. Would make a good batch of jam or a crostata.” The tavern woman squinted before giving her a nod, her skeptical gaze sliding next to Miraak. She examined him slowly, the way one sizes up an enemy army before battle, and then gave her broom a sharp rap against the railing, jerking the handle towards the College. And, to Miraak's shock, off they went, like a pair of dogs shooed away from the dinner table.
He couldn't believe it. Did the Last Dragonborn really have such little self-respect?
The scene had apparently drawn Winterhold’s entire—though miniscule—population out of wherever they were hiding. How could they all know when the Arch-Mage returned? Miraak pushed it from his mind, doing his best to deflect the stares aimed at him and Tharya, walking stiffly at her side towards the boxy stone arch that led to the College. It was smaller than he’d imagined, definitely a measly college and nothing else. Even then, the closer they got, the more he wondered if it deserved even that title. There was no student body in sight, and not even a single guard posted. It stood high above the rest of the town, a towering building of grey. Blue-hued windows gazed down at all who approached, with wrought iron designs pulled over them in the shape of half-lidded eye. A narrow bridge of the same pallid grey stone was all that was offered to cross a gaping chasm between the town and the College. He had no fear of such heights, but the drop was almost certainly fatal. And if it wasn’t, the frigid waters below were, if one spent even a half a second too long in their grasp. Miraak trailed behind the Last Dragonborn, reluctant to make himself look like a follower, but this bridge was by no means big enough to fit both of them abreast. She walked slowly and surely, watching her step over the slippery bridge. He walked with his staff in one hand, fingers wrapped around his sword.
“Those berries,” he grunted after a long silence filled only by the ice crunching below their boots, “snowberries, as you call them. They are from Atmora.”
“No way.” Tharya twisted around to look at him, seemingly astounded. She believed him so easily, or at least that's what it looked like. How could she be sure he was telling the truth? “Really?” Miraak nodded. “How’d they get here?” Though he was tempted, he didn’t reply. The specific pains of talking about his homeland were ones he did not need to grapple with at the moment. “Ah, well. I guess that makes sense,” she noted his silence and turned back around with a little shrug, “if the Atmorans got here well enough, why not some berries, right?” They walked over the great eye similar to the ones on the windows that had been carved into the stone just before a tall iron gate, the wind whipping and pulling at their robes. Tharya pushed one side of it open and held it, gesturing for him to walk through. Winterhold was new to him—it hadn’t existed when the Cult migrated to Skyrim. Skyrim had been virginal except for the presence of the Snow Elves, the Fahliil, and many things that stood now had not even been dreamed of, much less thought of or built. Winterhold and this College were two of them, but as he stepped into the circular courtyard and took in his surroundings—more snow, more berry bushes, a couple stone tables—one thing in particular struck him as familiar. The towering statue in the center of the stone path, with arms held out to either side and fingers curled around unseen spells, hooded features staring blankly straight out; he was acquainted with this statue, or rather who it was that was depicted. He knew the face. “Shalidor.” Miraak murmured to no one in particular, stopping at the base of the great sculpture. Hermaeus Mora had told him of Shalidor’s work in the First Era, the beginning of his permanent residence at Apocrypha. He had brought Miraak the books as they were produced, each an exact replica of the one Shalidor had completed moments before. Gods, the Prince even assisted him in perfecting those spells; with the endless font of knowledge at his beck and call, Mora always had the right books on hand. No wonder he’d been imprisoned there so long. Tharya was looking at him from his side, but as he moved his head to meet her gaze she looked away, a question in her head but not on her lips. Shalidor earned her attention next, and a wistful sigh was swallowed up by a bitter breeze that swept through the courtyard.
“I was pretty impressed with him too, when I first got here,” she admitted, “even more so after I read some of his stuff. But I could never really get the hang of it. His writing is very...” The wind ruffled some loose snow and tugged playfully at their robes again, but Shalidor’s remained still against it.
"Verbose," he offered quietly. She was blank. "Long-winded."
A smile grew on her lips. "Yeah, that." At long last Tharya turned away, her spear clicking against the stone as she circled the statue and made her way towards the greet wooden doors behind it. She paused only to glance back at him over her shoulder, before making a gesture with her spear for him to follow, and pushing one door open wide enough to step inside. He banished Apocrypha from his thoughts, as he’d done so many times before, and followed her before the door shut. “Arch-Mage!” Tharya wanted nothing more than to groan, or even roll her eyes, but Faralda’s voice found her conjuring a smile to her face. Forced as it was. The Altmer stood from the table, with a smug look of I told you so cast at everyone she passed. Tolfdir sighed into his beard.“Arch-Mage, I am absolutely delighted at your return. The others were beginning to doubt,” she made a flourishing gesture to the banquet table of people behind her, as if they were the meal and not the food before them. Everyone looked equally as exhausted with Faralda’s presence. “I, however, kept faith. You must be hungry, Arch-Mage, come sit with us.”“I need a bath,” she mumbled under her breath.
“A bath! Certainly. Shall I run one for you?”There was a brief pause.
“Please, Faralda.” Tharya seemed surprised with herself, that she would ever have reason to ask the Altmer for anything. “And, some robes for my--my friend.” Faralda took one doubtful look at Miraak, sizing him up in the same way the woman at the tavern had, and then stalked off with her chin raised. Tharya could’ve sworn every pair of lips took in a breath of fresh air, beyond jubilant the Elven woman hadn’t sucked all the oxygen out of the room with her.“Who is this friend?” A new figure approached, not nearly as tall as the previous. Her tone held an edge of accusation but it was schooled by professionalism and a calm smile.
“Mirabelle,” she smiled, looking back to Miraak. Divines, how could she explain him? A freakishly tall, dark-skinned man with black eyes and robes that resembled ancient parchment more than they did cloth, a five o’clock shadow claiming his jawline, two parallel scars over his nose, another splitting his eyebrow, a sword seemingly made of tentacles--the list went on. Even his name marked him as strange, and though she didn’t think anyone at the College was particularly well-versed in the Cult or Atmoran history, the risk was there and not one she was willing to take.
“This is Teldryn Sero, a new friend of mine. Teldryn, the College.” Tharya made a weak gesture between the two.Miraak’s weight shifted from one foot to another, before he nodded his acknowledgement.
“ ” Could they all stop staring? His voice was still deep and sometimes gravelly, but it no longer boomed and echoed in her head. She knew he had noticed it, too. He spoke as little as possible and when he did, she had begun to realize it was over-enunciated. He was trying to compensate. No longer did he have power behind his voice, no longer did he speak with authority to bend people to his will with mere words.
Mirabelle raised an eyebrow at the foreign language. “Do you speak any of the Common Tongue?”
“Very little,” Tharya replied for him, eyeing each seated member. Unsurprisingly, not one of them seemed to recognize Dovahzul. The College had its strengths, but in that moment she was abundantly glad that neither the Cult nor ancient languages were either of them. “I’m sure we can speak tomorrow? It’s been a longer road than I ever intended, I—we’d like to get some rest.” Mirabelle nodded graciously and stepped aside to let them go. Tharya met Faralda on the stairs, and once again she attempted to drown the Arch-Mage in praise and boosts of her own character. Somehow, and much to Miraak’s pleasure, she broke the surface and managed to get them by the chatty elf. The door to the Arch-Mage’s chambers was heavier than she remembered, closed louder, harder to lock. Nevertheless, she went through the steps, though it felt like centuries since her hands had performed the motions. Miraak stood silently in the center of the room, reminding himself of what a real enclosed living space looked like. As far as he could tell, the room was circular, and in the center there was a small, lush garden of bushes, plants, and a small tree, with hovering magelights. Behind that was a wall. It was made of the same grey stone that the rest of the College was made of, dark blue banners hanging evenly spaced on the walls. To his left there was a pair of sofas facing one another with a low table between them, and bookcases beyond that. Lining the right wall was a bookcase, an arcane enchanter, an alchemy table and a staff enchanter, and on both sides there was a large white curtain hanging over the entrances to the area behind the wall.
“You can have the bed,” the Last Dragonborn said as she wiggled out from behind him and walked by. She walked—staggered, really—past him, dropping her knapsack and staff against the wall. He regarded the staff for a moment. It still shone, albeit dimly. Why had only half of it turned into a divine weapon? Had he spoken the words wrong? Had Hermaeus Mora, or even Apocrypha, interfered? Perhaps simply being in a Plane of Oblivion had made the spell go awry. He watched as Tharya slid her boots off next, and then disappeared behind the wall, leaving the Dragon Priest to his thoughts. He set down his staff and sword as well, leaning them against the nearby table. Apocrypha. Something in him wanted to think about recent events, but another part of him wanted to do anything but that. Miraak knew he was only trying to occupy his mind, but not with Apocrypha, not with Hermaeus Mora, not with the campfire, not with the fact that his dovahhad been more awake in the past few days than it had been in centuries. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt it roar so fiercesomely. Why was it her who had elicited that? Her, of all things living. The Pretender. He slowly placed a hand over his chest, listening for it. Quiet, for now. Still. There was no fire in his veins or roar to echo in the chambers of his heart, no intense feeling to guide him towards a certain choice or place or person, like the sixth sense he had always thought it to be in his youth. Memories of before he had found the Black Book flowed back to him; he had never done a thing without consulting his gut, even as a child—though he hardly remembered being a child, now. Hermaeus Mora had leeched him memories over the years, so much so that the only things remaining of his past life were a handful of faces attached to names, and hazy recollections of Atmora in its prime. Never quite sure of what to call it, but it was something more than instinct. Like a supplementary brain, supporting or overruling decisions the first one made. It wasn’t until much later he’d learn about his dovah, the second soul. And then, like a , he’d forgotten it. For thousands of years, it lay dormant, forced into hibernation. There were robes folded on the table, he guessed set out for him by that elf. Dark, spiraling mahogany threads on the chest, the rest of the fabric a cool grey that nearly blended with the walls. He itched to put them on, get out of the things he’d nearly died in, spent upwards of four thousand years wasting away in. Miraak glanced over his shoulder before reaching for the fingertip of one glove and pulling them up one by one, until he could remove the glove entirely and place a hand against the cloth. Soft, warm. Smooth. Plush, made from something thick. He gathered it in his hands and returned to the illuminated garden, lowering himself to sit on the cold steps. Cloth. He ran his thumbs over it. Cloth. Not the frayed pages of a book, and not the slimy smooth of a tentacle. Not the familiar cool fleshiness of the hilt of his sword, either. Useful, abundant, warm, and crisp. Smelling of mountain air and magicka. Cloth.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“I’m glad Faralda kept this place up. I missed it.”Her voice circled him, stopping by his side, just where he could see her in his peripheral. She had changed from her Arch-Mage robes into ones similar to his—canvas, grey with dark decoration, simple. He quickly dropped the clothes into his lap but remained silent. Even in such little time, he had grown fond of the small garden carved out of the Arch-Mage’s quarters. It felt like a breath of life and nature in this dead stone place. Something about it was...soothing. It made the previous days fade from the forefront of his thoughts, like a bad dream. It was the only place in the College he felt relaxed thus far. From a plane of Oblivion made up of books, to a magical school surrounded by books. Hermaeus Mora had ruined even the thought of looking at a volume or tome; he had read for centuries and gained immense power from it, but now the mere image of a book made his skin crawl with discomfort and fear. Each time one opened, he quickly debated whether or not tentacles would shoot from the spine and envelop him, drag him back to Apocrypha for the rest of eternity.She gestured to the robes in his lap. “Do they fit? Faralda said they were from an Orc initiate who seemed about your size.” He guessed that was supposed to make him feel better, or earn some kind of response. When he gave none, she went on. “I have something for you.” Tharya said, moving in front of him to sit on the step by his foot. Miraak let his shoulders bristle at her presence--she was too familiar for his liking, and this was too like that night outside of Winterhold when she had insisted on tending to his wound. Strangely enough, his dovah no longer wanted to consume her soul entirely. No--now it called out to her. Again. He shifted away to perhaps grant himself from reprieve from that tugging sensation; it was growing tiring. “A couple things, actually,” she gave a weak chuckle. “First, this.” She handed over three bandage rolls and two glass bottles no taller than his index finger. He noted her hands were warm and ever so slightly pruned--so she had finally taken her bath. “For your...for Mora’s wound. Since you don’t want me doing it, which I understand.” She looked up at him with those clear, silvery eyes for a moment before looking away, her hands falling to the remaining object in her lap. “I’m sorry I forced you into it that one time. And I shouldn’t have said what I did about...about Mora. I was just tired and irritated.” His jaw tightened. She’d already apologized once earlier, why did she insist on doing it again? It didn’t matter. He had ignored the first one, more or less, and he would do the same with the second; weakness and empathy were not the traits of a dovah. Taking them without a word, Miraak couldn’t tell if the roaring song in his chest was one of gratefulness or not. The next thing on her lap was roughly the size of a large plate, wrapped in fine cloth and tied with fraying twine. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want this, but it belongs to you.” She extended it to him, but hesitated in letting him take it. He had worn gloves for so long, the feeling of roughspun cloth had been lost to him. It was coarse and prickly against his fingers. Not soft or warm like the robes; less welcoming, but more practical. Another part of reality he’d forgotten. With care, he undid the twine knot and peeled the cloth away.His hands froze mid air. Tharya watched him intently, watched the way his jaw seemed to clench and his forearms went tense. Neloth had been the one who found them lying in the ash, and took it upon himself to bring them back from the dead in his tower. Neloth had also been smart enough to grab the mask and hold onto it—maybe too passionately, it had taken some convincing to get it off his hands—but she doubted Miraak remembered much of it. He had been halfway between conscious and unconscious the whole time, speaking hazy words to her in Dovahzul. The first time he opened his eyes had been on the boat. The first time he spoke to her was on the steps of Windhelm. Since then, next to nothing. The Dragon Priest lifted his mask into the light, running his fingers lightly over each groove, each miniscule scrape it had suffered over the years. He remembered when it had not been malformed like this. He remembered Vahlok tearing it from his face, saying he was unworthy of it, letting it fall into the dirt. He remembered wheezing, his own blood pouring from his lips, Vahlok pushing his face into the ground below. He distinctly remembered the feel of the other Priest’s boot on his cheek, the taste of the earth in his mouth. He remembered being encased by tentacles, the look on Vahlok’s face as he was sucked in Apocrypha. The last thing he had seen from the outside world.No, he didn’t truly want it, but some part of him refused to get rid of it.“Kogaan,” he said quietly, hardly above a murmur. Thank you.The mask stared back at him, somehow still full of mocking life when he himself felt only a dreadful emptiness.“You hadn’t said anything about it, so I assumed...” her sentence trailed off, remained unfinished. He could easily guess at what she had assumed. Assumed he held some special attachment to it, assumed he wanted it. True, the mask held power, and true, even now he did feel some odd connection to it, but nothing fond or loving. Even without it he had to be the most powerful mage in Tamriel, and he knew it. After a minute of waiting, the Last Dragonborn stood, leaving him and his mask alone in the garden. For a moment he debated whether he should break the mask in half over his knee or throw it into the corner. He did neither. When he tried to snap it, holding it there a foot over his leg and ready, with every fiber in his body, to smash it to bits, Miraak found he couldn’t bring his arms or hands to move. If he couldn’t break it, perhaps he could toss it away, or leave it on the steps. But when he stood without it in his hands it stared expectantly up at him from the ground. Aren’t you taking me, too? Where are you going without me? Don’t you need me to hide behind? No. No, no, no. Even if Tharya didn’t know it, he was leaving his face bare for a purpose that involved her. It also involved his honor, but he knew that she couldn’t care less about. Miraak gathered everything she’d given him, mask reluctantly included, and stood, making his way cautiously around the half wall. She was nowhere to be seen, but the door to a connecting room was propped open. He ventured inside. She wasn’t there, either, something he found mild disappointment in, but there was something almost better: a bath. He knew he probably shouldn’t but he pushed it aside; the Last Dragonborn had no great love for him, a self-righteous bastard who had locked himself away in servitude to a Daedric Prince for the past four thousand years. To Oblivion with it all, there was a bath in front of him and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly, fully clean. Taking the robes off was a process all over again. Hesitant, despite the fact he was in a dark room by himself, with only a shaft of moonlight illuminating the chamber down the middle, he began to undress. It was both refreshing and terrifying to do it himself. Refreshing because it hadn’t happened in so long, something like this that most people thought nothing of and did themselves, but also terrifying because with each layer gone, with each added weight leaving him, each piece of skin revealed to the nothingness, the pit in his stomach grew. Miraak hated vulnerability as much as he hated weakness, and here, now, he felt both in abundance. The more clothes he dropped to the floor the more threatening the water seemed. It took patience to remind himself that it wasn’t one the pitch black pits in Apocrypha. It took courage to dismiss the possibility of dark tentacles shooting out of the water and dragging him back. It took shame to admit that he, Miraak, First Mage of the Solstheim Cult, Dragon Priest, and First Dragonborn, was scared of a tub of water. His robes crumpled like ancient paper to the floor, and he set the College ones down beside them. The bathtub was not made for six-foot-eight Atmoran men, but for once in his life he didn’t mind having to crunch up. He cupped his hands beneath the water and let it drain onto his hair, something the vahdins do vulon used to do. Now, if there was only one to rub his shoulders and one to throw petals in the water, then he’d truly be living as if nothing changed. He’d only had two...concubines, he thought to himself, that’s the word for them now. The official one, at least. Ahzidal, in all his madness, had gone through too many to count in one season. Morokei, supposedly, was celibate and Zahkriisos rarely took anyone for himself. Dukaan went politely through one man at a time. But his...Lok and Shul. Sky and sun. Vahlok, the one he’d considered a brother for so long, had been quick to offer them up as tribute when winter came. And he remembered each dragon’s name, oh yes: one for Paarthurnax, one for Mirmulnir. Miraak tried to cut the thought free before it formed, but he could still remember their screams. Lok had screamed at Paarthurnax, ever the independent one, beating the old dragon’s nose with their fists again and again until their bones were snapped in his powerful jaws and their blood spilled in waterfalls to the ground. Shul, though, had cried specifically for him, his name, reaching for him even as the life drained from her body as if he’d cast some flashy spell and carry her away, back to the safety she knew she could find in his presence. Save her. A buried part of him had desperately wanted to. Paarthurnax had eyed him warily down the landscape of his snout, maw still red and dripping, watching for some kind of reaction. There was none. He had mastered the stoic expression long before his imprisonment with Hermaeus Mora demanded it. Only the curling of his toes inside his boots, and the raging dovah inside. He blinked. Hot water stirred as he sat up again. Clearing his mind became a priority. Water. Warm, liquid, comforting. Ceramic . Smooth, cool, white, hard. The screeching of the door caught his attention. Another figure entered the room.
Who-?
Eyes followed the Last Dragonborn’s figure in the darkness, loose hands tightening into fists against the smooth rim of the tub. Dovah stirring, Miraak very carefully let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding or had ever sucked in. She didn’t know he was here, and he preferred to keep it that way. She was humming something to herself, standing just barely in the wide shaft of moonlight that split the room. His next breath caught in his chest when her robes hit the floor, and immediately he drew his gaze away—at the very least, he could maintain her privacy. That he had no quarrels with. But, painstakingly slow, of their own curious volition, his eyes skipped around the room before brushing over her again, not quite admiring but examining the landscape of her back. Maybe looking for a scar, a birthmark, he didn’t really know. Any defining feature as this incessant and baseless need to know the Last Dragonborn got the better of him. Tharya lifted her arms to undo the braid of her gold-tinted hair, scrunching the skin, but in the vibrant moonlight his attention hooked on a strange black mark on her shoulder. Looking closer, the water around him seemed to run cold as ice, that vulnerability and fright and deeply, deeply rooted hatred filling his veins. She ran her fingers through her hair to untangle it a bit, but he could still see it clearer than day. A rectangular-shaped iris, in a half-lidded eye, surrounded by a black smoke.
Hermaeus Mora.
Miraak stayed long after she walked out, scrubbing the last of Apocrypha rapidly out of his hair, letting water roll down his spine, debating in his head whether or not to shave the short beard he’d grown. Again only trying to occupy his mind with something other than what he’d just lain eyes on. Each time his mind wandered back to the strange mark, the ever-watchful eye that had been painted on her back, he wondered if she even knew it was there, or if Hermaeus Mora had marked her. Or, if she was working for him. That thought settled heavily in his chest. He, by no means, trusted this woman, but to think all her grandstanding about his freedom had been merely a ruse, something to get him to go along with her plans...he didn’t trust her—so he told himself—but for some reason he had trusted her resolve. Her devotion. She wouldn’t have stayed with him in Apocrypha, nor would she have tended to him for a month after they broke out, if she was not devoted to her word. And her word was that she wasn’t going to let him die. But here she was, with Hermaeus Mora’s mark on her shoulder, and here he was, completely at her mercy, having played right into her hands...his dovah seemed furious that he would even think that, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and managed to get into the college robes. They fit, but were tight around his shoulders. No surprise. He had no idea where the Last Dragonborn had situated herself, but the bed was empty. Fool. Her selfless nature was naïve and lost on him; whatever he needed, he would take, and this would get her nothing but a sore back. Regardless, he tried to remind himself of the motions of getting into a bed. Sit, first. Relax. The mattress was soft, which would’ve been welcoming had it not been too understuffed to support the weight of his body when he laid down. Having a pillow under his head made his neck ache with strain. The covers were thick and while they were most likely perfect for these Fourth Era Nords, they made him uncomfortably warm. The bed itself was a foot too short, he found once he laid down completely and the soles of his feet slammed into the wood. Of course, of course. He was considered short or, at best, average by Atmoran standards, but here and now, he was a giant. Like the bathtub, he was not meant to fit into anything here. He was not meant to fit here. Miraak closed his eyes with an aggravated sigh, deciding it best to turn on his side. Bringing his knees to his chest was wildly confining. He returned to his back. This way he could breathe properly, but there was nowhere to direct his apparent excess of legs, even when he kicked the covers onto the floor. What could he possibly do about it? Not a thing. He needed rest, that much was clear. His body had been demanding it of him for days, weeks, as exhaustion followed in his footsteps. So rest he would, to the best of his ability, and for all the gods’ sakes he would stop wondering about where the Last Dragonborn was if not in this, her, bed. The mark haunted him. Her skin haunted him. The image of the fabric falling off her body, the warmth of her fingers when she handed him his mask. The apology she offered just beforehand. Had he been right in ignoring it? Should he have said something? No, no. It was her choice to make that apology, and it was his choice to make a reply. But still, as he tried to wrestle his mind into quiet so he could sleep, the image of the robe leaving her shoulders, her fingers combing lightly through her hair-
You are never truly gone, Miraak.
He stiffened. Who....that voice. He knew that voice.
Never truly beyond me...
That voice was all too recognizable. He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. Hermaeus Mora wasn’t here; Tharya had dragged him out of Apocrypha. But she had said herself, I’ll trade you back to Hermaeus Mora then. A trade. Such a specific choice of words, one Miraak couldn’t help but go over in his head. Trade. She had things she would want from Mora, things she would be willing to sell him out for? He was stupid to believe her all this time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Who was the fool now?
Never truly out of my sight...
The tension seeped back into his muscles, shoulders bunching up again. Even though the bed was cramped and uncomfortable, it had calmed him quite a bit just to lay stationary for a moment. Before he could stop himself, he cursed aloud into the dark room, the Dovahzul rolling off his tongue with an edge. Where was ahtlahzey? Could she hear this as well?
You will return sooner than you think.
The next sound he heard was a glass-shattering scream.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He threw the blankets off and tumbled out of the bed, taking long strides to his sword. There used to be an open eye on the handle, one of Mora’s eyes, with a rectangular iris, but now it was closed. Thank the gods for that, even if it didn’t mean anything. That was one less eye watching his every move.
“What was that?” Tharya emerged from the darkness, wherever she had found a chair or bedroll to sleep in, pulling on a pair of pants with tousled hair.
“
,” he replied grimly. She flew ahead of him to grab her spear and then wrench the door open.
He was just behind her, sword at the ready but staff forgotten, following her quick feet down the twisting flight of claustrophobic stairs. The air in the chamber they had stood in earlier in the day, the antechamber to the Hall of Elements, crackled with magic. They were greeted immediately by the sight of a handful of mages who seemed to be struggling to maintain a paralysis spell, and the figure between them moving with hardly a noise within the confines of their containment magic. A floating mass of shaggy, matted hair with fleshy tentacles and skinny arms poking out, something resembling his mask set in place of a defined face.
A Seeker.
Not a moment had passed after he had laid eyes on the Seeker when the nerves in his left shoulder lit on fire, enveloping his sword arm in pain and forcing a startled cry from his lips. Miraak’s grip faltered on the sword but he clenched his jaw tightly against the sudden agony. The Last Dragonborn shouldered by him, the spear tip of her staff glowing bright, and just as abruptly she too clutched at her shoulder, stumbling and leaning against the wall for support.
“What the hell is wrong with us?” She looked to him for an answer but he had none to give, not even an idea. The Seeker hovered just a few inches above the floor, near motionless between the four mages. Had they been attacked? No, they would’ve felt it, or seen it. So what could possibly be hurting them? And why the
shoulder?
Tharya’s hand was clamped exactly where he’d seen the mark earlier-
“You!” A short woman—the Breton, Mirabelle—barked at him, tearing her eyes away from the Seeker for only a second. Her eyes widened when she saw Tharya. “Arch-Mage! Stand back! Don’t interfere!”
He would’ve scoffed and brushed them all aside if it weren’t for the current circumstances. A few Fourth Era mages who could barely hold a Seeker, telling him to stand back? Foolish. Dragon Priest, First Mage to the Cult, First Dragonborn, dragonslayer, the list went on. A simple glyph or containment seal would do the job the four of them were doing, and do it infinitely better. Miraak readjusted his grip on his sword and stalked forward, only to realize he’d left his staff in the room.
Shit.
“I said stay back!” The woman’s voice held surprising conviction for such small stature, but he ignored it.
It didn’t matter if he didn’t have his staff, he could still make it work. The sword left a thin trail of slime wherever it went, and so with this barely perceptible residue he began drawing on the floor, scrawling out quick runes within a messy circle. Tharya noted what he was doing and took up a protective position at his side, spear pointed for the Seeker should it break free of the apprentices’ grip. And it looked like it was about to. Green magic danced around Miraak’s fingertips, and with a flick of his hand the glyph he’d drawn began to glow brightly and tendrils of pale magic reached out to wind around the Seeker, yanking it out of the vertex of the other four spells and into the impassable area created by his glyph. Four columns of ethereal light shot up from each of the cardinal directions around the circle, and every hair on the Seeker stopped moving. Each of the four mages stumbled as if they had been pushed; their magic was broken by his.
“You are interfering in-“
“Mirabelle!”
He recognized the voice as belonging to the Last Dragonborn, but didn’t bother to turn. The Breton woman looked furious but cast her gaze instead on the Arch-Mage at the foot of the stairs.
“
” Miraak asked slowly, watched as the Seeker tried to move towards him. So long as his hand remained a fist, the glyph would not give. “
” The Seeker made no reply. He had heard them speak on rare occasions, but for the majority of time they were silent, floating from bookcase to bookcase in Apocrypha without making a sound.
His sword went deep into the creature’s hairy layers, eliciting a faint but sickening squelch. The Seeker slumped on his blade, tentacles brushing the floor; the weight made his arm tremble, but still Miraak held fast.
“Miraaaaak...”
It was a whisper that crawled through the hall, reaching every ear like a foul stench touches every nose in the room. It devoured the momentary confidence he had shored himself up with. Somehow, somewhere, Hermaeus Mora knew where he was.
“
Ahtlahzey
.”
“Burn this thing,” Tharya was saying, gesturing to the Seeker, still impaled. “Make sure there’s no more in the rest of the College. Everyone stays in their rooms-“
Mirabelle was shaking her head. “Arch-Mage, there’s a pair in the town below as well. It seems they were heading this way, but the townspeople won’t be happy.” Despair crossed Tharya’s eyes for a moment before she sighed, and then nodded.
“Alright, just a moment then. I’ll go help take care of them.” As she stepped away from him, Miraak reached out and snatched her wrist, enclosing it in his fingers.
“
Ahtlahzey
,” he said firmly. She turned to him, a million questions in her eyes. “I need to speak with you.”
The moment the door closed, she rounded on him, eyes blazing.
“That was a Seeker.” She said. “How did it get in here?”
“You think it is my fault,
ahtlahzey?
” He scoffed, adjusting the grip on his sword. “You should tend to your own before you make accusations.”
Tharya threw her hands up, and while she took three steps forward he took three steps back. “Oh, you think I invited the Seeker here? Left the door open for it?” She stalked forward, spear tip aimed upwards.
“You did,” he huffed, jerking his chin in her direction.
“And how exactly do you think I managed that?” She gestured around the room and then to him with her staff. Likewise he raised his blade so it was perfectly level with her chest, but she didn’t flinch a bit. Even if he didn’t want to, he would not let her land a blow without striking first. “I’ve been around your arrogant ass all day.”
“Have you not seen the mark?” He asked, irritation inflating his voice.
Tharya’s words halted in her throat.
Fool. I’ve caught you.
So she
did
know about it, and was keeping it secret. That scared doe look in her clear eyes told him everything he needed to know. Miraak retracted his sword and widened his stance, poised to kill her in one hit. It made sense. Everything he’d felt towards her, all the conflict, all the unbidden
emotion
, it was all part of her plan.
“I knew it. You could not hide it from me forever,
ahtlahzey
.” Her eyes widened as she realized he was prepared to attack her, watching him draw himself up-
“Hey, hey, hold it, big man!” Tharya yelled, lowering her spear in peace. “Hold on. I don’t want to die today. What was that you just said?” Miraak paused. Could she truly not know...?
That, at least, was a tiny relief, but prompted so many more questions than he had answers. Where had it come from? When had it gotten there, and how? What did it mean? Relaxing, he motioned for her to turn around, and then pressed a finger against the mark hidden beneath her clothing. She recoiled as if he’d stabbed her anyway.
“What was that?” She demanded, eyebrows knit together. He leaned in, tasting her rage.
“Your mark. Do not say you didn’t see it.”
“I haven’t been around a mirror in over a month,” she snapped back. “What’s this thing look like? Some kind of a...black tattoo, with, I don’t know, an eye in the middle of it?” Miraak felt his brow knot together, grip on the fleshy hilt of his sword finally loosening. Suddenly her features shifted as recognition crossed his face, and slid onto hers. He hadn’t realized his
dovah
was screeching until they both fell quiet. So...she knew about it? Somehow?
“Yes.”
“Then you have one too.” Now her tone wasn’t accusatory, but rather informative. Her countenance twisted into mild concern. Now the pain in his shoulder downstairs made sense. Hers, too. He had thought it odd that she had gripped the shoulder that bore the mark, and never once thought that the feeling in his arm could be caused by the same exact thing. It had only erupted when he was in the same room as the Seeker, and had drained away when he took its life. That meant the mark, whatever it was, had some connection to Apocrypha, and thus Hermaeus Mora.
Gods, please don’t bring me back there. Akatosh, your firstborn-
“Finally! I was wondering when you’d figure it out. It was painful to watch, really.”
He bristled first and rounded on the new voice. There was only one thing that made his spine tingle like that: Daedra.
“
”
“I don’t know what that means,” Miraak jumped and jostled the sword back into a stiff grip, but was shocked into stillness as Tharya flung an arm out to hold him back, “but it doesn’t sound very nice.”
The Last Dragonborn’s arms strapped around his middle and his shoulder. Despite the white-knuckled grip on the sword and the slowly moving tentacles the coated the blade, he had no power to use it or, strangely, throw her off. She was stronger than she looked, even standing a foot below him, but for a moment he wondered if his immobilization could be completely attributed to her strength alone.
“Please, o champion mine, control your guard dog.” There was tall Daedra sitting on the sofas by the wall, his legs crossed one atop the other. His skin was greyish, face decorated with intricate red markings. A mess of wavy, chin-length hair was combed back from his features and around a pair of curled horns that hugged the sides of his head. The Daedra groaned, lifting himself off the wall. As he moved into the light, Miraak observed he was wearing little besides a silken red loincloth, decorated with a gold thread border and held in place at his hips by what seemed to be a belt of...thorny black vines. “Good to see you again, sweetcheeks. I figured I’d come on down and fill you in...” There was a hint of a slur on every word, almost like he was persistently drunk.
“He
isn’t
a guard dog,” she beat Miraak to it. Had she defended him so quickly? His muscles fell into relaxation. She patted his chest and spared him a glance, moving towards the Daedra. “But it’s good to see you too, Sanguine.” Tharya sighed. “What are you doing here?” What was that—relief, in her voice? Miraak shifted backwards, but was reluctant to leave Tharya alone. Sanguine was a name he’d heard before. Never seen the Prince himself, but Mora had spoken of him. And it was
not
a name he felt relieved about.
The sword remained in his hand, the tip of Tharya’s spear glowing brightly by his head. He watched their conversation with intent interest, but for some reason the words were lost to his ears. His
dov
had started up again, crooning for the staff. Her presence emanated from it, from all the nights on Solstheim sleeping with it tucked to her chest. Against his better judgement, he inhaled deeply. Fresh snow and the smokiness of fire. Where had that come from? Where had he smelled it before? The Dragonborn, of course. Dragging her out of Apocrypha, slinging her beaten body over his shoulder like a roughspun sack. He hadn’t paid attention to it then—apparently his
dov
had—but it came flooding back. There was some kind of reassurance in being near her staff, but it wasn’t quite enough for his
dov.
It sang a
lovaas
he hadn’t heard in millennia, or even truly once before. He had itched for a particular touch before but never a particular presence.
“Miraak?” His eyes slowly climbed from the staff to Sanguine and Tharya, looking at him rather expectantly. “What do you say?”
“
”
“Show us your mark.” Sanguine repeated, his voice holding a minor edge. Miraak stiffened but looked to Tharya for whatever reason, who gave a minute nod. “It would be in the same place, on your shoulder.”
If you want to.
Her voice echoed in his head and he watched shock cross her face. Gods, she truly didn’t know much about being Dragonborn. It was the first time one age had birthed two, but thought connections weren’t entirely unheard of. Mages of his caliber, and possibly of hers, had been known to establish such connections. Their dragonblood would only enhance it.
He tugged at the lacing around his collar and curled his fists into the fabric, turning as he pulled it off over his head. Sanguine gave a low whistle that made his jaw tighten; he was well aware of the dark scars that fell into the creases of his shoulder blades and melded with the skin down his sides. Tharya’s fingertips landed gently on his sides, oddly careful. Even so, he sucked in a sharp breath and let his head fall, chin touching his collarbone. She didn’t avoid these scars as she had the one on his chest, but it was impossible to think she didn’t see them.
“You’re the one who rebelled,” Sanguine said softly, his voice much closer than before, “one of those Dragon Priests?”
Miraak closed his eyes for a long time, breathing in the silence around him, before he trained his eyes on the stone beneath his boots.
The one who rebelled.
“
Geh.
”
The Daedric Prince’s dull nails were next to touch his skin, thumbing over the mark that was apparently on his shoulder. Quickly Miraak jerked away. He was not going to let a
Daedra
of all people touch him, there was not a chance in Oblivion of that ever happening again. Not while he lived and breathed the fresh air of Tamriel.
Ahtlahzey
he would tolerate, for now, this one instance. But not
him
. Seeming to understand this Sanguine retreated and Tharya hovered for a moment before shifting onto her toes to look. He should’ve known—Mora would never let him be, never let him go, never let him out of his sight. The Last Dragonborn had pulled him out of his prison, but he would never truly be free.
The trio of them settled into silence, Tharya’s hands still holding his sides. Undoubtedly she could feel the stifled anger in his breathing. Sanguine spoke first.
“They’re called dragonmarks. No one’s completely sure, but it’s probably ‘cause they burn when the marked come into close contact with the creator. Or,” he gave a lazy gesture with his hands, “some element of them. It would explain how the Seekers found you—they were drawn to Hermie’s power.”
“Yeah,” Tharya sighed, and the remnants of her breath hit Miraak’s spine, “Mirabelle had said there were more in the town below.”
“Guards killed them off pretty quickly,” Sanguine reassured her, “no need to worry about them now, sweetcheeks.” Her guilt and frustration seeped into the air around them, a dense silence joining it. Miraak vividly remembered his first interaction with the town of Winterhold, when they had arrived just his morning. No doubt they would blame it, and her, for the attack.
It is not your fault, ahtlahzey.
Tharya stiffened at his voice in her head but said nothing of it.
“We need to get rid of these marks,” Sanguine stated, as if it were that easy. “Let me check the Grove. If it’s safe, I can help you get rid of it there.”
“Sanguine?” The Daedra turned at her voice.
“Yes, champion mine?”
“How do you get rid of these?” Miraak had been considering asking himself; he had heard of his fair share of curses and spells, but this one eluded him.
“In order to get rid of it, you need to mark something else. Dragonmarks are made by magic, but they feed off souls, kind of. You can’t just go around slapping them on whoever you feel like,” he shrugged, “the pair, or the group, needs to have a bond. Generally it’s some kind of big emotional thing, with lots of baggage to keep the mark thriving on the host. So generally, it takes something of equal measure to get the mark off.” Sanguine sighed. “So, you gotta mark something with that same emotional vigor.”
“What, like piss on a tree?” The Prince laughed; Miraak felt his lips twist into a grin for the first time in a long, long time.
“No, come on. It’s not like we’re
werewolves
or something.” He said those words so pointedly, Miraak wondered for a brief second if Sanguine knew something he didn’t. But Tharya laughed right along with him, so perhaps it was just his imagination. His smile fading, the Daedric Prince’s features turned grim, and he shook his head. “No, sweetcheeks.” He frowned deeply at her, almost looking remorseful. “If only it were that simple.”
And before their eyes, he vanished.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Miraak exhaled quietly after he was sure Sanguine was gone, his shoulders relaxing as the familiar sense of impending doom flooded from his spine, exiting through his toes and leaving him with the normal emptiness. Gods, he wished for something to fill that void. Anything. Even something small.
“Hey,” Tharya looked at him as he moved to pull the robes on once more, “do you mind if I try something?” He stared at her blankly, the sleeves halfway up his arms. She...wanted to try something.
Something.
Like what? An experiment? A prank?
“That depends,” he said flatly.
“It involves touching and you leaving the shirt off, so,” she shrugged, “take that as you will.”
“Just tell me what it is,” he said in an icy voice, much colder than he would’ve wanted the words to come out. But she wasn’t phased. He’d been speaking down to her for how long now? She’d grown used to it. “Fine,” he relented quietly after she only stared up at him, lowering his arms and pulling the robes off his wrists, clenching them in one hand.
Slowly Tharya moved closer until she was nearly toe-to-toe with him, and then brought her hands up towards his chest. He watched her every move intently, a protestation rising in his throat as she ever so gently pressed her palms to his pectorals—each hand resting on the outer lines of the three-legged scar marring his chest.
The next thing he felt was magic surrounding him, seeping into his muscles. Flowing from her fingertips into him, brushing his soul. Each scar on his body seemed to light on fire, and again from the confines of his chest his
dovah
roared to life.
She was reading him.
It was a rare spell to have performed, and no one had truly given it a name, but most referred to it as
reading
. Reading someone through the scars they bore, delving into the origin of the mark and the memories connected to it. She was extremely focused on him. The mark that hugged his shoulder blade--he remembered it vividly. A dragon claw that had sunk through him entirely, just barely missing his bones. The last dragon he had killed before his temple was razed to the ground and Vahlok fought him in the ashes. A healing spell had stitched his muscles and tendons and skin back together but the pain remained well into his imprisonment in Apocrypha. It left a jagged pink line that followed the curve of his shoulder-
Before she could go any further, he twisted away and grabbed her wrist.
Who taught you that, ahtlahzey? His own voice rang in his head just as surely as it rang in hers.
“You did this on Solstheim,” she noted, “talked to me in my head. Who taught you that, mul gein?”
Mul gein?
Strong one? From her?
“Morokei,” Miraak replied, mind lingering in the way she spoke Dovahzul. Crisp and clear. Not as fluid as his, but still good. Passable. It was the first time she’d spoken in Dovahzul to him—it was strangely comforting. “He was a Priest and...a mentor. He taught me a great deal.” His grip loosened on her wrist but didn’t slip away. Her palm lingered above his chest, the space around her fingers crackling with magic. “I did not think any Fourth Era mages capable of such a spell.”
“The previous Arch-Mage was a very knowledgeable man,” she smiled briefly. “He taught me a great deal. But not this one.” Her eyes sparkled at his recycled words now used against him. It struck him that they’d conversed the most in the past half hour than they had in the past two weeks. And it had felt strangely right. He was growing tired of saying that to himself, but it was the only way to describe...
her
.
Miraak held her gaze for a moment before gingerly pressing her palm back to his chest. This Fourth Era mage, somehow, had managed to learn the skill of reading someone’s very past, based solely on the surviving physical marks on their skin. Sympathetic magic like that was...difficult, to say the very least, to come by. But he hadn’t thought her one for such a class of restoration anyway. If the Arch-Mage before her hadn’t taught her, who had?
“Tell me what you see,
ahtlahzey
.” Tharya looked up at him as if waiting for confirmation, waiting to be sure he was alright with it. Miraak only pressed her hand harder to his chest. He didn’t know why he wanted her to do this, but he did. Her face contorted and twisted for a moment, and then she closed her eyes, head jolting to the right as if startled.
“Dragonfire.” She centered herself, shifting on her feet, splaying her fingres against the scar. “Solstheim—your temple. It’s burning.” His
dovah
began to reel. “Skeletons, at least twenty of them. Their souls are gone. You...watching it burn.”
The fire reflected in his eyes, all color buried under the raging orange of the flames. No scar across his nose, none to split his eyebrow.
“One dragon who disappears into the smoke returns and grabs you. You fight him off but...there’s a battle. The ground is scorched, your temple collapses. You know you’ve lost, until he reaches out.” Without knowing what he was doing, his fingers curled down between hers.
Robes torn, his staff is his last resort. Face covered in soot and dust, lip busted. The dragon raises its head to the sky and screeches, bringing down a single claw with one fell swoop. His chest explodes. There is blood and bone. He is falling. Falling. The ground catches him. Wings take to the sky.
Her hand fisted below his and with a gasp, her head snapped up.
“That’s Paarthurnax.”
His eyes flew open. Paarthurnax.
“How do you know that name?” He meant it to have more conviction but it comes out soft, hoarse even.
“He’s alive. He...he taught me a great deal.” Now there is no mischief in her countenance at that phrase, no poke of humor. She recognized Paarthurnax, and saw him nearly claw a man in half, reduce a temple to ash. Had he changed? Teaching mortals instead of enslaving them? Unlikely.
They stood there for a long moment, recapturing the steady breathing they didn’t know they lost, inhaling each other’s air. His
dovah
whined for her presence to return.
Tharya stared at him for a moment longer, eyes moving slowly around his face. For once he didn’t look away.
“These are different,” her fingers captured his chin and tilted his head down to hers. Cool fingers brushed over the scar splitting his eyebrow, trailing down to the bridge of his nose. Even without
reading
them as she had the other one, she could tell their origin was not the same. “Vahlok gave you these.”
“
Aan ofan.
” He murmured, trying his hardest to not push his face into her palm like a lapdog. She scoffed quietly.
“Some gift.”
“This is touching, really. My teeth ache.”
They jolted in unison, immediately disconnecting from each other. Miraak made some kind of half-disgusted grunt at Sanguine, pulling his robes on again. It felt good to have clothes covering him, but her touch lingered like it always did. “But we have to get rid of these marks.”
Tharya cleared her throat and scurried away to retrieve her staff, twirling it experimentally on her fingers before the spear tip planted on the floor.
“Can you get rid of them, then?” Now the Nord’s voice was as it had always been, instead of the soft, intimate whisper of before when she’d touched him. Now it was normal, inquisitive, not overtly commanding but requiring some kind of attention.
Miraak closed his eyes for a brief moment, to dispel the aching feeling in his chest and the nerves burning in his cheeks. When he opened them again, they were no longer in the Arch-Mage’s quarters, and Sanguine was nodding.
“Well, I can’t myself, but you guys can here.”
The world around them had somehow gone from dimly-lit, circular stone room to hazy forest, a path of worn stones stretching out beyond his boots. Trees swayed high, bushes crowded low. Flowers peeked through. Racing streaks of brilliant red shot through the darkening sky; the forest seemed to be in a perpetual state of dusk, with an airy filter settling over Miraak’s vision. In the distance, laughter and the metallic clank of tankards rose above the general hum of the breeze and the birds. There was no way this was a plane of Oblivion.
“I suppose you were expecting another slimy tar-pit infested library,” Sanguine snorted, noting the Dragon Priest’s wonder. “I like to think this is the better side of Oblivion. If not the best.” The Daedra turned away and started down the path.
“The Misty Grove, he calls it.” Tharya waited for Miraak to follow, disguising it as taking in the scenery around them. Finally she made a little gesture for him to come, and they fell into stride alongside one another. “One little corner of the Myriad Realms of Revelry.”
Gods, even the air smelled fresh. The sunset was so vibrant, it lit everything within his line of vision a muted color of rose gold. A yard or two behind Sanguine, they crossed over a murmuring brook via a creaky wooden bridge. Trees whispered their secrets in the gentle breeze. Oblivion had never looked so enticing. There was no weather in Apocrypha; only the damp air, the scent of ancient books, the slickness of the water, and the threat of impending doom. And occasionally, the feel of sweaty limbs encasing one’s neck. But here, he could almost bring himself to feel at ease. Here, it was peaceful.
“Do you remember the color of your eyes?” Tharya asked suddenly, looking up at him. It was an odd question, but Miraak shook his head. “I was just thinking...” she flushed. “Maybe Sanguine can get rid of the black. If they weren’t like that before—if you’d want that.”
From ahead of them, a call of “of course I can” rose.
“I do not remember,
ahtlahzey
,” Miraak replied honestly, giving a gentle shrug that made their arms brush together. “But they are indeed a product of Daedric influence. If there is a way to heal them...” he trailed off, letting the sentence go unfinished and watching her nod along.
“We can look into that when we get back to Winterhold.” She reached out to pat his arm awkwardly. “I’m sure Urag will have a book or two lying around. But I can do the research,” these words were added on quickly, like a sudden afterthought, “I’m sure you don’t want to spend any more time cooped up in a library.”
Sanguine brought them into a small clearing that seemed a bit dimmer than the rest of the place; looking up, Miraak saw that they were directly beneath where the slowly encroaching starry dusk sky met the last blazing shreds of the evening clouds. The stone path beneath their feet disappeared and then reappeared across the grove, leading away and through the trees. The grass here was short but soft, tickling his ankles as Sanguine came to a stop and they did likewise, the Prince turning towards them.
“Gods--please put that thing out,” he grumbled, shielding his eyes from the spear. Tharya rolled her eyes but flipped the weapon, shiny tip pointing downwards. “Whatever you did to it, it hurts.”
“I blessed it.” Miraak said.
“Of course. It reeks of blessing.” The Daedric Prince made a disgusted noise before he clapped his hands together. “But anyway, the Grove should be safe. I can’t make any promises—maybe one of the other Realms would work, but this is the only one you’re familiar with so I made an executive decision to bring you here,” he gestured towards Tharya. She’d been here before? “I don’t know if Mora knows you’re here, but I’m fairly convinced he can’t get to you.”
Fairly convinced
didn’t have enough reinforcement behind it. “Besides, invading another Prince’s Plane of Oblivion is an unspoken no-no.”
“So, how do we get rid of these things?” The Last Dragonborn tapped her fingers against her staff.
“Right. This is the part you may not like as much.” He sighed. “You have to mark something else. Like I said, something big and emotional that you’d share. You’re both Dragonborn, both strong mages. As far as I’m concerned, you already have a good bond.” Sanguine paused to look them both in the eye, one by one. “I couldn’t think of anything, but, uh...if you let those things sit for too long it’ll start to affect you. Badly. I figured the Myriad Realms would be safer than just sitting around on Nirn for you to think of something.”
So. He knew how to get rid of them, but he didn’t know what
they
could do to get rid of them.
“Well...” Tharya’s brows knit together and she chewed her lip for a moment, “if we aren’t on Nirn, how can we find something to get rid of them?” She did have a point. Their life was waiting on Nirn, and something would only happen to them if they were experiencing life as it was meant to be experienced. Sanguine didn’t meet her gaze.
“Well, I uh, I did think of something. You won’t like it,” he warned.
Tharya shrugged. “I’m open to ideas.”
“You could...in some way, mark each other.” Those words settled heavily in the air, making it thick and hard to breathe. “Listen, I don’t know if you know, but those souls of yours are heavily connected. Maybe you couldn’t feel it, since you aren’t god-like beings. Doing something like
that
,” he made a vague gesture with his hands, as if he was rolling dough. “Would maybe do something to your souls, maybe kickstart their connection. Or change it, somehow. As far as I’m concerned, anything that has to do with a soul is pretty big,” Sanguine shrugged, “so it may be a shitty idea, but at least you know how big we’re talking. Maybe bigger.”
She’d been quiet up until this point, and Miraak had kept the Last Dragonborn on the edge of his peripheral vision. She wasn’t making a sound, nor a face. In fact, the only reaction she seemed to have to this was a spaced out look in her eyes, a despondency he had not seen from her before.
“Like
mating?
” Tharya blurted suddenly, and hesitantly Sanguine nodded. Miraak hated that word, hated that she had compared it to that—
mating
, it made him feel like a
dog
—but...without another sound, she turned and stalked out of the clearing, disappearing down the dark path.
“Anything else would be temporary,” the Prince reasoned, “as far as I can tell. You’re both alive, you will be for a long while, even if you don’t stick around one another.”
“And what happens after we die,
deyra
?”
The man opposite him shrugged. “That’s out of my hands. But think of it like this: right now, Hermaeus Mora holds the other end of that leash on your shoulder. Anything you do, with the strength and uniqueness of your souls, if it matches up to whatever happened to get those marks there-” what had even put them there? Could it have been their escape from Apocrypha? Or the aftermath? Miraak had been unconscious for most of that, for nearly a month afterwards, so he remembered nothing. “-will transfer that leash to each of you. And I
don’t
think you’re out to kill her anymore...so maybe it works.” His fingers curled and uncurled into tight fists at his sides. The more he thought about the magic involved, the more Sanguine’s solution made sense. Marking each other would insure them for a lifetime. Decades of safety, even if he didn’t remain in Skyrim. Or Tamriel. He could go back to Atmora. Or even Solstheim; find a different name and seclude himself in with the Skaal. The truest Nords of the Fourth Era besides himself. Find Vahlok’s remains. There was little doubt in his head that the Jailor was aware of his presence on Nirn, of his fellow Dragon Priest walking the earth as flesh and blood again. He hated it, but it seemed right. How had Sanguine come to this conclusion? How did he know about the connection of their
dovah
? There was no mistaking that there
was
something there, would this...would anything they did be strong enough to bring it out?
Miraak had never known of a time when two
Dovahkiinne
had walked Nirn in the same era, nor the same
year
, and definitely no chronicles of two Dragonborns ever
meeting
. Interacting. Knowing one another.
When he looked up Sanguine had vanished, and the forest path called out to him.
The trees were denser on this side of the grove, more like a forest than before, allowing only thin shafts of sunlight through the canopy. Just enough for him to find each stepping stone. His
dovah
was singing something unknown to him, a need for something, a requirement he had yet to fulfill. The sound of cascading water soon met his ears, and the forest spit him out at the bottom of a bluff. A rushing waterfall began high overhead and fell down the cliffside, emptying itself into a large pond. On the edge of the pond, the Last Dragonborn had taken off her boots and put her feet in the water.
No longer entirely sure of his own actions, he walked over to her, slid his boots off as well and sat on the grass. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t say anything either. The water felt good around his ankles. Clean, natural, cool. Real. He didn’t know how long they sat in silence, with only the waterfall across the pond. Finally, she spoke. His
dovah
hardly paid attention.
“I don’t have a plan yet,” she admitted, “just let me think about it, big guy.” He rumbled gently in his chest but didn’t reply. He couldn’t, his mind was in such a haze, he couldn’t form words. So Miraak disregarded her own, ignored whatever she had said, twisted to his side and planted his hands on the grass beside her. Without a second thought, he went forward.
Their lips touched and he felt every muscle loosen. His sigh mixed somewhere with an exasperated groan, breath hitting her face. She was surprised, her eyes open, fluttering, but didn’t shove him off. His motion was not his own, but the roar of his
dovah
had reached an almost unbearable pitch until it blocked out all other thoughts.
“It will save us,
ahtlahzey
,” he murmured, lips moving against hers as clear eyes flickered open to meet him, “and I will do anything to save us.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Her hands found his jaw and then his cheeks, pulling his mouth back to hers. Tharya was...uncertain, to say the least. Maybe not entirely sure what he meant by this kiss. She’d thought from the moment she’d seen his real face and not that damned mask that sure, he was handsome. A handsome man was kissing her—a handsome man with a nice voice and soft lips, who was kissing her gently, lovingly, his hands planted on the ground behind her. Kept between his arms like this, she felt...an overwhelming sense of safety. Why was he doing this? She didn’t have many complaints, but it was undeniable there was something tugging her towards him ever since they met on Solstheim, something in her chest, something in her soul that always wanted him closer and near and around . She hadn’t kissed someone in forever. She hadn’t been kissed in centuries. Miraak groaned again, softly, relishing in the feel of her lips on his own. And she hadn’t pushed him away—imagine that. He couldn’t remember the last time he kissed someone, or ever had the chance. Mora had brought him unknowing men and women a few times, early on to keep his allegiance. Mir. He had found no quarrel with it. But now there was another voice to the lovaas, not just his soul but hers. A dusty melody from a time long forgotten. Her kiss was more caress than anything else, protective but gentle, reassuring but commanding. Hands found her sides and he let them move; in his mind, the towel was falling away all over again. Lean muscle, soft spots, the near unnoticeable bump of a scar. She made him weak and empowered at the same time, dazed but alert. Alert enough to feel the first tentacles slide around his torso. When he opened his eyes, the night was gone. The moon had been painted over by acidic, vomit-green skies, the waterfall had dried up and formed into a familiar pit of pungent tar, shining and black at the center of the Summit of Apocrypha.“No,” he breathed, “nid. No, no, no!”“I...have missed you so, hmm, terribly much, my champion.” Mora drawled, sweetly stroking the side of Miraak’s face with a cool, damp tentacle. His eyes flew open. No. No! No! How in Bormahu’s name had they ended up here? In this accursed place, in this horrible place, in this gods-forsaken corner of Oblivion. “Come now.” Hermaeus would’ve grinned if he had a mouth to use. Tharya made to stand, but she didn’t have her spear. Reflexively Miraak reached out to crush her to his chest. “Miraak-” “Did you think I would let you escape so easily, Miraak? ” No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Fear rose in his gut, but his face remained impassive. Now, for a brief moment, he wished for his mask. “And you. ” All of the hundred goat eyes turned to Tharya, clasped protectively in his arms. “Miraak, you can let go,” she whispered. “No, he cannot,” Mora gargled. To the untrained ear the Prince’s voice was as impassive as ever, but to Miraak’s astute listening, honed over thousands of years, he was amused. He was enjoying this. “Hold her if you wish, Miraak. It will not matter.” Tentacles shot out from the amorphous mass of inky air above them, and before he could Shout—though one rose in his throat, strong and ready to blow the Prince farther into Oblivion than he already was—Tharya’s Voice rose in place of his own. Ven...gaar nos! A whirling cyclone left her lips, with such force that he felt the power of her Voice shudder through her body and into his. Hermaeus Mora yelled something angrily—and then swatted the growing tornado away, sliced it in half with a single motion. The wind was directed back at them, now in two parts, and the Dragonborns hunched together to fend it off as it threatened to tear them apart. In their taking of the defensive, though, Hermaeus Mora took the opposite: with his free limbs, and they were many, he drew closer and shot out to grab Miraak, yank him away. “No-!” Tharya grasped upwards for him but couldn’t do anything. “I missed you, Miraak,” Mora hummed lowly, drawing the Priest closer to his largest eye. It blinked, the lid moving slowly to shut before revealing the large, rectangular iris once more. “It has been so, hmm, quiet without my... champion here.” His body reverted immediately to that same death-like stillness he had taught himself within the first century in Apocrypha. No emotion. No expression. Not even a blink of his eye. Even though the mask had generally kept his face away from the Daedra’s prying eyes, he still schooled himself into learning the same stoicism should the mask ever be taken away. And it was. Oh, it was, many times before now. “I will kill you someday,” Miraak replied evenly, hearing Tharya scramble for her spear, but it hadn’t come to Apocrypha with them. So Mora had pulled them here, no doubt, and he had intentionally left their weapons behind. “Do not try my patience, girl,” another tentacle shot out towards Tharya and he heard her cry out, wanting to twist around and see what was happening. “It took me, hm, some time to recover from your last charade. But I assure you... it will not happen again .” In one carefree motion two other, smaller tentacles shot out from behind the smokey mass of eyes and gave his robes a good pull, ripping the fabric away. No emotion. No expression. Not even a blink of his eye. This, he didn’t care about, not anymore. His mind reeled back to when Tharya had changed his bandages last, and Hermaeus Mora seemed to take great pleasure in finding that his torso was still wrapped from their last encounter. A momentary bout of fear struck him. Gods, if they were here long enough, he didn’t want to know how Mora would use that wound against him... But no. His interest in the bandages was fleeting, and in one swift flicking motion he tossed Miraak right out of the air and harshly to the floor of the Summit. It knocked all the wind straight from his chest, but that, too, wasn’t new to him. Tharya scrambled over, grabbing his shoulders.“Hey, big man, don’t get yourself hurt again,” she said quickly, helping him into a sitting position. “No heroics, alright?” “Miraak!” Hermaeus boomed, voice final and strong. “You thought to evade me once, but it—you—will never have the chance to do so again.” And then he grew exponentially quieter, alarmingly so. “You, my... champion. Will, hmm, indulge me one last time.” A slimy appendage had wrapped unnoticed around each of them while distracted with his words, and just as Tharya looked down hers tightened around her middle and flung her out like a whip, directly into the nearby wall. “And she...” the tentacle flicked back, slamming her to the floor once, twice. Despite all his training against it, Miraak flinched. “ She will be most interesting to, hmm... include.” Panic. Utter panic. It washed over him so suddenly his stomach churned and twisted on itself. The glow of a healing spell caught his eye, but Hermaeus Mora didn’t seem to care about that, either. “Leave her out of this,” Miraak growled, “she is not of interest to you.” “She was not, until quite recently,” the Prince replied, lifting the Last Dragonborn off the ground and returning her to him. Like a puppet master he arranged her legs, slotting her perfectly into his lap. In any other circumstances he would’ve found her blush endearing, but not now. “Go.” Mora said dryly. “Amuse me.” Amuse me. Neither of them moved. Tharya looked away, hands tucked into her sides. She tried to wiggle off him but the appendage around her tightened still and elicited a cry of pain from her lips. Her ribs creaked under the pressure. “I am waiting,” Mora groaned in his slow, calm voice. “Entertain me, Miraak, and perhaps...I will, hm, rid you of the marks.” “Sanguine will figure something out,” Tharya whispered, more to herself than him. “You are beyond his help here, little Dragonborn.” She shivered, trying to banish his voice from her thoughts. But, if Mora had been able to take them from the Misty Grove, then it stood to reason Sanguine could take them from Apocrypha, right? “I said I am waiting! ” Mora’s voice rose in a rare display of anger, and with a rough shove he pushed her again into Miraak, again bumping her hips to his. “Do not make me go further, Miraak,” he sang, “would you like her to know how you scream?” Before he was afforded the chance to answer Mora wrapped a slimy arm around Miraak’s wrists, pulling them taut behind his back and forcefully arching his spine outwards, shoulderblades pushing together. Almost immediately he found Tharya’s wrists and slapped her smaller hands onto his torso. “Learn his shape, little Dragonborn,” he crooned, “I tired of it...long ago.” At first she kept her fingers curled but he winced when her nails scratched over his skin, and with a reluctant slowness she unfurled them, letting Hermaeus Mora drag her palms wherever he deemed fit. Still she looked away, but not directly downwards where the bend of his hips was positioned perfectly between her straddling legs. And then one of her hands, guided by the monster floating above, entered her line of vision, trailing down his stomach, and the sudden rush of blood to his groin made black appear at the edges of his vision. She made some involuntary, disgusted noise, twisting the knife of shame further into his spine. “I tire of this game, Miraak,” Hermaeus said threateningly. Behind Tharya’s head one tentacle writhed and bubbled as it transformed its shape and size, growing thinner but sprouting fleshy spikes on all sides, waving dauntingly out of the Last Dragonborn’s sight but completely in the First’s. It drew closer, closer to Tharya, and then ducked—and Miraak at last realized that if they didn’t do something, soon, quick, he wasn’t sure if Hermaeus Mora planned to use that thing to bash their heads in or rip them apart from the inside. “Ahtlahzey,” though his arms were restrained, he leaned forward to gently kiss her forehead, and then her eyelids, and the crease between her brows in an attempt to ease it. He kissed the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, avoiding her lips with every fiber of his being. Her lips he couldn't bring himself to kiss. Those...were not for him. Not again. He had started this whole mess by doing that, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And even if she wanted anything to do with him after this, he could at least say he hadn't kissed her. It seemed a silly thing, a trivial thing compared to what Hermaeus Mora was...doing. To them. A little kiss wouldn't hurt anyone, but already they were being used by a Daedric Prince they had no power against, and he would do anything to save them now. “Trust in me. I will not break,” he managed to get his lips to her ear, “you may do as he says. I will not break.” Her touch was trembling; the cool, calming aura she constantly put off swept away and replaced by lighted nerves. He could feel her hands fumbling with him, trying her best to avoid whatever she could—and quickly leaving the region Mora had left them in—trying her best not to invade his privacy or his space. But they were long past that. He could feel her hands on him, but some part, some horrible, numb part didn’t mind it as much—some darker, broken part said at least they were hands, not tentacles, at least she was a human, a person, someone he told himself he had no particular feelings on, and not Hermaeus Mora. But Hermaeus Mora wasn’t gone, oh gods no. Hermaeus Mora would never leave, especially not in a scene like this. Where they had just started to comply. These were his favorite. He watched, he commanded, his countless eyes watching them and his countless arms sliding over Miraak; cold and soft and wet, like wood on an especially humid day. Damp. They were heavy, too. Heavier than he remembered. Heavy in the way that he was a twig, trying not to snap under someone’s pressing boot. Soon enough his arms began to tremble, even if there was an odd, disgusting comfort in Tharya’s presence, her weight atop him, her fingers cautiously exploring him, a comfort he had spent the last couple of days denying he felt. Vaguely he heard Hermaeus Mora telling him to do something, and though his brain registered the words Miraak didn’t exactly bother to hear them. He didn’t want to. The next thing he knew his wrists were being maneuvered and his hands were on the Last Dragonborn, touching the hem of her shirt, pulling at it, and with the aid of tentacles blacker than night it came up and off. With his last ounce of dignity for the woman he averted his gaze, but then the tentacles moved his hands upwards, doing exactly to her what she had done to him, feeling her the same way. He resisted and their grip went tighter. She was trembling but remaining still, and all sides the deadly silence filled everything. When, by some struck of horrible luck, his fingers had found a rhythm, Hermaeus lightened his hold, so much so that he wasn’t forcing him to do anything. So...he had some ounce of control. Tharya jumped when he touched her again, even if it was light, and he tried to bring her closer by gently pressing his hands to her back and moving his legs to shift her forward, trying to ignore the second rush of the blood to skitter down his torso to his thighs.“Sanguine will figure something out,” she whispered desperately, both trying to wrap her arms around him and push off, unsure of which was safer, which she felt more inclined towards. He tucked her head under his chin and said nothing in reply. It made his stomach clench in fury, but the First Dragonborn remained still and silent, his jaw closed so tightly his molars ground together. Miraak tried to compare her skin under his hands to the cloth he had held earlier, even if it seemed like an eternity ago. He was going too slow. Mora would lose patience soon. “Stay with me,” he urged the Nord in his grip as she jumped and put her hands on his shoulders. She was infinitely softer, kinder than the cloth. “Stiildus, ahtlahzey.” Calm. Hermaeus Mora would feed off her fear, feed off the adrenaline in her veins and the hammering of her heart. “I-I can...we can get out of this,” she said in a shaky voice. Skin, he mused, perhaps held the same protective qualities as cloth; skin was just another form of clothing, of covering. “Miraak...has he done this to you before?” There were tentacles sliding up his legs, atop and writhing beneath the fabric of his pants, and in the face of everything they were about to endure, he saw no point in lying. Wordlessly the Priest nodded, certain she could feel it. Her skin was smooth, a little cooler than he would’ve expected. Her legs and arms were lean but her hips, her belly, her thighs had a charming softness to them that he could feel now, since she was pressed so close. “Geh , but you do not need to worry. I will protect you.” “I’m not worried about me,” the tentacles were pulling and toying with the fabric of his pants, and he worried about their destination and their intentions. “You should protect-” She was thin. Thin, he knew, not unhealthily so, but smaller than him everywhere and in every aspect. Easy to hold. Easy to keep. Easy to absorb into himself, easy to clasp his arms around so that they would swallow her. His entire being froze as he felt the familiar cool air of Apocrypha hit his legs, a tearing sound, treacherous and jagged, filling his ears. No, no no no. For a brief moment he had faith in what Tharya had said: Sanguine will figure something out. “Worry about protecting yourself,” she muttered, squeezing his shoulders, miserably trying to keep her composure even though she could feel more of him, even though she knew exactly what this meant for them. Subconsciously she shifted more weight to her knees to lift herself off his body. “Please. I didn’t bring you out of this place just to have you sucked back in.” Those were the last words she would say directly to him for a long time, though he wasn’t aware of it now. Those were the last words she would say while meeting his eyes, while looking right at him, while close to him. And then she was wrenched away, and reflexively he squeezed his eyes shut. Another tear, and a scream, bold and terrified. Hermaeus Mora’s garbled, vibrating laugh. Gods, no. Akatosh, Bormahu, heavenly father, please. I know I am not your favored son, I know I am the least wanted of your creations. But please, save this one, save this precious jewel of the dragon blood, save the savior. Hermaeus Mora gripped his arms and yanked them back again, so his shoulders were straining and pulling at his neck. And then touching him with a gently pulsing tentacle, and then replacing Tharya in his lap, bringing her down—but she wasn’t speaking this time, just choking, and he knew exactly what Mora had chosen to suffocate her with. Now he could feel her skin, exposed just as his was. Her body to his. Mora puppeteered it all and the First Dragonborn’s knees locked into place, hoping maybe, maybe if he was stiff then he could somehow stave off the intrusion...even around the appendage she screamed so loud in his ear it would ring for the next hour. She screamed and he bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, willing himself silent. He was hurting her. Mora had known he would. Mora, of course, had stowed away the bits and pieces of information he’d gathered about the First Dragonborn over the years, and upon meeting the Last, had sized her up well. She was so small compared to him, and he knew...he knew exactly what to do to make Miraak hurt her. No, Bormahu, please. Not her.Not her. Miraak, even in his head her voice was weeping, I’m sorry. I didn’t...I never intended...I was going to find something else, I swear. I had ideas. I was going to. Why was she apologizing? She hadn't done a damn thing wrong. It made him angry, made his dov roar. She, his ahtlahzey, had not made a single wrong move this entire time, and this was what she got for it. She had been nothing but kind towards him, supportive, respectful of his space. The month of time he'd lost after their escape, he had no doubt she had been looking after him. So why was she apologizing? With his arms pulled behind him he couldn't embrace her, even though, for a moment, he fought to. Hermaeus Mora responded in turn with a tentacle sliding not around his neck, but hers. Why, why? Why was he doing this? If Mora had only taken him, he would understand, but her too... "Let her go!" He shouted suddenly, jaw tight. The Daedra did not seem the least bit startled. "I said let her go! She has done nothing to wrong you. Leave her be," he fought against the restraints again, even if it served to only make them tighter, even if it only jostled Tharya and caused her more pain than she was already feeling, "if you want me back so badly, then-!” Don't, don't don't don't! Tharya cut him off, screaming at him from inside her own thoughts, her eyes wide with fright. Pleading. Don't finish that se-sentence, big man. You won't mean i-it. He couldn't stop himself from glaring at her. Hadn't he just fought for her freedom? I'm...not worth that, she hiccuped. Not worth...?Above them Hermaeus Mora laughed lowly, but it grew in volume, echoing around the endless expanse of Apocrypha until it was deafening, all they heard, ringing in both ears. Tharya had given up--which surprised and disappointed him, he thought she would fight more. Would fight just as hard as him, if not more. But no, she was limp, clinging to him, letting the Prince run his course. Why? But the laughing was making his head start to pound, and the strain of keeping his body so stiff and tight was beginning to wear him down, make his muscles twitch and knot together. No matter what, Mora would use them to his content. No matter how hard he fought, he'd never been able to get out of Apocrypha before, especially not at a time like this. So he, too, submitted, placing his chin on Tharya's shoulder to keep her safely hidden against his neck, and with all the courage he could muster stared up into Hermaeus Mora's thousand eyes with so much as a word. There was a rage in his veins he’d never felt before, a fury unlike any other. Unbridled and raw. Truthfully, it scared him. His dovah felt like it would tear from him completely and attack the Prince on sight. I will protect you. I will do anything to save us. I will protect you. Why had he said that? Why? “Oh, there is so much you do not, hmm.... understand, Miraak,” Hermaeus Mora crooned, his amorphous body floating downwards, downwards, so close some of his eyes probably touched Tharya because she shrieked as best she could again, jumped, back straight, and he wanted so bad to jab a fistful of ice spike into whichever foul appendage had dared to brush her skin. “Try me,” he growled, and a rush of satisfaction filled his veins as his voice boomed and echoed like it had so long ago. And there was another laugh bubbling from Mora’s unseen mouth, growing until it was deafening, but suddenly his attention was diverted. His body slung itself backward and away from the two, abandoning his puppeteering of the Last Dragonborn and immediately freeing Miraak’s arms. There was a burst of light from behind, brighter than looking directly into the sun. “Eat shit, Hermie.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It was all so sudden--one minute he was staring Hermaeus Mora down, clenching his fists so hard his nails dug crescents into his palms. The next there were hands on him, not tentacles but hands, gripping his arms and yanking; another pull and he and Tharya alike were dragged clean out of Mora's grasp, backwards into a bright light, the Prince's gurgling cry of surprise fading as soon as it met his ears. It was replaced by the gentle sounds of running water, a summer breeze rolling across his skin. His arms...were free. He had known when it happened but hadn’t completely registered it. The sky above him was crimson like a sunset, with dusk crawling in overhead. Trees swayed lightly in the wind. He was sitting in a shallow pond. There was a thin waterfall coming down off a small cliff on the left. On the right... "There," Sanguine panted, "there. You're back. Everyone's okay." The Daedra huffed as he sat back in the grass beside the pond. "There. You're safe now, promise. Hermie can't get in here now." But he could before. With his limbs free Miraak found them wrapping tightly around the Last Dragonborn without him even needing to order them, and though she squirmed in his grip he only held her tighter. "It's only me, ahtlahzey. I swear." A lame whine left her lips and her whole body shook as a sob tore through it. Sanguine jumped a little, his face contorted into sorrow. "Look, I'm sorry." He began, but Miraak held a hand out. "I am not interested," he rumbled, "leave." "But-" " Go! " Almost as soon as he'd said the words Sanguine vanished, leaving in his place two neatly folded, red silk robes. With the Daedric Prince gone the grove turned quiet again, his last word to Sanguine ringing, voice echoing gently into the sky like a Shout until it, too, vanished. Quiet, almost, except for Tharya’s ragged crying. She’d stopped pushing against him. It felt so odd, so so odd, to have her skin against his, to hold her entire body in his bare arms. So odd, and yet so real. So intensely genuine. Her shoulders were jerking, her cries raw emotion, wailed directly into his chest, directly against his heart. "Please...let go of-of me." He complied, and with a trembling breath she pushed herself off of his lap and then slunk back, arms tight around her torso. "You can go." "I would much rather stay, ahtlahzey, " he said firmly, "you should not be alone." If it happens again. "No, I'd like to be," her voice broke on the second word and quickly Tharya clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the wail clawing from her throat. "Please just go." " Ahtlahzey- " "Go!" She shrieked, backing away from him as he extended his arms toward her. He noticed her head was down; she wouldn't look him in the eye. He waited, and she cried. "I...understand how you are feeling at this moment," Miraak said quietly--he didn't think his voice had the ability to soften, but in speaking quietly he hoped it would sound gentle. "Very well, in fact. And I will not touch you," he promised, raising his hands in surrender, "but I cannot leave you alone. I...hope...that you will understand why." If it happens again, someone needs to be there to stop it. And I am fully prepared to make the deal you stopped me from making. "So come with me, ahtlahzey. Rest. You need it." "I'll catch up," she whispered.“Go ahead of me,” he urged.Tharya stared at him then, for a long but somehow fleeting moment, her arms strapped like latticework over her body. His arms were so much bigger, she could hide in them. He almost wanted her to. He wanted to hold her again, to have her close in his embrace. But without replying the Last Dragonborn waded quickly with leaden feet across the small pond and scrambled out while trying to hunch herself up and pulled one of the robes on. Mercifully, it reached her ankles, and she wound it tightly over her body despite the fact she was still wearing her sopping wet shirt.Slowly, slowly, Miraak followed her movements. When he stood the water pooled just around the middle of his thighs, and he stood there for a long time, watching Tharya walk at a breakneck speed, almost running, no, almost sprinting across the grove. He’d let her go ahead so he could keep watch from behind, if she decided to veer off or faint or crumble or cry again. Deliberately the First Dragonborn moved through the water, watching the way he created ripples on the glassy surface. The events that had transpired had shaken him, no doubt, but he’d grown used to Hermaeus Mora’s treatment. As horrible as it was to admit, he was used to it. That didn’t phase him nearly as much as it should’ve. What shook him was the new sense of calm in his chest, the new sense of peace growing in his shoulders and spreading through his torso as he bent to claim the second robe. Why was he so relaxed?For once his dovah seemed content, sitting in his chest and purring like a happy cat. It was otherworldly, to not feel at odds with himself, not fighting himself constantly. He watched Tharya slow as she approached the forest path and glance back at him.He didn’t know what it was, but just then...he knew he would never leave the Last Dragonborn’s side. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. He would follow her to the ends of the earth and farther and then back again if need be, because she... Because she was . And that, strangely enough, was all he needed. There was really no concept of time in Oblivion, so as she lay awake in the too-large bed Sanguine had offered, staring up at the silhouettes of the trees and into the dusky sunset sky, trying in vain every few minutes to force herself to sleep. Closing her eyes switched her brain on to replay the events she had only recently lived through. Hermaeus Mora had used her for entertainment . When she’d asked Miraak if this had happened to him before, if that particular type of torture had been leveled against him, he’d said yes. Nodded. Was that why he seemed so calm? On Solstheim he told her, or at least hinted at the fact he’d spent many, many grueling centuries in that place.No, no, no. She had to stop thinking about it. Tharya squeezed her eyes shut as hot tears threatened her for the hundredth time that hour. But what else was there to think about? A stranger had...no, she couldn’t even say it. Miraak hated her. Didn’t he? That was certainly what it felt like. A stranger, a stranger who hated her, had kissed her, had held her, had endured that torture with her except— With a startled gasp she sat straight up in the bed. No, no, no. This all felt wrong. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? This hadn’t just happened to her, no, it hadn’t. Of course not. It was a horrid dream. A terrible waking nightmare. Without a second thought Tharya threw the covers off her legs, though she didn’t even want to think about her legs right now, or ever again, and slid out of bed to stand rigidly and awkwardly beside it. Why had she gotten up? The tears spilled over in silence but she wanted to scream, to wail, to crumple to the ground and have the earth swallow her whole.
Please, Arkay, take me away from this place, I don’t want to be here anymore.
Her will broke as those words flooded her head, and a strangled, muffled sob left her lips. It had happened...it had happened. It was real. She didn’t ache, not physically, though her ribs hurt and there were some peculiar bruises spreading from where Mora had gripped her. But her legs, her back her—she didn’t ache. It had only been for a second. It had hurt then, and Miraak had looked so, so defeated, it had hurt then but now she was fine.The Last Dragonborn sucked in a shaky breath, sinking onto the bed once more. Fine. She was going to be fine. There was nothing wrong with her body, she wasn’t going to be suffering from this long, physically at least. Regardless, it had happened. And if Miraak hadn’t hated her before he sure as hell did now, since it was her fault he had been brought back there— Miraak, has he done this to you before? —and returned him to the torture he’d endured for thousands of years. But her body was fine, thank the Divines, her body was fine. It had hurt then and if she thought too much she could still feel it, but, thank someone above, whoever had been gracious enough to save them, she was fine.It was going to be fine . When Tharya woke up again the sky above her hadn’t changed, it was still stuck in perpetual dusk. But she felt rested, despite having no way of knowing how many hours she’d slept. It felt good to be alone. She’d been alone most of her life, almost always traveling alone except for the year with Kharjo, who had been with her as she trudged around Skyrim trying to fulfill the prophecy and prepare herself to kill Alduin. That wasn’t to say she didn’t have friends , or a family, they were just always far away from where she was. Rooted to a spot, unlike her, who carried on whichever way the wind blew. When she woke up again, she was glad to see there were clothes folded in a neat pile at the foot of the bed, probably from Sanguine. But she didn’t feel like changing. For whatever reason, she couldn’t stand the thought of undressing herself when there was no telling who or what was lurking in the trees around her, who could show up down the path at any given moment. The robe...would do for now.Wordlessly Tharya slid out of bed again, tiptoeing across the grass and finding her way to an overgrown footpath. There was no telling where it led, but her gut was telling her to follow it. Her gut, and the roaring in her chest.Thankfully, the Misty Grove was quiet. There were birds chirping and singing in the dark, looming trees, and the sun’s vibrant fingers were stretching well above her into the starry sky, but neither Sanguine nor any Dremora appeared, and she didn’t hear anyone partying through the trees. Still the song emanating from her chest filled her head, and though it had been unbearable before, unbearable in the past few days especially with Miraak in her proximity, it was...kinder now. Almost soothing. As if they’d been searching for the last piece to a ginormous puzzle, and finally it had clicked into place. In fact, she’d been strangely calm ever since Apocrypha, despite the whirring of her brain and the frenzy of her emotions—that couldn’t be helped. But in her soul, she was serene. Something had worked, or happened, or existed there that wasn’t there before.The path brought her to a wide, flat stone bridge that provided stability over a gurgling river, a distantly roaring waterfall a few hundred yards upstream. It looked innocent enough, until she caught a glimpse of the person already sitting there—in dark violet robes, his legs hanging over the edge of the bridge and arms in his lap. All thoughts immediately fled her body, all thoughts of I’ll be fine or I can make it through this fleeing. But no, no. She had to be strong. She had to be...Suddenly Miraak looked up and caught her standing there, something unreadable in his eyes. He shifted to stand and did, bringing himself to his full height.“Sorry to intrude,” she whispered, aware he couldn’t even hear it since he was still yards away. Relax. Relax. He wasn’t the one who hurt you. Still she couldn’t bring her eyes to his face, nor meet his burning gaze. His stare was so lifeless, whether he knew it or not, whether it was intentional, and it made her shudder. “Do you mind if I...if I sit?” She drew a few steps closer, hands clutching the fabric of the robe. Gods, she should’ve gotten dressed. Why hadn’t she? What kind of false confidence had overcome her?“Please,” he gestured to the bridge, his voice low and rich. She liked his voice, but now the kind of excitement it brought to her veins made her feel dirty. Hesitantly Tharya stepped onto the stone and, keeping her eyes on her feet, sat on the opposite edge from him, legs dangling over the water. She should’ve gotten dressed.Miraak sat again on his side of the bridge, heaving a quiet sigh that was swallowed up by the rushing water. He seemed so collected. Did it really not phase him that much? She supposed, however terrible it was, that if he had endured it for thousands of years, he had grown used to it. Not to say it wasn’t horrible for him. A blade of guilt struck her abdomen. Breathe. He wasn’t the one who hurt you . No, that was Hermaeus Mora. Miraak had said to her, just before they were pulled out of the Grove, I will do anything to save us . That was...interesting, to say the least. It had never been an us before, but somehow it now was. Breathe. Why had he said that to her, if he obviously didn’t care about her? He wasn’t the one who hurt you. Hermaeus Mora. Anger forced its way into her chest and then up her throat, so thick she almost felt she would throw up. She almost did . Mora had been the one pulling all the strings, and Miraak...well, Miraak had just been unfortunate enough to be there and witness her humiliation. Please do not blame yourself for this, ahtlahzey. She jumped so hard it nearly threw off her balance and landed her in the river below. He was...he was talking to her in that way again, in her head. He’d done it on Solstheim numerous times, but what surprised her was that she could do it too. Reply in the same manner. And he’d never said please before. Why was he so concerned with her? If you would allow me, I would like to stay with you. What do you mean? She cursed the tremble of her voice. Originally, I had not planned to remain in your company , he always spoke so properly, so precisely. I was going to leave once I had found a foothold in this world. Or created one. Tharya raised an eyebrow, though he couldn’t see it. Her chest hurt again. In all honesty, I did not want to be in your shadow. Some shadow she cast. Most of Tamriel didn’t even know her face or name, much less that she had saved them all from some terrible fate. But I feel...
Connected.
He was silent again. Geh. I feel connected to you now. And I am not sure what it means. She only knew because she felt the same thing. There was some kind of bond between them now. Something big, something strong. Stronger than her in this moment. But I do not think it is in my best interest anymore to leave. Ah. So that’s what this was really about. He was merely interested in the twining of their souls. It wasn’t in his best interest to leave . So what was she to him, a host body? A carrier? A thing he could mooch off of until his interest waned? Lovely. That did wonders for her already plummeting self-worth. The thought of being used, again , even if not in the same way, made her throat close on itself and her eyes water. It just simply wasn’t in his best interest.
You should see if Sanguine can heal your eyes.
He already has. Oh, good, good. Things were going well for him then. He now had her to piggyback off of and Sanguine had restored his eyes. She didn’t even bother asking what color they were.
Has your mark disappeared?
Yeah. Truthfully she didn’t know the answer. There were no mirrors in this place to check, but her shoulder felt light and normal again, so she assumed. Ahtlahzey, he hesitated on that word, may I sit with you? Are you...crying? No and no, Tharya bit back, scrambling to her feet again. The last thing she wanted was his pity. She hated being pitied. Couldn’t imagine something worse than that right now. Fisting the fabric of the robe she inhaled slowly, trying to suppress the little cry that left her lips. Hoping maybe the river ate it up and he wouldn’t hear it. We should go back to the College. Miraak didn’t reply. As she turned to go a gasp flew from her chest, and she came face-to-face with him for what she hoped, and prayed to be, the last time. The violet robes were new. Probably from Sanguine. The fabric looked clean and soft.What struck her most, though, were his eyes.Blazing gold, like a sunset tinged red, molten metal stained with blood. They had an unsettling sharpness to them. Their color was nothing short of shocking. Were those really his eyes? They looked...they looked like they were made of liquid gold. The color of dragonfire. A sunset on the northern seas. There was no other way to describe it.Well, good for him.“I-I’m going to get ready.” She shouldered by him, breathing sharply when she bumped into his arm. He made no move to stop her. “And then I’ll go.” I need to get out of this place . She had just stepped off the bridge when he called out to her:“Am I allowed to join you?” Relax. Breathe. He wasn’t the one who hurt you. “If you want to,” she glanced back but only for a second, “I don’t care either way.” But I do, I do want you to be around though I don’t know why and I hate it, because you hate me, I think, I’m not sure, I have a lot of questions that now I’ll probably never ask you so don’t expect me to become your best friend or anything. Slowly Miraak nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more, but she didn’t let him, dodging off towards the footpath again to grab her clothes and find Sanguine so he would put them back on Nirn.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“We should go downstairs, if you’re done staring at yourself.” The Last Dragonborn tapped her spear against the stone floor. “I have no idea how much time passed here while we were away.” Her voice hesitated just enough before
away
. It easily sold her out. It made his jaw twitch, too—
away
was something he wished had never happened.
“
Ahtlahzey
,” Miraak called, moving across the room and away from the mirror. He didn’t like mirrors anyway. Her attention slid to him, although reluctantly. “I-“
“I heard your apology the first time,” the words cut deeper than he could’ve possibly thought they would, and the rest of his sentence died off as she took a few steps away and then crossed the room to the door. She left it open for him to follow, and wordlessly disappeared down the steps.
Miraak found his legs too heavy to lift properly as he descended the spiral staircase after her. She had turned so immensely cold to him since...then. And he couldn’t blame her, truthfully, because she had never been through something like that and gods knew she didn’t deserve it. Perhaps he could talk to her...no. It had only been a day or two. The wound was fresh, and ever since he’d messed something up on the bridge—he still wasn’t sure what exactly he had said to cause this change in demeanor, or if it was a natural reflex of hers to distance herself from him. The wound was fresh, and he couldn’t shoulder the burden of making another mistake. Especially not if he was going to stay.
“You should not have gone through the Arch-Mage’s personal belongings, Faralda!”
“I did not! I saw the mask on the table. I thought I recognized it so I brought it to Urag.”
“We all know that’s a lie.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Urag’s rumbly voice cut through the arguing. “This human the Arch-Mage brought with her—he isn’t from this time period.”
Tharya stopped in her tracks just before she could reach the lecture hall, Urag’s proclamation settling heavily into the air. Divines, she should’ve known...should’ve known that
someone
would figure it out eventually. The College of Winterhold, admittedly, was not the most prestigious institution of higher learning in Tamriel, but still. The Dragon Cult was a widely studied subject across the continent, even if there were more questions being asked than answers being found. She’d been a fool to think not one of the books in Urag’s grand library had held some information pertaining to the Cult and their Priests.
“I hope you have evidence for that accusation, Urag.”
The entirety of the mages jolted upright, turning to their Arch-Mage with equal looks of surprise and despair on their faces, as if they’d all been caught plotting together. Truthfully, Tharya
was
interested in whatever Urag had managed to dig up. From behind, she heard Miraak’s heavy footsteps descending from the stairs, and he settled into an empty spot a couple feet away from her.
“I do,” the Orc grunted. He grabbed a paper from Mirabelle’s hand and held it up, stalking towards Miraak. “This is you. Your name is Miraak. You were a Dragon Priest on Solstheim-“
“The one who rebelled.” Onmund cut in excitedly, leaping forward towards the Atmoran. “You were the First Dragonborn! You cut down the dragons. They had something to fear in you; not only did you kill them, you took their souls. You helped weaken the Dragon Cult immensely.”
Miraak slowly nodded, gold eyes examining the charcoal drawing of himself. Something in his face was off, but for the most part he was there. Whoever had drawn this had some kind of representation. How had these Fourth Era mages even discovered this to begin with?
Peering at the table, he saw his answer: the Altmer woman was holding his mask in both hands, and scattered around her were a plethora of open books with diagrams, drawings, and illustrations. So he’d been found out. After glancing to Tharya, who wasn’t looking at him anyway, Miraak allowed himself to nod.
“
Geh
, that is my name.”
“You should all be honored to be in his presence!” The Nord boy approaching him crowed, flailing his arms. “One of the most powerful mages that ever lived, without a shadow of a doubt.” Onmund reached for his hand and shook it with an abundance of enthusiasm. “And the Arch-Mage brought him back to us. The second most powerful mage!”
Miraak felt a grin split his features. He half-turned to the Last Dragonborn, arm still jiggling in Onmund’s grip. She looked a little shocked but not deeply. And then she caught his grin and quickly looked down.
Faralda advanced slowly. “So...you are a Dragon Priest?”
Miraak wrestled his hand from Onmund’s grip before nodding.
“And a Dragonborn?”
“
Geh
. Did you draw this?” Onmund’s eyes went wide before he nodded.
“I went on an expedition to Labyrinthian earlier this year, the city you called--”
“Bromjunaar.”
“Yes—yes! There were magnificent carvings on the wall of the Dragon Priests traveling to the Labyrinthian to pay tribute to the Dragon Cult. I recorded all my findings, and I made these sketches of all the Priests I found carvings of.” Onmund took the paper gingerly from Miraak’s fingers. “Yours was...destroyed,” he said uncertainly, “I put some of the shards together and tried as best I could to fill in the missing aspects of your face and garb.” His eyes flicked between the man and the drawing.
Mirabelle and Tolfdir soon joined the group around him, hanging in a tight clump off his mere presence. Tharya watched quietly from the side, leaning against the archway, letting him soak up the attention. All the apprentices, even Brelyna, were chattering over one another. Tolfdir was crowing out questions, and Urag had retreated to the table to straighten out the books and examine the mask while no one was looking. And then, a shrill voice silenced the rest, and Mirabelle Ervine held up a hand.
“Hold a moment. If you
are
Miraak,” even though he confirmed it she remained skeptical, “in the legends, you and another Priest split the island of Solstheim off the northern coast of Skyrim. Is that true?” Miraak nodded once. “Urag! Bring me a copy of
The Guardian and the Traitor.
”
Tharya raised an eyebrow to herself as she watched Miraak’s features go dark at that title. He knew it, then. And he knew the book’s contents. No doubt they pertained to him somehow, but which was he? Probably the traitor. Immediately he seemed to shut down, close off from the conversations rattling on around him. Mirabelle took the book Urag offered and shoved it in Miraak’s face. He winced.
“It says here split land with the force of your magic and your Thu’um. If that’s true,” she thumbed through the pages, “do you think it possible to restore land that has already been split?” The Dragon Priest looked utterly confused.
“You want me to...restore Solstheim?”
“No, oh, Divines no. I don’t want that ash pile,” Mirabelle waved him off. “Do you know about the Great Collapse?” Realization dawned over Miraak’s features.
They wanted him to restore Winterhold.
“I do not think that is within my power,” he said simply, trying to pry himself away from the group. “The split was aided by the fact that another of my caliber-”
“We’ve been working on a spell to perhaps bring the bluffs back up,” Tolfdir butt in, “for quite some time now. I believe, if put through some trials, it will work with someone of your power.”
The College of Winterhold closed in around him. “What do you say?” They asked expectantly.
Miraak cast his eyes to Tharya in one last attempt to get her to say something,
anything
. She met his eyes over the heads of everyone else, and all he could do was raise an eyebrow at her.
“If you
can
do it,” she sighed at long last, looking at the doors leading into the College courtyard. “It would be a big help for Winterhold.”
“Give me the spell,” he said confidently to Mirabelle, unable to keep the smug grin off his face. When was the last time he’d felt
good
about doing something? “And I will see what I can do.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Her eyes fell across the shimmering snow, now stretching farther than she could ever remember. Half of Winterhold had been restored, taken from the bottom of the sea and secured back into place. She remembered Miraak standing there, his staff slamming into the edge of the bluffs, the spell dancing and making the air even as far as the Jarl’s longhouse heavy with magic. And then, fists glowing, he had pressed his palms to the frozen earth and chanted low and deep, and ignored the cries of shock and amazement as, chunk by chunk, the cliffs of Winterhold were raised up from the water and the ice below. Some of them still had bits of houses and foundations lodged in them. She remembered the pure awe on each and every one of their faces as the land was lifted, their murmurs of excitement as it crashed back into place against the existing cliff face. No one had cheered, lifted their voice in praise or song, but the look on their faces had been enough. In the span of a few minutes, Winterhold had doubled, nearly tripled in size. Their land was returned to them, and all by magic.
Miraak hadn’t broken a sweat pulling it all up from the sea; it had been difficult, since last time he broke land it had been with the help of another, equally as powerful Dragon Priest. But he tried and out it came, connecting once again to its lost foundation on the side of the cliffs. The spell concocted by Mirabelle and Tolfdir was a bit crude, but with some of his own magical knowledge he had spruced it up enough to the point where it
should’ve
worked. And work it did.
Tharya wouldn’t say she was impressed, but it had been...impressive.
“This letter came for you while you were on Solstheim, Arch-Mage.” The voice belonged to Mirabelle. Tharya turned away from the window, running her fingers through her hair. The tightness hadn’t left her shoulders in days, and it was beginning to wear her down. She just wanted...to be over it. She wanted to sponge the last few days from her mind and pretend it had never happened. Miraak didn’t deserve the cold shoulder she was giving him, but every time Tharya tried to act like she had before—nice, calm, understanding—her words came out wrong. “The courier said it was from an old friend? Big Orc, in brown armor. Very...insistent.” Mirabelle extended the letter to her, still sealed. The parchment was thick. Tharya tried to think of people she referred to as old friends; the list was small. Very small.
“This came when?”
“Not long after you left.”
Mirabelle turned just as Miraak entered, pausing at the doorway to let her go by. Ever since the restoration of the bluffs he’d been cordial and, dare she say, almost
friendly
with the rest of the College. As friendly as a stoic-faced Dragon Priest could be. Miraak looked at her, and then to the note in her hands.
“
”
She nodded silently and then moved away from the wall, crossing the room towards the sofas. The exact sofa Sanguine had sat in before...no. She had to stop thinking about it. Tharya watched Miraak move in slow strides across the floor, taking her spot at the window. His golden gaze fell out over the cliffs as well, a touch of confidence in his brow, as if he was admiring his handiwork. The First Dragonborn leaned against the wall across from her, the light from the window filtering in between them.
“What does it say?” He prompted again for more.
She shrugged, tugging the wax seal apart and unfolding the paper. Miraak’s eyes remained on her, whether out of interest in the letter or something else she didn’t know, but some part of her wished he’d look away.
“What does it say,
ahtlahzey?
” He asked once more as she set it down in her lap, chewing her bottom lip. The Last Dragonborn looked at him for a moment, seemingly reluctant. Then she folded the letter again.
“Do you know anything about the Dawnguard?”