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Aldis found it increasingly hard to believe that the woman, the girl he had once knew stood before him now with dragon blood in her veins, the faint glow from the beast’s soul subsiding like a distant halo. The city guard remained petrified to their positions before sending up a few cheers. To honor her. To honor the Dragonborn . He was sure she didn’t recognize him, not after all these years. Not after their last talk. Argument . Aldis had tried not to call it that, but in the back of his head he knew that was exactly what it was. Her armor, steel and hardy, was spattered with blood, as were her hands--almost coated in it. Solitude guards waved their shields in half-triumph, half-gratitude to the woman standing before them. The smile was small but real, he noted. Small but intensely genuine. The large skeleton on the hill behind them rattled as each bone hit the ground. Aldis made a mental note to send a few men out to collect those; the Legion and the Thalmor would be interested. Maybe he’d get a pay raise, but that wasn’t how the Thalmor worked.

Her eyes settled on him, and with interest he regarded their color. They had always been pale, icy blue, but now they seemed almost white, translucent. Perhaps it was the blood red warpaint that surrounded her eyes, shooting down her cheeks and jaw and coming to stiff points just above her collarbone. It hadn’t been there before, but he deemed it worthy of covering her face. It took him a second to realize she had nodded towards him but not in acknowledgement of who he was; merely in acknowledgement of his position as captain. Captain Aldis.
“You’ve done Solitude a great favor, Dragonborn.” He nodded, extending his hand to shake. She took it with a firm grip, the light glancing off her Nordic bracers into his face. Aldis blinked to dismiss it and she stepped back. He held her gaze for as long as he could before moving aside and gesturing to the Solitude gates. “Open the gates for the Dragonborn, Violena.” The female guard standing beside the massive metal doors to the city nodded. “For Solitude’s hero.”

Hero.  She’d come a long way.

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The watchtower was enveloped in smoke that blackened the sky, reaching far into the afternoon sun. Irileth stood fast beside her, their armor clanking in unison with the Whiterun troops beside them.
“By Ysmir, it’s circling back!” Went up a defeated cry, and a soldier in the same yellow cuirass as the ones behind her stumbled past, half his face seared.

“Stand fast, men!” Irileth called, “this dragon hasn’t felt the full might of Whiterun yet.”

Tharya went over the familiar stances and enchantments in her head, finally settling on one. A lavender orb of magic appeared in her closed fist, and from her fingers sprang a shimmering translucent bow, a quiver of ghostly arrows on her shoulder. The Whiterun soldiers set up in a cluster, swords ready, shields the only thing between them and the fire breathing legend in the skies. She had one hundred arrows exactly until the Bound spell vanished and she would have to recast it. Notching one against her finger brought the familiar sensation of magic; cool, almost mist-like.

A roar and a burst of intense heat beat down on their left, and with one large swoop the dragon was circling closer to the watchtower. If only there was a way to bring the beasts down to us. She moved up the broken wall, half of it shattered like glass on the ground, and took a leap over the second break into the main tower. Whiterun was smart, situating a watchtower here, where on a clear day you could see miles in any direction. The spiraling stone stairs on the right were intact, and she took them by three up to the top of the tower. There was a few smoking corpses that set off a repugnant smell, almost as strong as the scent of fire.
“Talos bless your souls,” she murmured, stepping carefully over each one. One hundred arrows, and one dragon.

Tharya began loosing them one by one, in a steady stream. The men on the ground were useless if the dragon stayed in the air, so each shimmering purple streak shot itself into one wing or another. If it hurt enough, the beast would have to land, and they’d have a better chance.

The winged terror gave a screeching roar, something between squeaky wagon wheels and screaming infants. The ground below them seemed to sink and shake, and in the settling cloud of dust a monstrous head reared out. Irileth shouted something and the small Whiterun company attacked, rag-tag and free-for-all. A belch of fire sent a handful of them down. With a clap, the Bound bow disappeared and Tharya sprang up from her cover, breezing back down the stairs. This time the spell changed, and both of her hands curved around the large hilt of a ghastly battleaxe. She fought beside the Whiterun men and Irileth, the smoke stinging her eyes, ash being kicked like sand beneath her boots.

And when the smoke finally cleared, and the ash cloud finally settled, the dragon’s skin began to peel off, and a strange, white aura enveloped her.

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“You can’t just stand around. People are starting to recognize your face,” Aldis snapped, slamming the door to the castle dour behind her. Tharya looked unphased by his precaution. “Especially the soldiers.”

“Why would they recognize me?”

“People know the Dragonborn. Now people know the Dragonborn has sided with the Stormcloaks.”

“The people are very observant.”

Aldis bit back a frustrated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before crossing his arms.

“Why are you here?” Her pale, icy eyes settled on him after this string of words. He knew that look; he knew it, and he hated it. “No.”
“You’d be an idiot to join the losing team, Aldis.”
“Then I’m an idiot.”

Tharya snorted, her eyes glistening for a moment.
“At least you admit it.” He remained silent and staunch. Something in the back of his head tugged at his brain; he refused to admit there was some inkling of truth to her words. “Join. The war ends, we overthrow High King Racist Stormcloak, and void off the elves. I know you like the Thalmor just about as much as I do.” Still he said nothing; it sounded promising, though. Gods damn her for planting these patriotic seeds of revolution in his stomach. He wanted to suspect that she had been cultivating him for years now, ever since their childhood, but Tharya had always spoken her mind. Aldis could hardly blame an eleven year old for speaking her mind all those years ago, but he could blame himself for listening.
“I know you, Aldis.” She moved back towards him, reached for his neck. He stepped away, extensive guard training kicking in; a hit, a chokehold. Evil intention of some kind...but none came. The only thing he felt was a hand, fingers reaching beneath his tunic to yank out an amulet attached on a long chain. “Better than you think.” In her fingers was a burnished gold amulet, the upwards curves of a miniature double-sided waraxe like an evil grimace, intricate designs meeting the light of the castle dour. “Only a Nord with a deathwish would wear an amulet of Talos as a captain in the Imperial Army.”

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“Do my teeth look sharper?” Without tearing his eyes away from the training guards, Aldis grunted in reply. That usually fended her questions off, but instead she repeated it. The captain sighed before glancing to her mouth.

“No.” Determined to not let anything err him from criticizing the new bloods’ form, he set his dark eyes back on the training yard. She still paraded herself openly in Solitude, something he didn’t like, and now she was standing beside him in the shade in the yard. “You there! There’s a shield in your hand, man, you’re supposed to block with it!” Aldis shook his head, murmuring an empty insult under his breath. These new recruits would have to do a lot better than what he was seeing if they wanted to put up a fight in the war. Or against a stationary dummy.
She was quiet, and he was satisfied with that until new words tumbled from his mouth. “Why would your teeth be sharper?”
“Have I not told you?” Her eyes found his in a slight, mocking confusion. Like she knew something he didn’t. Which, honestly, would hardly surprise him. He’d been confined to Solitude walls for weeks now, hadn’t even gotten the chance to fish, and from what Fane had told him she’d been to Dawnstar to cure nightmares, cleared out two bandit hideouts for a bounty in Whiterun, and slaughtered a troll in the past week. He envied her ability to travel so freely, her only duty to be to occasionally report to Ulfric and go out on missions, and even less occasionally talk to a group of old men on a mountain.
“Told me what?”
“I joined the Companions.” As if that was supposed to mean anything to him? The farthest from the training yard he’d been was the tavern.
“I see,” he said. To his surprise, she laughed and patted his arm.
“No you don’t.” Tharya took a step back and circled around him, appearing against on his right and walking towards the arch that led to the street, away from the training yard.
“Where are you off to?”
“Some tomb. Galmar and I are going to find the Jagged Crown.”

By the Divines. She made his job harder than it ever had to be. But why would joining the Companions make her teeth...?

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“Pay up, Belethor. You know these dragon bones are expensive.” The Dragonborn tapped her fist lightly on the merchant’s counter.
“You see, I do know they’re expensive. And no doubt, trouble for you to come by, but-”
“Eh.”

The Breton raised an eyebrow.
“Eh?”
“Eh as in, they aren’t too troublesome. But they’re expensive, and you told me you had a buyer.”
“A collector."

Tharya paused to think, and then shrugged. She placed one elbow on the wooden counter and shifted her weight to that side, fist still curled loosely in front of the merchant.
“Is there a difference?”
“A buyer buys. A collector...”
“Collects.”
“Exactly! And so...well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly thrilled about paying me to procure these. He’s convinced they’re fake, I think.”
The Dragonborn was no idiot.
“So you’re telling me you don’t have enough money for them?”
“Precisely.” Belethor sighed, then realized what he said, and shook his hands quickly. “No--no! I do, it’s just...not here. If you were to wait until the end of the week, I could-
“Take them.”

“What?”
“Take the damned things anyway.” Tharya swung the knapsack onto the counter, listening to the rattle of the bones inside. She undid the clasps of the sack and placed each bone on the counter in front of Belethor. “Pay me as much as you can, and take the rest. Consider it a gift.” She snorted lightly, “Talos knows I need the room.”

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She could’ve sworn the heart thumped every now and then, but it was dead, cold, clammy even. How could it do that? It wasn’t doing that, she told herself.

She had no idea what kind of potion required a daedra heart, but she didn’t like it. Better to get this retrieval mission over with and get it out of her hands...literally. The Dragonborn had been through a lot of trouble to procure it, and the only thing it had paid her back with was slimy excess on her hands. She had wrapped it carefully in a cloth, not only to hide it but so she wouldn’t have to look at the damn thing. She hurried from the market in Whiterun up the stairs, past the Gildergreen, and towards Dragonsreach. Farengar better have a good use for this damn heart, because it smelled atrocious. The faster she walked, the less people got the chance to smell it. Why Belethor even had one of these was unclear, but the Breton merchant seemed more than eager to get it off his hands.

The guards opened the right hand door for her, and she slipped into the Jarl’s palace, grimacing as the heart jiggled with every step she took.
“Farengar,” she groaned as she entered the court wizard’s room to the right of the throne, “you better have a good use for this.”
“You’ve brought the heart I asked for?” The man asked, his voice laced with childish excitement.
“Yes, and I’m about to wretch if you don’t take it.” Tharya had been standing still long enough that the scent was filling her surroundings. The wizard recoiled once he got too close.

“Gods, that stench!”
“You asked and you received, my friend.” With less grace than intended, she dumped the cloth-wrapped daedra heart on his table, looking around for something to wipe her hands on. “Gods,” she mumbled, quickly exiting Farengar’s room, “I need a drink.”

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“But she’s admitted to being a Stormcloak, Captain!” The man with his blade to the Dragonborn’s neck pleaded. Anything to behead a Stormcloak traitor. Anything to pretend he was still the warrior he used to be. “Put your sword down, Gwain.”

“Captain-!”

“I won’t have you executing an innocent woman in the tavern. Now put down your blade before it comes off with your hand attached.” A drunk laugh emanated from the floor, and the Dragonborn—though she probably wasn’t known as such to the patrons at the Winking Skeever—clutched her stomach. Reluctantly, the older man lowered his sword. Aldis doubted he had it in him to decapitate a drunken woman in the inn, but the ex-mercenary was known to go to quite some lengths to convince people he was still for hire. Gwain’s frown reached the creases of his forehead. “I know this woman. She is no Stormcloak,” Aldis said easily. The words were a little too comfortable off his tongue, but he ignored it.

“Does a night in the Dour satisfy you, Gwain?” Defeated, the man nodded. The captain pulled the Dragonborn off the floor, slinging her arm around his shoulders. Together, they stumbled to the door. The frozen air of Evening Star assaulted both their senses, making the tips of his ears tingle. “You make my job harder than it ever has to be,” he growled, towing Tharya towards the Castle Dour.

“Oh, but without me, your life would be so terribly dull.” She hiccupped and laughed again. “No. It would be normal.”

“You were never one for normality,” she shook her head, patting his shoulder. “Never ever.” “My point is, you cannot go around proclaiming your allegiances,” he hissed lowly, “especially in a place like this.”

“Place like this?” She made a flourishing gesture to the dark houses passing them by. “A place crawling with Imperial soldiers and sympathizers. Divines, General Tullius lives here.” “My my, Captain. For an Imperial you speak a lot like a Stormcloak scout.” Aldis swallowed whatever words had been on his lips, and they staggered back to the Dour in silence.

Part of him felt bad locking her up as he had said he would, but he knew he had to. She seemed to understand, even with her features clouded by alcohol. He glanced at her once last time as he shut the barred door to the cell, frowning when she stared back at him with one eyebrow cocked. “Why do you fight for them, Aldis? Why do you fight at all?” The door shut softly, and he held the key between two fingers. “You were never one for fighting.” He broke her gaze and twisted the key in the lock.

“Because I was told to.”

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“Life used to be so easy, Aldis,” she sighed, handing over the last of the spiced wine to him. The sun was setting slowly through the great arch, reflecting off the gentle waves below Solitude. “Somewhere used to be home, someone used to be family.” The captain grunted his response as the bottle reached his lips. “All we had to worry about was chores and kid things.”
“And the farm,” he gestured vaguely with one hand.
“And the farm.” Her pale eyes settled on the burning orange water. “Now we have Tullius and Stormcloak at each other, dragons coming back to Skyrim, Morrowind covered in ash, and Talos knows what else that I can’t think of.”
“The Thalmor.”
“Ugh. The Thalmor. And I’m the Dragonborn! Sometimes I wish.”

Her pause left the end of the sentence hanging in the air between them, before it crashed onto the grass with the breeze rolling off the waves. Sometimes I wish. Aldis supposed he wished, too; for the war to be over, for the dragons to go back underground. For the Thalmor to go home. His gaze fell to the woman sitting an arm’s length away from him, her clear eyes, red warpaint that occupied her features.

“Mm. The Dragonborn.” He echoed quietly, swishing the last drops of wine in their glass container.

“Dovahkiin, in the dragon-tongue.” She nodded. “Apparently words can kill.” Aldis laughed for the first time in a while. The world had demanded his words be expressionless, his life be mute for so long, it felt good. His chest seemed lighter. Tharya’s fingers closed around a smooth rock embedded in the grass beside her, and she extended it towards him. “Up for a game?”

With a grin the captain stood, taking the rock and sending it across the water with a calculated throw.
“Four,” she nodded, her gaze counting each time the rock skipped. “Good enough, I suppose. For a first throw.”
“Good enough? ” Aldis snorted. “Go on, then. See if you can do better.”
“I know I can.” She plucked another one from the ground, tossed it in her hand, and let it skid across the water. “Six!”

“We’re just getting started, Dragonborn,” Aldis laughed before he could stop the words in his brain.
“Oh, by all means, Captain.” She bowed dramatically and extended her arms towards the water. Aldis remembered playing this as a child; he never remembered who won. He glanced towards the setting sun. He had a night patrol, but time was abundant.

He could play.

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“Divines, I swear, I’m done with Daedric princes.” The Dragonborn groaned, leaning on her staff to rest. Whiterun was on the horizon, silhouetted against the full moon. “This Hermaeus Mora one is especially gross.” She looked up to the statue of Talos, standing vigilantly still. “All tentacles and eyes... ugh,” Tharya shuddered and hobbled to the statue. Offerings surrounded the warrior-god’s feet, some fresh and others dead and frozen. Taking a deep breath, the Dragonborn mustered enough magicka in her veins to aim a fireball at one of the braziers. It roared to life. “I did want to eat, but then I met this Mora guy, and now I’m truly not so sure.” She hooked her staff into the belt of her Blades armor and clambered up onto the stone dais that the statue of Talos had been erected on, and climbed with minor difficulty to the serpent’s head. “That was yesterday. In the ass-end of nowhere ice fields up to the north. I assume you’ve heard of them.” Her next move was to grab onto the thin ledge of Talos’ boot and then climb up the greatsword blade. “Walked all the way here, to Whiterun, just to take it over for the Stormcloaks.” With a grunt, she found a cold grip between the statue’s thick fingers, and hoisted herself up onto his knuckles. “Not as bad as Hermaeus Mora, but still pricks.” Her staff knocked against the stone carved bracer as she moved cautiously towards the crook of Talos’ arm, settling back against his bicep. “Can’t wait to knock Ulfric off his throne someday soon.” She propped one knee up and let the other leg fall into the open space between Talos’ arm and his torso, cradling her staff across her lap.

The Dragonborn sighed, and her stomach rumbled.

The first moon, Masser, made its slow way past the mountainous overhang, peering on the secluded shrine before Secunda joined it. Briefly she wondered if the Divines ever did things mortals did: stargazed, watched the sun rise over the mountains. If they truly cared about the mortal world, its happenings. She had reason to believe they didn’t, but her belief remained strong.

She wondered if Talos had ever watched the moon, watched it crawl across the sky, dragging Secunda behind it.

“Good night, old boy,” Tharya patted the statue’s cold metal skin and closed her eyes.

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 “May she be rewarded for her service as I am!”

It was hard to tell whether or not the First Dragonborn was being smart with the Daedric Prince, but either way her response was the same.

“What? I don’t want in on this!”

“And, hmm, why is that, Dragonborn?” He wriggled the tentacle that was pierced through Miraak’s torso. The man cried out. “Have you not already, hm, allied yourself with my peers?”

“The only Daedric Prince I give a rat’s ass about is Sanguine. Meridia, too.” She weakly motioned to the blade in its dark sheath on her back. Mora didn’t seem to follow.  “I would never want to stay here. First of all, it smells terrible, and everything looks like it might kill you.” With a groan, Tharya pushed herself off the ground of Apocrypha. Meridia’s sword may yet come in handy here, with its brutal light and distaste of gross things.

“You are a talented spellcaster, Dragonborn,” Mora drawled, disregarding Miraak’s body growing limper and limper with every passing minute. “Will you refuse the offer I make? To study the most ancient of spells, to take life and death as you please?”

Her eyes shot to Miraak’s mask, ever lazily content. Beneath that, surely, was a man, his face wrenched in pain, the last breaths being drawn from his life. He had taken the same offer, had he not? And now he was paying for it.

“Not if you end up impaling me on one of your tentacles.” With caution, she drew closer to the wretched abyss of eyeballs and tendrils. “Like you did to the man who served you for thousands of years.”

“Your talk is wasted on him, Dragonborn,” Miraak growled, his voice still booming in Apocrypha despite his imminent demise. Hermaeus Mora had betrayed him, plain and simple. He did not sound regretful or surprised.
“You don’t have to be the villain here.” She stumbled forward, slowly, step by step. “You know spells, Shouts? Pass your knowledge to me. You don’t want Solstheim, it’s nothing but an ash heap.”

“Enough!” Hermaeus Mora barked, “Your charade will end in nothing but your conjoined demise, Dragonborn.” It was unclear which of them he was talking to, but she advanced regardless. A slick tendril moved up Miraak’s body and slid around his head, pushing his mask off with false gentility.

Miraak was a Nord, just like her, with dark hair and a light beard. His features were distressed and angry. The right side of his face was more... scale than skin, like a disease.
“Accept my gift, Last Dragonborn , and abandon your kinsman, or die with him.”

For the first time, Miraak looked at her. He looked confused and agitated and disappointed and shocked and so many other things, but most of all vulnerable. Intensely vulnerable.

“Talos preserve us both, then.”

With the last strength in her body, she leapt forward and drew Meridia’s Dawnbreaker. The wretched abyss that Hermaeus Mora manifested himself as drew back with a reeling screech. She sliced at the tentacle holding Miraak, and at the others who tried to retake him. The First Dragonborn barely landed on his feet, almost diving straight into the slimy pool of shimmering green water below him. Now she had only to find their escape route from Apocrypha--simple, right?

And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha.

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The Argonians in the Assemblage gave him strange looks throughout the day, but sideways glances were nothing compared to nearly being kicked out the frost-bitten night Tharya had dragged him back to the door. His wound had reopened, and Daedric taint was slowly claiming his body more violently than it ever had in Apocrypha. This was what he should’ve looked like after four thousand years, and yet Hermaeus Mora had only taken his eyes. There were no empty beds, so the Last Dragonborn had given up her bedroll and furs for him to lay on, tucked away on the slightly raised sides of the main chamber. The first day Tharya stayed with him, cleaning his wound again and redressing it, battling his overwhelming fever back down by nightfall, knowing that if he didn’t make it through this night he wouldn’t make it through the rest. He had hazy memory of that period, from when the sun set until it rose again in the morning. He distinctly remembered the feeling of her pulling his arm aside to check the pulse in his wrist every hour, and the feeling of the one instance she had pressed his clammy hand between her own and forced his clenched fingers to straighten, to relax. He remembered that, but little else.

The second day he woke up, which was highly unexpected in its own right. Some part of him had prepared to die the night previous, and yet his eyes opened to the feeling of the Last Dragonborn taking his arm and checking his pulse. He was too weak to pull himself away. She said something and then with a low groan, pushed herself off the floor. There was a brief conversation with one of the Argonians, and she tumbled into a bed and slept. He followed suit.

The third, fourth, and fifth days, an Argonian woman took Tharya’s place, and sat dutifully beside his collection of furs and blankets and spoke to him. He only tried to speak once, to give her his name when she asked, but his throat was swollen and felt coated the same kind of pungent slickness that came from Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles. She offered him water which he immediately threw up. But she sat with him nevertheless, her scaly fingers checking his pulse less regularly than Tharya had. When she asked if he was hungry he only shook his head. Sometimes he slept and other times she read to him, but he could not tell her to stop. He had no interest in books anymore. She described to him that the Dragonborn was a bit of a revered figure for the Elves and Argonians in Windhelm; she stuck her fist in someone named Rolff’s face regularly and consistently voiced the need for change that they were too scared to call out for. She told him that the Last Dragonborn was out on the docks helping with the workload, and yet she would not take a coin from their pay as thanks. Miraak gave a broken, quiet scoff. Her kindness was misplaced and useless.

Shahvee didn’t return to him the sixth day, but she must’ve told Tharya about his many failed attempts to stomach food, because the Last Dragonborn returned and gave his throat an uncomfortable examination. Her fingers were a cool relief against his feverish skin, even as they poked and prodded and felt his throat. She pulled the blankets away from his bare torso and he watched her clear eyes widen. Quickly the fur fell back over him. She moved each of his limbs, lifted his legs to bend them at the knee. He hadn’t realized how numb his body had gone until that moment, when blood flow seemed to miraculously return to his extremities.
“I’m going to go to the apothecary,” she said, taking a fur from the pile and wrapping it around her shoulders, “and get something for the taint.”

When she left he found the strength to push the covers back and examine himself, try to find what had surprised her so. Even in the dim light, even with his dark skin, it was obvious: his veins were turning black as night.

Perhaps he would die after all.

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She returned from the apothecary less than an hour later. That hour had given him ample time to remember and recite the dirges and burial rites and chants in his head, the ones he had delivered for others countless times but never for himself. No one would recite them for him.

Tharya tucked the fur around his legs and then sat on the low step with her back to him, crushing and mixing something in a mortar. There was a sickening squelching sound and a low curse, and then wet grinding, and carefully she moved over to his side, setting the little bowl down.
“Can you sit up?” He didn’t reply, but instead moved his arms, trying uselessly to push himself up on trembling arms. She grabbed his shoulders and helped him, no matter how much he tried to shake her off. “It’s a potion of curing disease,” she explained, picking up the bowl once he was sitting upright, “with something that’ll hopefully get rid of the taint.” Hopefully? Did she have any idea what she was doing? No, of course not. She was the incompetent and hopeless Last Dragonborn. “And I need you to drink all of it.”

He would’ve snorted if he could.

Large hands found the bowl incredibly heavy to hold, but with her supporting the bottom, he was able to bring it to his dry lips, and swallow. The liquid was vile . It tasted of raw blood and half-ground bone and ash. Later he would learn she’d mixed mudcrab chitin with a charred skeever hide, an actual potion, and a Daedra heart, though he would like hearing the combination even less. When he tried to throw it back up she clamped a hand over his mouth and apologized. He began to shake, to tremble, and chills racked his body only to be replaced with dizzying flashes of heat. She cradled his head and laid him back down. The bowl clattered to the floor.

He did not sleep that night. No Argonians came to look or speak at him, no one even spared him a glance. He quivered and twitched and thrashed all while the Last Dragonborn sat vigilantly at his side, saying nothing, but checking his pulse when she could wrestle his arms away from his chest. Around midnight he cried out and woke the entire Assemblage, and then Tharya shifted closer.
“You’re almost there.” She whispered to him, but he did not know where she was implying he was going. The afterlife? It surely felt like it. Her fingertips glowed with a healing spell that cured his headache, and then she held it there to calm his overreacting nerves.

When morning came he had stilled, and when Tharya’s hand checked his forehead she seemed pleased. His pulse as well. She lifted the fur and only nodded.
“Thought I lost you a couple hours ago when you stopped moving,” she admitted with a little chuckle, tucking the blanket under his arm, “turns out you’d just won the fight.”

He was the First Dragonborn. He didn’t lose.

The next few days were a long series of trial and error; he could not walk but eventually he could eat, and even after that he could speak. Within another day he could make it from his bedding to the long fireplace and back. He could do all this, but his eyes settled on only one thing.

The door.

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“The first thoughts I put out of my head once I realized my circumstances were that I would never again feel the rain,” he lifted a hand from his side, palm to the sky. Fat drops continued to fall from the sky and slide off the creases in his palm. “Nor the snow, nor the sun or wind. Never again see the stars.” He looked appreciatively up at the night sky, even though it was clouded over and dropping a torrential downpour upon them and their measly campsite. 

She had woken up to the rain and almost immediately began pitching the tent. Tharya had thought it would be clear the rest of the night, if the evening was anything to go by. But just as the moon had reached its peak in the sky the first drizzle came, and after that the clouds merely parted to let all of it down. It was only after the tent was up she realized Miraak was missing, and not on the other side of the fire where she last saw him. Alarmed, she scanned the horizon for him, only to find his silhouette framed against the stars on the edge of the cliff not far away. She had approached him in silence, shivering every so often, and long, wet minutes later he had spoken. First about Apocrypha, and the skies, the consistent dampness and humidity, the oppressive feeling that hung in the air. Then he had spoken, only briefly, of his last days on Solstheim. Then of her only days on Solstheim. 

“You have let me feel the rain once more, ahtlahzey ,” he said quietly, almost in awe. As if she commanded the weather of Tamriel and had gifted this divine downpour to him. “And the snow and the wind.”
“Haven’t see the stars just yet,” she chortled, wrapping her arms around herself. Miraak only grinned minutely. He reached for her arms and unraveled them, taking one of her hands.
“You have let me feel another,” gently he pressed their palms together and curled his fingers down over her knuckles, “whose skin is just as mine and whose eyes are mirrors to a world I had long forgotten.”

He hunched with sudden grace to kiss her, little more than a quiet breeze reminiscent of Atmoran winter that sent a shudder down her spine. His hair was soaked and stuck to his face, robes drenched, yet he had lost none of his warmth. His free hand reached up to trace her jaw. Just when she felt it necessary to break the closeness by saying something, he pressed his lips to hers again.
“You have let me feel, Tharya.” He said gently. “And for that I will forever be indebted.”

Chapter Text

She collapsed into the ash, another bolt of lightning illuminating the sky above her. With it came a glance of the dead dragon’s silhouette not far away, its skin beginning to glow the familiar glow and flake away as its soul was released. Thank the Divines, someone was looking out for her. It had been more than a pain in the ass to try and see a dragon flying overhead in the middle of the night, and with the rain coming down on her, the clouds blocking the moonlight, her visibility was approaching zero. But the dragon was dead, its skeleton sitting in the wet ash not far from where she lay, and soon enough she’d be enveloped in the familiar, restorative embrace of a dragon soul.

Except it never came. 

“Oh, Dragonborn,” a stranger’s voice enveloped her instead, settling an uncomfortable, heavy dampness into her robes that made her want to squirm. But she couldn't; she was pinned, held into place by a thickly accented growl. Her staff was buried somewhere in the ash, unreachable. His footsteps were muffled but in a moment another flash of lightning illuminated his silhouette, his hood, his broad shoulders. He knelt beside her lame form, shaking his head slowly.

"Do you ever wonder if it hurts? " Miraak drawled, hunched over her. One gloved hand curled into her robes. "To have one's soul ripped -" he yanked her up and off the ash, so close his voice was near deafening, "-out like that."

Limp as a rag doll, all Tharya could do was give an agonized moan in reply. Her head was swimming, the injuries she'd sustained becoming throbbing points of intense heat on her body. The Dragon Priest grabbed her jaw and forced her head to straighten, sending shooting pain through the back of her neck. "Thank you for your help, Dragonborn," he almost cooed, his free index finger pushing the wet hair that stuck to her forehead away from her face. It trailed down her cheek and slipped away at her jaw, and she watched him cock his head ever so slightly to the side. His gaze, even if she couldn't see him entirely, was...unnerving. It made her feel like prey, but prey who was fully aware of the fate they would meet at the tip of the predator's arrowhead. 

A rough, throaty chuckle from the Dragon Priest told her that was exactly what he wanted her to feel like; she was interpreting his persona correctly. She was interpreting his ambitions and his intentions correctly. She was understanding the submission he would draw from her before devouring her entirely.

He traced his thumb just below her bottom lip, almost inquisitively, as if studying her. His hooded figure shifted forward, and she swore she could almost feel the brief touch of his robes against hers. He was close. Closer than she expected. Suddenly his hot breath was against her ear, lips just barely grazing her skin as he spoke: 

"We will meet again soon enough."

Chapter Text

The first time he had kissed her, though he didn’t consider it such at the time, had been on Solstheim. He had easily traced her power to her little camp at a ruin called Saering’s Watch, and stood quietly across the fire while she slept. Woken her up when he had enough of examining her features, of enveloping himself in the strength and magic that emanated from her being. He had taken her dragon souls, sucked her clean and dry of any power her Dragonborn status had gifted her, felt his dominion rise and fall when he gave it all back. 

He found himself sitting alone in his room in Apocrypha, an exceedingly rare circumstance indeed. He found his tongue flicking out to taste whatever remained of her on his lips, and then his fingers crooking his mask away to trace where her mouth had been just hours before. After a moment of trepidation he licked the warm pad of his index finger, and a mere inkling of what his tongue had captured of the Last Dragonborn flooded his mouth. A shred of her power, of her being. It entered him and made his shoulders and legs tense with gratification. He hadn’t expected her to linger so long on him, but was immensely satisfied that she did.

And then Hermaeus Mora came.

The first tentacle slid to his mask and under it, gently touching his face, his lips, where the Last Dragonborn’s had been. Like a cruel imitation of what he’d experienced that night.
“Your thoughts cannot escape me, Miraak,” Mora groaned. The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, and the air became dense with magic. His mask was in position to cover his eyes, but he knew Hermaeus Mora’s game. He knew what he had brought into Apocrypha.

“Would you like to, hmm... touch her, Miraak?” Another tentacle slid gently around his throat, while the one below his mask successfully managed to pry it off his face, revealing his eternally stoic features below.

If only she would let me.
“ Nid. ” He replied, monotone.

When the mask came off he was gifted with a watery portal that framed the Last Dragonborn, just how he remembered her. She was closing a door, turning to the small, empty room. She was with the Skaal, no doubt. They were closer than Raven Rock and probably more welcoming to a Nord face. The fire was bright. She began to pry off her robe, shrugging the outer one away, placing it on the bed before sitting to remove her boots.
“Would you like to, hmm,” Hermaeus Mora paused to gurgle, and Miraak suddenly became very aware that the Prince was getting some kind of grotesque sexual pleasure from this, “ feel her?”

Gods, yes.
“ Nid. ”

Just as abruptly as his revelation a spectral figure of the Last Dragonborn appeared in front of him, shedding the rest of her arch-mage robes layer by layer, leaning her staff against an unseen wall. The window-like portal vanished. The tentacle around his neck throbbed. The Dragon Priest knew enough of phallic symbolism to understand that Hermaeus Mora was either coaxing him or teasing him, trying to bring out the concealed feelings of undeniable attraction that Miraak had buried within himself.

The Last Dragonborn’s ghost-like visage stepped closer, ran her fingers through her hair, and then walked through him. In that split second he was reminded of Saering’s Watch, of the delectable submission he’d earned from her, of the weakness he’d exploited, of...the feeling of her lips against his, warmed by the fire, soft, endless, safe. Of her body buckling against his. Of the pathetic yet defiant whining of her dov against his, unable to fight, but making its sorrow known. He had stripped her of all power, held her in the palm of his hand, and yet, had done nothing. But now he could feel her skin as well, not her robes but her body against his own, devoid of any barrier between them. The softness of her breasts pressed to his chest and the warmth of her figure. But it all left him just as soon as it came.

He was called back to reality by Hermaeus Mora’s slimy arms slipping away from him, his mask clattering to the ground, the Last Dragonborn disappearing.
“Sleep, my pet,” Hermaeus drawled, voice taking a nearly parental tone, “you will see her again.” He had no doubts the Prince would enter his head if he slept, conjure the images he wanted to see, stimulate the emotions and the flesh he wanted to feel. As Mora drifted away Miraak reached out, surveying Solstheim for her presence. It was easy to find--no other being besides himself commanded such a noticeable, tangible power. He found her and wrapped himself in her strength, in her dov , in her inevitable arrival to Apocrypha, and whether he wanted to or not, fell asleep.

Chapter Text

She was studious. Determined. Chipping away at rock with a scowl on her face and the setting sun flaring like pools of lava in her pale eyes.

“Far from ourselves.”

The incessant drowning of the Dunmer around her made her brow twitch. Miraak drew closer, wading through the shallow water with his hands clasped loosely behind him.

“Does that bother you, mal gein ?” He wondered aloud. Time slowed as he reached out to touch her chin with his index finger. A shock of intoxicating power dissipated up his arm. He could feel her mind now, connect to the thoughtlessness she had submitted to. She was fighting. Fighting him. With a power he had not previously felt.

“We shall start over, mal  gein ,” he said quietly, trailing his finger down her cheek before letting it fall away. There was nothing in her mind now. Only him, and his words, filling her like water fills a cup. “No distractions.”

Here in my shrine.

Return to me.

“Well, well, well. So you were able to break your trance after all,” the familiar voice of the Dunmer wizard trailed back into her ears. It was crass and tight compared to...compared to whatever had filled her head last night, a smooth, cool baritone that had enveloped her like a pair of gentle arms, cradled her like an infant in a nest of soft silks. She felt strangely relaxed, almost longing for that voice back.

Return to me.

“My, but you are sweating like a pig.” The wizard made a face. “Perhaps you should bathe. Whatever this project is, it made considerable advancements with your help.” When she looked the stone was almost completely rebuilt and devoid of any excess rock. The arches were nearly done. “Though, we will see who that truly helps in the end. Tell me, what were your thoughts as you worked through the night? You were saying the same verses over and over again.”

Return to me.

A dark shadow of a man flew through her peripheral, making her jump. But there was no way...the shadow had been impossibly tall and broad. There was no way.

“What the hell is happening here?” Tharya rubbed her temples gingerly. A ghostly feeling lingered at her chin.

“Obviously, they—you—are constructing something.” The wizard stated plainly. Tharya closed her eyes against the ferocious morning sun. Had it really been a whole night?

And now the voice returned, embracing her tenderly but firmly, warm but not inviting, demanding yet rewarding, speaking one final, distant command:

Return to me.

You have left me.

The voice slid into bed beside her like a wisp of air, nestling onto the pillow and slowly claiming her senses. The darkness became black and the void took away the bed and scratchy blankets.

“Where have you gone?”

It was closer now, not in her head but rather reaching her ears as sound does. Something would not let her wake up. She swore she felt a strange floor beneath her shoulder, like hardened vines all twining and laced over one another.

“Return to my shrine, mal  gein ,” the voice cooed softly, the back of a gloved hand stroking her cheek. “Together you and I will accomplish much.”

And just when she felt she could open her eyes from the near oppressive sleep the world fell into place around her again, the blankets fluttering over her form, the bed creaking slightly with her weight again.

Why have you left? It stirred something inside her that felt obliged to submit. Obey. Together, you and I... a phantom touch to her forehead.

We will be all.

Chapter Text

“What are you here for this late, my lord?”

Miraak rolled his shoulders as the Oracle fumbled with the keys to the vault, clearing his throat before he spoke.
“I could ask the same of you.”
The Oracle turned with a devilish grin. “I knew you were coming.” With a click the huge stone doors were unlocked and swung open, leading into a room with rows of free-standing bookcases. Each shelf was made up of diamond shaped cubbies no wider or taller than his forearm, from elbow to fingertip; one cubby represented a year and inside each was a collection of scrolls, ranging from only one to sometimes ten.
“How old are you now, my lord?” The Oracle of Morne brushed by him and moved towards one of the shelves, holding a slim candle in one hand and searching the dates on little metal plaques below each diamond hole.
“Twenty-seven in the spring,” Miraak replied, wandering into the vault. Though he was not friends with the Oracle they had come into a familiar acquaintanceship since Miraak had visited Morne more than most people do in a lifetime in the span of three years. As a Priest and now First Mage, his duties were multiplied, and as Morne was the capital it was unsurprising he had been called so many times to the Grand Cathedral. And each time he traveled to the capital he had asked for entrance into the Great Vault, a series of rooms below the cathedral itself that very few people had access to. And each time he had gone to the prophecy room, and each time he had looked at the same prophecy.

“Ah. Here you are.” The Oracle’s slender fingers extracted the twenty-seven year old roll of paper and extended it to him, sticking the candle in a small brass fastener attached to the shelf. “I trust you enough to lock the door behind you when you are finished?” Miraak nodded. “Good.” The Oracle gathered his white robes around him and shuffled out of the vault, back to the stone doors. “My lord...whatever it is you keep looking for down here, I feel you are unlikely to find it.”

Miraak frowned.
“Should that impede my ability to look?”

The Oracle didn’t answer. He only shook his head and went back up the stairs, muttering to himself all the while.

Miraak looked down at the tightly rolled scroll clasped in his hand, running his gloved fingers gently over the delicate paper. How many times had he come down here just to hold this scroll as he did now? How many times had he denied himself the indulgence of this room, only to succumb to this...calling?

“What do you want from me?” He said aloud, disturbing the silence and dimness of the vault below the cathedral. With something akin to a lover’s touch he unrolled the prophecy to find the Oracle’s neat and precise handwriting. But it was more than that. The Last Dragonborn. His eyes lingered on those words—what did Dragonborn mean? And if there was to be a last, where was the first? Was it possible this First Dragonborn had not yet been born? There was no mention of it in the prophecy. How would the Last Dragonborn be of import?

The questions swirled in his head like a summer typhoon, sweeping up any other subject of thought he could have and dispensing of it immediately. In this moment, all he could wonder about was this paper, and this Last Dragonborn. But still the answers were unclear to him, shrouded in mystery, shrouded in the uncertainty of the future; for as far as he knew, no one calling themselves Dragonborn had ever emerged in the history of the world. Indeed, the Atmorans seemed to be the only race that worshiped the dragons, so it stood to reason that this Dragonborn could only come from Atmora. Yokuda would never produce such a title, nor the Aldmer. So this entity could not be of the past, and that left only the future. 

“You are perhaps thousands of years away and yet you will not leave me alone.” Miraak narrowed his eyes and rolled the paper up again, closing his fist around it. “But I will find you, some day.”

Some day, even if it meant cheating death and preserving his soul through dark magic. Some day, if it meant the rest of the world fell to ruin, he would push on until this Last Dragonborn appeared to him. He did not know why this determination filled his veins, this loyalty to a mere concept of what he assumed to be an Atmoran who was not yet born. This...obsession. He could not let it consume him, though whenever he lost himself to thinking about it he felt strangely peaceful, strangely content. It was so easy to derive himself of the plagues of the present when he could dream of the future. When he could dream of this, of this paper, of this person...of the Last Dragonborn.

Some day.

Chapter Text

"Hey Miraak?" She hummed. 

"Geh." 

"How did you know you loved me?" He looked down at her, touching the light blush on her freckled cheeks before smiling. 

"Not how, when." 

"When?" 

"After the second time in Apocrypha." He whispered. "I knew within the hour. It took indescribable strength to endure that." He shook his head. "A strength you possessed. A strength I did not, and I had spent thousands of years in that place. But..." Miraak shrugged lightly. "You had been willing to sacrifice that part of yourself for me, for my safety--that was...shocking." Tharya closed her eyes with a sigh, loathe to remember those few days at the College. "And I knew I could never repay you for it. But the more I thought the more I wanted to let myself be known to you, and try to express my gratitude. The more I thought...I wanted to love you. In that way, I could protect you. And up until that point I had not let myself love anyone for centuries." He craned down to kiss her scalp. "But I wanted to love you. And I was glad to. So I did."

“Dii fil, a question for you.”

“Shoot.”
“When—how, or when, did you know...did it...cross your mind,” he sighed and swallowed his next words, looking away.
“No, tell me,” Tharya laughed, not unkindly, turning his head back to her with her hands. “What is it?”

“How...did you know you were in love?” Miraak asked softly, his eyes genuine and affectionate. Even quieter, he added: “With me?” She smiled and stroked her thumbs over the line of his jaw.
“Do you remember when we fought the vampires—when the tower roof at Castle Volkihar collapsed?” He nodded. “When I couldn’t find you, I was scared. You’d been with me for so long, I’d gotten so used to your presence, and when I couldn’t find you I was scared you were completely gone. I didn’t know then why it scared me to not have you around.” Gently he wrapped his fingers around her pale wrists, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “But when I did find you, lying there, when I thought you were dead...” for a moment she chewed her lip. “I realized I couldn’t face life without you. Even if you still had some growing to do, even if we both did, honestly, I didn’t want to do it without you. And I still didn’t know it when you kissed me, because maybe I was too frightened to admit it, but I loved you.” After a long second of silence she put her arms around him as best she could. “And I still do.”

Chapter Text

"Shor's crown. That must be one hell of an enchantment." She murmured.

"The best magical minds created this vault. Their genius and ability will likely never be seen again. They were much more powerful than you or I could ever dream to be." He reached one hand for the key.

"Wait wait wait—this is the vault? The vault?" He didn't answer. The key turned with surprising ease and after a tense second the doors shifted, groaning and creaking against one another. With a horrible shriek of grating, grinding metal that lasted far too long, they swung open about a foot and a half before slowing to an abrupt halt. Miraak didn't seem too surprised and gestured for her to follow him as he slipped through the small opening. The first thing that hit her was a blast of air; not nearly as frigid as the rest of the continent or even the Grand Cathedral, but not quite lukewarm. Comfortable, with a chilly edge. Like an early spring day.

There was a considerable amount of dust covering everything, which was a welcome change from impassable snow or ice. The room was dark but her magelight lit it considerably. "Good gods. This place is bigger than I thought." The ceiling ran high over her head, though she supposed that was normal in Atmora, and the vault itself stretched on like a tunnel into the darkness; even her magelight didn't reach that far.

"It was built to last til the end of Time, if need be." Miraak replied from somewhere on her left, his voice muffled by the tightly sealed room. She came to realize the objects in front of her were bookcases, of some sort, with diamond cubbies each holding a plethora of...scrolls?

"How is it even possible these are still here?" She shook her head. "This shit is weird."

"Like I said, the room is enchanted. The paper is able to survive off the magic and the unchanging conditions."

"But it's been four millennia," she retorted, a phrase she felt was becoming rather common in their speech.

"So, we must be careful. This way." He poked his head out from behind a shelf and motioned for her to follow. Tharya did, her eyes flicking between the dusty scrolls and the floor below her boots. Real, Ancient Atmoran hand laid tile.

"I believe it was in this one, though, as you said," Miraak grinned a little, "it has been four millennia."

"My gods, we have to find something new to say." Carefully he reached into one of the diamond-shaped cubbies and rifled through the scrolls, pushing them aside one by one after a brief examination. The one he seemed to be looking for was towards the bottom, and he was still for a very long time before extracting it. "I can't read Atmoran," she said as he unrolled it.

"Nor will you ever, because I am unwilling to teach it."

"You mean you're just lazy."

"No, unwilling."

"Lazy."

Together they bent over the piece of paper, Miraak holding it lightly between his fingers and the magelight beaming down on them from above. At long last the Dragon Priest cleared his throat and lifted his face from his scarf.

"I spent many hours mulling over his scroll. You and it caused me much trouble."

"Me?" She laughed. "How in Shor's name did I cause you trouble?"

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world; when the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped; when the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles-"

"Hold on. You're joking."

"When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls; when the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding-" He straightened and she put a hand on his arm, short nails digging through his sleeve. "The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

"You mean to tell me-" Tharya took a step away.

"I've already told you," he let the scroll curl in his hands, "on Artaeum, four years ago." Her face was placid before shifting into realization and finally remembrance. Artaeum, four years ago-

"During the Dragon Break?"

"Just before you extracted my soul and my shehai." He nodded. Watching her carefully he was able to see the theatre of emotions play out on her face; fear, oddly enough, and then strained memory, followed by wonder, bewilderment. This couldn't possibly be true. But she had just heard it, hadn't she? She'd forgotten all about that day on Artaeum, it had been lost in the rush for the pankratosword and the third visit to Apocrypha, everything that had followed... "This prophecy was written the year I was born," he said gently, "perhaps even the same day. When the Psijic said we were soulmates—he did not mean it in the sense of companionship."

"He meant it in the sense that we exist because of each other," she finished. "When were you born?"

"Well, I do not know exactly. But if I was about twenty-nine when I went to Apocrypha..." he squinted for a moment, calculating the years in his head, quiet for a moment. "Around...the two thousandth and twentieth year of the Merethic Era? Two thousand nineteenth?"

Tharya gaped for a moment and put a hand over her mouth. "This prophecy is just as old as you are!" She whispered. "What...Esbern never said anything about that." He raised an eyebrow. "Esbern, one of the Blades....holy shit." Wordlessly she outstretched her hands, cupping them together, and he let the prophecy roll off his palm into hers. "I thought I had a history of shirking destiny, not...not whatever this is."

"Creating it." He offered, and their gazes met. Tharya was silent for a long, long time.

"And you read this? Way back then?"

"Many times. This is the first time I've held it in..." he shrugged. "Since before my imprisonment."

She only shook her head. He chuckled. "Are you alright?"

"I'm just...wow. This is incredible. The fact that this is all so well-preserved, that this is...that I just read this...this is about me. And it's thousands of years old and I—I don't know what to say." She closed her hands lightly around the paper. "This was created even before Skyrim was!"

"Inhabited by Men, at least, yes," he smiled. "And long before there was ever a Whiterun or Sun-Sword family or a little house with too many children beside the temple inside the city walls."

"Aw, you really had to just make it that much more insane," she laughed a little. "I can't even think properly, but...thank you for showing me this." She tried to imagine Miraak four thousand years ago reading this scroll, reading her scroll, but couldn't. Couldn't imagine his boots treading softly through the cathedral to the nighttime vault keeper, couldn't imagine him coming time and time again for one scroll out of hundreds. For this scroll. Couldn't imagine it in his hands or the candlelight on his unscarred face, or him mulling over the words Dragonborn and Brass Tower and the thrice-blessed. Couldn't imagine him not even knowing that he was Dragonborn. Couldn't even begin to think of the Grand Cathedral above them in all its glory. "I don't know why but...I feel complete."

Chapter Text

"No matter what, you have to keep running, sunflower," he said firmly, giving her a little shake. "Dry your tears, little one. Now is the time to focus. You and I are going to get out of here. Listen carefully," he drew her close, enveloping the girl in a tight hug. "The moment those guards go by, we're going to wait—just for a few seconds. And then we're going to run for our lives." Sofie grabbed the back of his neck tightly, burying herself against his shoulder. "If anything happens, no matter what it is; if I fall, keep going. If you fall, get back up and keep going. If they bring me down keep going. It is of the utmost importance you get to your aunt, understand?"

He left out the part where if the Thalmor recaptured him, he would most certainly be dead by the time Sofie even made it to Tharya. If she ever did. If they ever stormed this keep, they would find him either in the ground or ashes scattered on the wind. But she didn't need to hear that. She inhaled sharply through her nose as the unison, tramping footsteps of the outer patrol guards drew closer. Miraak was aware he was probably suffocating the poor girl by how tightly he was holding her, but better she stop breathing for a moment as they passed. He himself didn't even dare blink, rooted in the shadows. Like a frightened animal.

The thought made his jaw tight. Who the hell were these people to bring him, of all people, down? It wasn't even a matter of pride, dammit. He was the First Dragonborn. He was not going to lose, break, or cave. In this life or the next. The pair of guards passed them, talking quietly amongst themselves. One had a pike, the other a shield. Both could probably use magic. No matter. They lingered for a moment just past the opening, and then with a sigh and a mumbled complaint both moved on. Miraak counted slowly, agonizingly slowly to himself, loosening his hold on Sofie bit by bit. His own death he had accepted. He would never forgive himself if the girl died with him.

Carefully they both stood—his knees creaked as they did, his body stiff from being cramped into such a small space for so long. But they had to move quickly. With the element of surprise, the night, and time all on their side for now, they had to move. It was likely the Thalmor would discover their cell empty soon, possibly within minutes. Sofie grasped his hand tightly.

"I love you, Uncle," she said softly. "Do you remember when you called me your daughter when they took us in Hammerfell?"

"Yes," Miraak replied in a low voice. "I meant it. I love you too. You are one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me." It was an informal goodbye; neither of them were willing to say the real thing just yet. "Ready?"

She inhaled. "No."

He took the first hesitant step out of the alcove, peering down each wall to see if the guards were around. They weren't. There was roughly a mile between them and the front gate. He'd already decided he'd Shout it apart. A sudden thought broke the stillness of his brain: Sofie's legs were a third the length of his. There was no way she would keep up. And with this goddamn collar around his neck there was absolutely no way he could cast.

"Neither am I." Without a second thought he picked her up and slung her over one shoulder, darting out into the moonlight. It felt like he had only passed two steps when a cry went up. Already? It didn't matter. The gate. There was nothing right now between he and it.

Tharya, Tharya, please be close.

One mile to go.

Chapter Text

He caught the last glimpse of the Thalmor agent as he fled through the window, a cold blast of winter air dancing in through the open threshold. That didn’t hold his attention for long though. The crumpled heap of a person in the center of the hallway did, the golden hair splayed along the floor, the pools of blood—not enough for death to come, but enough to make his throat tighten—puddling on the stone floor. Tharya.

His feet took him forward without him even telling them to do so, his knees unhinging to bring him down to where she lay, tossed unceremoniously on the floor. Discarded. But he hadn’t absorbed a soul, so she was not dead. Laying one hand gently on her back, Miraak inhaled slowly.
“Tharya.” He had intended for it to come out louder but all it was was a faint, hoarse whisper. “Tharya.” Was she unconscious? So, so carefully, he put one arm around her and turned her over, welcomed by the sight of a long gash in her belly. His dovah roared at that. Her stomach, of all places. Another cold wind, but he barely felt it. His whole body had gone cold the moment he saw her lying here.

It was a spluttering cough that alerted him downwards, to where her head was lying on his thighs. A new trickle of blood spurted from her mouth and dribbled out when she croaked, her bloody lips working to speak to him but nothing coming out.
“Shush, elskavin. Save your words. Shh.” There were tears streaming down her face, he saw, endless tears. She wasn’t trying to speak, she was crying. Crying out of pain. That lit a short fuse to something in his head; within an instant he outstretched one hand to place it on her forehead and immediately lit a healing spell. His arms were tight and his hands were trembling, shaking, like paper caught in a storm. The spell went immediately to her side and she screamed, cried, wept his name as her skin and organs—gods, he hoped it hadn’t punctured that far—were knit back together. She cried that he was hurting her and the spell nearly winked out of existence. There was no other way. Healing would hurt, but he needed her healed. But you are hurting her, aren’t you?

“I am sorry, my love,” he whispered shakily, stroking her sweaty hair with his free hand. “I am sorry. Just a little more.” Her fingers tightened to a vice around his arm and then in one small moment she went lax. His heart stopped. She was completely limp. Had he...had he done something wrong? Had he not shown up in time? Was she...

Dead?

Frantically he fumbled to find her pulse, fingertips sliding along her throat until they came to the soft bed of flesh just below the hinge of her jaw, and he waited, blinking away the unshed tears—tears, his own tears—from his vision. That ragged panting filling the room couldn’t possibly be his, but Tharya was not making a sound. That small, high voice whispering please, please, please couldn’t be his, but there was no one else to speak.

When he found the beating drum of her heartbeat, weak as she looked but still there, he made a noise of relief and utter defeat. Alive, but asleep. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest, his ribs ached from the beating, his throat had closed in a knot around itself, but she was alive.
“Thank you,” he croaked, leaning down to put his forehead down against hers, unable to look into her open eyes. “Thank you, thank you.” And he cried, cried even as bitter winter air rolled over them, holding her face in his hands and cried until his eyes stung and went dry.

When the guards came, they found him just getting to his feet with her tucked safely in his arms, her wounds healed but the pain lingering. Still unconscious, though. He picked her up carefully, gently as he could, treating her as untempered glass. Her body was regaining warmth and a strong pulse. His moment of weakness gone, he felt only a low-lying sense of rage now, distant but no less potent. He glared at the guards until they parted to allow him through, ignored all their questions, snarled when one of them tried to reach out for her. They had no right. She was hurt and he would spend every waking moment keeping an endless watch until she was healthy. Halfway to their room she woke just a little, just enough to put her head against his shoulder, and he rumbled something to her in Dovahzul. So small. Fragile. He would have to be gentle with her. Speak lowly, touch her lightly. More importantly, he would make the Thalmor pay tenfold for what they did. He held her as close as possible and roared at people who did not move out of his way. She was hurt but more importantly she was his , and he hers, and he would die before someone laid a finger on her in this state. No, they would die.

The guards trotting by in the hall eventually stopped calling out to him; they saw the scales, gleaming, hard gold, covering the arms that held her, and they did not stop to ask their questions anymore.

Chapter Text

“Good evening to you, Dragonborn.” The Thalmor agent grinned and leapt easily from the window as if it weren’t the middle of the night, as if it weren’t the dead of winter, leaving Miraak alone. Well, not entirely alone. Left to stew in the complete shock and utter disgust of what he’d just done.

He didn’t hear the elf, not over Tharya’s crying. By the Mighty. He’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to—hadn’t seen her coming around that corner, exiting the darkness—hadn’t felt her presence for whatever reason—had assumed those footsteps behind him belonged to the second Thalmor who’d infiltrated the Blue Palace, and had turned, let his fist fly as surely as he could. The resounding crack would’ve been satisfying if he had not recognized the golden hair as the body fell, nor the stature, nor the scar below her eye. For a long moment, he just stared. And then, as shock broke away to reveal explicit rage and anguish, he had roared hard enough to shake the Palace, sending the agent to the window to make his escape. Miraak didn’t care. He let his legs give out and gathered her up in his arms, wailing in pain and bleeding, so, so fragile in his grasp, so small , so...so Tharya.

For the first time in a long time he spluttered and fought to find the correct words.
“I— elskavin, I...I didn’t...I was unaware—I thought...” every beginning died on his lips as she wept into him, cradling her broken jaw as he fastened his arms like padlocks around her. His anger was almost blinding, almost toxic. Anger at himself. How could he? How could he? Everything he tried to say was just a weak, pitiful excuse for the simple fact that he had hit her and it didn’t fucking matter if he meant it or not, because he’d done it, and now she was crying and moaning and all he was doing was sitting there crushing her against his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything else, though. “Please, please forgive me. I would never hurt you.” Except you did. “Please. Never.” Except you did.

Whenever the guards got there they found him crunched up, Tharya wedged so tightly into his embrace that not even her sobs could move her an inch. His hands were trembling, shaking, and tears—tears!—blurred his vision, but as carefully as he could, too painfully aware of how small she was in his hands, he touched her temple, and then her cheek, already bruising, already swollen.
“Shh, elskavin. Lay still,” he whispered, voice cracking and hoarse. “Breathe. Let me—” she inhaled sharply as he so, so gently let his palm hover over the hinge of her jaw. “Let me heal you. I won’t hurt you. Lay still.”
“My lord?” One of the guards behind him. He ignored it. He hardly heard it. The crack as bones were put back into place was much less satisfying this time. It made his whole body jump but he kept just steady enough to see the healing spell die out, signaling its job was done and there was nothing left to heal. He wanted to shout again. He wanted to tear his hair out. His chest felt weighed down by an anvil, his throat closed.

“By the gods, Tharya,” he croaked, “I am sorry. I am sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Please forgive me. Please. I didn’t know.” She was still crying but less violently now, her lip trembling, but all too quickly she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. No, gods, no, he didn’t deserve it. Vaguely aware he was weeping, he curled both hands into her shirt and shuddered so violently his neck cramped.
“It’s okay, Miraak,” she whispered against his hair. “It’s okay. Just relax.” But it wasn’t okay, was it? You hit her. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to let the anvil on his chest crush him. “Calm down, Miraak. It’s alright.”

But it wasn’t, because he’d hit her, and he could think of no worse punishment on Nirn than the knowledge of that fact.

Chapter Text

"Ahtlahzey."

For someone so large, he sometimes moves with a surprising amount of stealth. Only sometimes, though—the man has set off his fair share of traps, alerted his fair share of bandits with his heavy footsteps, and gotten them into a decent amount of scuffles at moments when his stealth failed. Which was more often than not. But this time, Tharya doesn't hear him approach. Miraak stands a safe distance away, waiting quietly for her to acknowledge him. Hunched over her journal at the water's edge, sitting atop a large, flat rock that rises from the ground, she stares out across the water for just a moment longer before sitting up and closing the journal. She had wanted to write, but words escape her; the fight at Castle Volkihar is still fresh in her mind, fresh in the aching of her body. 

"Hey, big guy." She waves him over, noting that for once he wasn't wearing his robes—at least, not the whole ensemble. The loose outer layer and belt are gone, leaving only the long-sleeved, collared shirt below. Though the fabric is snug around his torso it loosens around his arms, letting the metal cuffs at his biceps and wrists segment each sleeve. His gloves are missing. And...he's carrying his boots? His feet are wet. "How's the water?" 

"Cold," he replies simply as she stands, leaving the journal by her feet. On the rock, she's almost eye-level with him. "But clear."

That would've been a strange comment from anyone else, but she casts a glance out to the water just a few feet away, lapping at the smooth stones. Sea Point is a small town situated on the far side of Haafingar that overlooks the ocean; Castle Volkihar, usually shrouded by clouds, is a near straight line to the west. The water is clear, thankfully so. She knows he only noticed because it isn't black like the water in Apocrypha. "I have missed the sea," Miraak says after a moment, rather curiously. He tilts his head to follow her gaze outwards. The candlelit windows of Sea Point break the dusk close by. "I enjoyed it very much, in my youth." 

Snickering, Tharya looks back at him, grateful for the height the rock gives her. Looking at him head on is...breathtaking. "You aren't old enough to say things like that. My youth. " He contemplates for a moment before deciding that the appropriate response is a small smile, a little light dancing in his eyes. Golden eyes. Sunset eyes. Even in the moonlight, under cover darkness, beneath the stars, they shine vibrantly, like melting coins. "Have you eaten yet? The tavern must have something cooking up by now." He shakes his head. As beautiful as those eyes are, they look beyond exhausted. "How's your magicka?"

"Returning," he nods, rolling one shoulder and looking down at his hands. "Shalidor's spells are always taxing." 

"Yeah." Without thinking she reaches out to take a piece of dark, dark hair and gently lift it away from his forehead, letting her fingertips trace around his ear before falling away. "You'd look good with your hair brushed back, you know?" He looks startled when she presses her palm to his hairline to do just that, combing his hair away with her fingers. It's not long enough that all of it stays, but it does somehow make his face look more...open.

This time when he smiles it's natural, not premeditated, and the sensation of his fingertips on her cheek is like hot flame meeting cool metal. She's so used to his gloves, the soft leather acting as a second skin, that feeling his true hand is like a little jolt of lightning. He examines her face for a moment as if searching for a compliment to repay her with, she thinks about her journal again, about writing; her body aches from the fight, but her mind reels from the kiss. What does it mean? What now? Was it a spur of the moment thing, something that happened only because he had been glad to be alive at all? He hasn't spoken of it or...done anything in the days since. Then again, neither has she. 

But, gods, she can't imagine a world without that kiss anymore. Even if he goes back to hating her or ignoring her or he leaves, she will always remember the morning the First Dragonborn kissed her and smiled. It's a good memory to have, a pleasant one to counteract the memories of the dragonmarks—even though she had felt his lips then, been sequestered in his arms, she had also been able to see the anguish on his face as it happened. Being kissed by a man in pain and being kissed by the same man in bliss are two equally riveting experiences, but one far outweighs the other when it comes to how fondly it's remembered. 

The palm of his hand radiates heat against her scarred cheek as he strokes his thumb lightly under her eye, over her warpaint. Tharya realizes that somehow her hand sunk to his chest while she was daydreaming, migrated there of its own accord. He is watching her, silently, and seems closer than before. Would he let her...? Can she kiss him again? It feels oddly exciting to be able to touch him. He's so warm , even through the thick shirt, warm and solid. His eyes sparkle again. 

"If you do not do it, I will, ahtlahzey," Miraak hums, lowering his hand to catch her chin between his thumb and a bent forefinger.

She smiles and searches for a quick joke to make but none come. Instead she finds only the desire to see him smile again, and feel his lips, the hearth of his mouth. Dragging her nails lightly through the long stubble on his jaw she leans towards him and watches his mouth quirk into an amused little grin-

"Ah, Tharya!" Just like that, Miraak swings away from her, like a door blown open by a storm. Celann stops mid-step, looking frantically between them, and then clasps his hands together. She's still standing on the rock. The First Dragonborn stares impassively out across the water, warmth gone, eyes flat. "Oh...Tharya."

"Yes, Celann?" She tries to smile and not blush and not be aggravated , dammit, stepping off the rock, adjusting her ruana. "What's up?"

"Nothing—well, um, the tavern just put the first round of meals out. I saved you both plates." The ex-Vigilant glances worriedly at Miraak, who looks as if he's been carved from marble and is married to the ground by hidden roots. "Just figured I'd let you know while it's hot."

"Oh, right." She had forgotten about food, but with Celann's words the emptiness in her stomach bubbles back up to the forefront of her mind. "Thanks. We'll be there in just a second."

"And, Isran sent me to ask if you'll be leaving with us," the Breton adds. "We'll probably set out by the end of the week." Tharya looks at Miraak's shoulders and debates asking him his thoughts on the matter; is he embarrassed? That seems unlikely, but now that she's seen him smile, any emotion is possible. He doesn't seem to like the Dawnguard very much, nor does he enjoy being around Serana. Some extended rest and recuperation in a quiet place like Sea Point might do them both well, anyway.

"I'm not sure," she says finally, deciding to discuss it with the Atmoran later when they aren't both tired and hungry. "But I'll let Isran know soon."

Celann nods and looks at Miraak one last time before mouthing sorry! over and over again at her, shaking his head as he backs away. Chuckling, she waves him off and waits until he's nothing but a shadow returning to the distant noises coming from the tavern. Miraak remains stiff for a long time, unmoving, staring across the water to Castle Volkihar. Gathering her journal from the ground she tucks it under her arm and slots herself into the empty space on his right, giving his sleeve a gentle tug.

"Hungry, big guy?" He gives her a noncommittal hum. "We should eat before it gets too dark." The sun has already set, but the world seems to hang on the knife edge of dusk, clinging to the faint light in the west as if waiting for them. Normally it wouldn't matter, but Miraak prefers to eat away from the others with just her, even if he's never explicitly stated as much. She gets the feeling he doesn't like eating in front of people, though a reason as to why eludes her. They've taken most dinners so far under the stars or watching the sunset, most breakfasts sitting at the water's edge, and most lunches in the shade of the trees at the edge of town. Just the two of them, as it is when they're traveling.

He moves delicately at first, turning to face her—to look down at her, really—and examine her features with an appreciative kind of slowness. She lets him. He does this often, just stares, as if trying to engrave her face into his mind, or like he's trying to find something new since the last time he looked at her. This time, though, he steps forward and wraps his arms tentatively, carefully around her body and pulls her against his chest for...a hug. He's hugging her.

His arms are long enough they could probably wrap around her twice, long and...safe. Strong. She knows he's strong, but feeling the muscles in his limbs stretch and move to envelop her is different. Like he's guarding her somehow by just embracing her, holding her close of his own free will. The heat of his body is stronger than a campfire, relaxing her muscles, calming her very bones. She lets herself melt in his grasp, sighing quietly against his chest, listening to the heavy thudding of his heart below her ear. Miraak rubs his hands carefully against her back, the most comforting thing she's felt in...gods, ages. Eons. No one holds her like this, no one embraces her. No one rubs her back. No one has before. But Miraak does it as if he's known her all his life, and for the length of time she spends tucked away in his arms she feels herself truly relax for the first time since she got put on that wagon for Helgen.

It's difficult, but Tharya buries her disappointment when he draws back. Who knew such a grumpy mute gave such amazing hugs? He doesn't fully let go of her, though, and she's surprised when he leans down to take her chin again.

"Ahtlahzey-"

"Yes," she nods, and then doesn't wait before kissing him a second time. His face is unusually hot when her hands find his cheeks, a flushed kind of hot—is he blushing? His lips are soft but his kiss is sure and certain, and he cradles her back, shoulders stooped to reach her even on her toes. This time there is no threat of death. No vampires. No Bow, no Harkon. No Dawnguard. No dragonmarks. No Daedra. Just Miraak, alive and well, his eyes healed, holding her in a way he hasn't before, kissing her in a way he will forever.

Their parting is slow, not a clean break at all. He seems intent on feeling her lips as much as he can, and she kisses him a thousand more times after the initial one falls away, small but warm, featherlight kisses, touching his neck, his shoulders, feeling the firmness of his chest. Reluctantly, he straightens on the thousand and first.

"Gods, my spine," the First Dragonborn mutters with the hint of a grin, rolling his shoulders.

"Better get used to it," she says before she can stop herself. That grin turns towards her, eyes lit with pleasant surprise. Those words give him certainty that she will not abandon him now, that there is no chance of their separation after this. "You're stuck with me for good, big man," Tharya chuckles weakly, nudging his ribs.

"For good," Miraak echoes after a moment, nodding to himself. He's staring again. "For good, ahtlahzey. "

Chapter Text

“All we have is the barn,” the woman said apologetically, “I’m sorry.”

The hayloft smelled damp and vaguely of horse, but she was too tired to complain now. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and she wanted nothing more than to toss herself down onto her bedroll and sleep through the storm. Of course, there was Miraak to worry about; she hadn’t known that rain irritated him so much. Rather, that it hurt him. Apparently he’d suffered an old wound in the middle of a storm and ever since then, his leg was rendered useless in undulating bouts of pain whenever it rained. Despite that he had followed her without a single complaint, which was something of a rarity, and had held his tongue when all she had to offer him after a grueling day of travel was a damp hayloft in a dark barn.

“Are you alright?”

The question came from Miraak as she sat staring at her boots, letting water trail down her face without a thought in the world. “Yeah,” Tharya replied softly. “Just...stressed.” She heard the slap of wet fabric and a disgruntled noise as he sat carefully beside her, the usually emanating heat from his body stifled by the cold rain.
“You should not stay in those clothes,” he said in a quiet voice, lightly touching her soaked ruana with one hand. She noted, out of the corner of her eye, that the rest of his arm was bare as well, and quickly fixed her gaze somewhere else. It didn’t really matter, though. She was too exhausted and too irritated to care about him being shirtless. “ Ahtlahzey- ”
“I heard,” she said quickly, too quickly, getting to her feet as dread settled in her empty stomach. She didn’t care about him being shirtless, but she did care about herself being the same. Being in any state of undress around him felt...queasy. Her face tightened in disdain as she tore her boots off and then unpinned her ruana to shrug it off. The hayloft was dim anyway, but the woman who owned the farm had given them a few candles to light which now sat on the floor with flames encasing their wicks, giving off a feeble glow.

“Sorry,” she whispered, curling her fists into the hem of her shirt, stuck to her torso from being beneath her jerkin. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m just-” it didn’t matter. In a bad mood sounded childish, but it was true. Briefly she twisted around to look at Miraak, sitting still as a statue with his back to her, his knees propped up and one hand clasping the opposite wrist atop them. “Tired,” she decided finally. “You should get some rest.” When he didn’t reply, she turned around again. He had every right to be pissed at her, she knew. She hadn’t exactly been pleasant company since the rain started falling early in the afternoon.

Uncertainly she took the jerkin off and then carefully wriggled out of the shirt, tossing both over the edge of the hayloft as Miraak had done with his robes and shirt - and pants? - in the hopes they would dry enough overnight to be worn tomorrow. She tiptoed by him with no desire to ignite his irritation further, hoping to get to her bedroll and sleep the rest of this dreadful night away, but stopped when he spoke her name.

Moving his legs apart, Miraak patted the dry floor between them and looked curiously up at her. “Sit,” he said simply, and this time she was not tired enough to note that he was sitting there, cold and damp, in nothing but his underwear and with a thin blanket draped over his shoulders. Tharya hesitated for a long moment, too long, long enough to forget and then remember that she was wearing much the same. The thought made her skin crawl. He surveyed her for a minute and then carefully amended his words. “If you would like to.”
“Um...” she tried to cover herself short of putting her arms up, but nothing seemed to work. “What for?” His golden eyes twinkled just the slightest in the candlelight.
“If you are stressed, I can help.” He continued to watch her expectant of an answer, which only made her want to writhe under his gaze. Did he know how heavy it was, to be watched like that? How...pinning?
“That sounds like an innuendo,” she smiled nervously.
“It is not,” he chuckled lightly, brushing a piece of straw away from his hip, “I assure you.”

Before she could truly think of an answer her feet brought her forward, and he smiled, taking the blanket off his back to spread it over the spot of floor between his legs, over his thighs. The Atmoran raised both arms to help her sit, and for a brief moment she was paralyzed by the fact that they were both wearing virtually nothing and she was sitting between his legs and—and cautiously, Miraak adjusted himself so his chest was nearly touching her back, and however stifled the heat of his body was it was so close now she could almost touch it. For that brief moment, she was glad they weren’t facing each other.

Miraak found himself hesitating just as she did, now with the smooth expanse of her back bared to him, a precious few light scars decorating her already pale skin. He had no idea if he could... touch her. Which is what he intended to do originally, but now she was sitting - he didn’t actually think she would - and he could see the muscles bunching her shoulders and the tightness along her sides that meant she wasn’t comfortable , which was what he had wanted. Which was what he did want. Gods, he was an idiot.

“Apologies,” he said after a moment, snorting to himself. “I should clarify myself. I was going to give you a massage, but if that perturbs you, I will not.”
“Oh,” Tharya said, and then started laughing. It was a quiet, resigned sound, not like her usual laugh, but still a laugh. “No, actually, that sounds nice.”
“Oh,” he echoed, blinking at the back of her head. Nice. Well, that was... “Good.” Surprising. “I suppose it will be a rather archaic style.” He felt his toes curl against the dry wood below his feet as he remembered all the things an Atmoran massage entailed, and went back to calling himself an idiot in his head again. Nords were ridiculously prude about physical contact, for whatever reason, and though he wouldn’t call Tharya prude - shy, maybe - the concept remained the same. “So if you feel uncomfortable...”

Another surprise as she unraveled one hand to lightly touch his leg and nodded. “I’ll let you know,” she whispered, and then extended her pinky to him with a little scoff. “Promise.” Glad she couldn’t see his bewilderment (or... embarrassment , was that it?) he awkwardly hooked his little finger with hers. Apparently such a small gesture held great weight among people of the Fourth Era, almost as formal as signing a treaty or a blood pact. Or so she had told him. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

Quietly drawing in a breath, he lifted both arms around her and slowly, slowly placed the back of one hand against the small of her spine and cradled her lower stomach in the opposite hand, the heat of his palm warming her skin. Her breath jumped, but she said nothing as his fingers spread. Even so, he could almost feel the faint thudding of her heartbeat through her stomach, beating harder than it should’ve been for a person just sitting down.

"Inhale slowly," he murmured against her hair, "as you do, let your head fall back onto my shoulder, and the hold the breath once it reaches its peak." She hummed after a moment of registering the instructions and nodded, her temple sliding across his jaw at the movement. " Paratö —ready?" Another nod. As she breathed in he pressed both hands steadily towards each other. Not a squeeze, but light pressure, at most. Her neck resisted the motion of her head falling back - that would come next, then. "Hold," he whispered, letting his eyes wander down the slope of her throat and the plane of her collarbones, her upper chest, the gentle curve of her breasts beneath the bandeau before forcing them away. She was trusting him with this. She was trusting him, which made it no time to let his gaze stray. "Exhale." She did so gratefully and he let her torso expand to push both his hands outwards again. "Again?"

"Mhm." Just for good measure, he did it twice more, each time keeping his eyes locked on the way her throat inflated as she breathed in. It was the closest thing to her face. After the second time she was all but slumped against his chest, forehead tucked against the base of his neck. An agreeable position, at the very least. She was so...small. He had always known that, but now especially it was prominent, in the forefront of his mind.

"How was that?" Miraak murmured softly, cautiously nudging her cheek with his. "Better?

"I feel more tired, if that's the goal," she chuckled weakly, fingers curling against his thigh. "But more...relaxed, I think. Yeah."

"Good." Sliding one arm around her torso and feeling her shiver from the sudden warmth, he gave his shoulder a gentle shrug, and lifted his other hand to guide her stiff neck upwards. Her chin fit nicely into his palm. "Try to stay that way, if you are able."

Carefully he pressed his fingers along her jaw, just as tight as the rest of her had been. "Relax your mouth," he crooned, closing his eyes to rest his head against hers. "Let go of your teeth." She snickered, however faintly, at that. "Relax your jaw. Let it hang." That was a small struggle, but finally he saw her lips fall just the slightest bit apart as she managed it. "Good, vanjé, vanjé. Let the spot between your eyebrows unravel." Absently he noticed he was swaying a little where he sat with her between his legs, holding her fast to his chest. No wonder the rest of her body felt like putty. Her legs were slipping down, leaning into his propped up knees, and her arms were still bent to rest on his thighs but utterly motionless. 

"Smooth your forehead, let it go." She didn't seem to mind it though. The swaying or the arm around her middle. That was a good sign. He found himself enjoying holding her like this more than was probably considered acceptable. "Now close your eyes as lightly as you can, and focus on just one thing from your surroundings. The wood, the smell...the rain..." his thigh twitched at that, but he ignored it completely. Now was not the time. "The feel of being calm."

"Your voice?" She slurred softly. "Could I do that?" He was quiet for a long moment before blinking rapidly.

"Of course," he hummed. "Anything that perpetuates your comfort." With a tiny bit of strength she shifted in his hold to snuggle closer to him, if that was even possible. It almost seemed criminal to make her sit up on her own since she was obviously so comfortable, and so exhausted, but he did, chuckling when she groaned theatrically about it. 

In one motion Miraak swept all her hair over one shoulder, though it wasn’t particularly long. Squinting in the darkness he let his thumbs find the base of her skull, hidden by her damp hair, and let the rest of his fingers on both hands settle carefully around the rest of her neck. After that he dragged his hands over her shoulders - tried to, at least; her shoulders were small enough that his palms laying flat on top of them covered them completely, and then some. He let his eyes follow his fingertips as they felt slowly down her back and then back up again. She twitched and writhed a little at that, but when he asked, her voice was light.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m ticklish,” she explained with a snort. “It’s horrible.” The First Dragonborn grinned slowly as he dug his thumbs back into the hair at the nape of her neck and started rubbing them in slow circles.
“Habit, I suppose, but you should always locate the length of someone’s spine before doing this,” he hummed, “believe me, to have someone push on your spine is less than pleasant.”
“That makes sense,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Somehow I never thought about that.”

The candlelight was too dim to see much, truthfully, but it was just enough that he could make her out in front of him and see the faint burnished glow against her skin. She was small to him, pale against his brown skin, but not delicate. He had thought so at first, but had since been proven wrong. She was lean muscle and softer than he was in most places, but still strong. Much more agile than he could ever dream of being. There was a gentle, shallow dip around her waist where her hips curved ever so slightly out, and after that she vanished into darkness. A messy scar the size and shape of a septim sat above her left hip, and a thin one followed the curve of her right side ribcage.

A quiet sigh drew him out of his thoughts, a light and pleasant sound that almost wrecked his concentration entirely. Swallowing against his dry throat he lifted gradually away from her neck and straightened his hands as they glided downwards, latching around the flesh of each trapezius muscle in her shoulders. The initial squeeze made her coil again, but each press of his thumbs in an outward semicircle carefully pushed each string of tension away into nothingness. How could someone so slight hold so much strain? 

Without a word he leaned forward to press his nose into her hair, exhaling quietly. “What do you usually do when you get agitated like this?”
“Nothing,” she murmured faintly, her voice sleepy and thick.
“Nothing?” He echoed. “That would explain why your shoulders feel like rocks.” Her body grew rigid to push out a laugh before melting again.
“Maybe you’ll have to do this more often, then,” Tharya mumbled, making him pause for a blindsided second before resuming. More often. Ten minutes ago she looked horrified about being shirtless in front of him, but now she was inviting him willingly into her space, expanding her levels of comfort to include him and his touch. Something akin to pride but kinder swelled in his chest.
“I would love to,” he murmured back, bowing his head to kiss the back of her neck.

She was mostly quiet after that, only allowing herself small sounds, little groans as his index and middle fingers pushed into the taut muscles parallel to her spine on either side, kneading his way down her sides to roll his knuckles carefully into the small of her back. The darkness was thick there between them, and the uncertainty of relying on touch alone around her hips made his shoulders tight. Gods, he would need a massage after this. She may have kissed him not that long ago on that broken tower rooftop, may have healed his eyes, may have held his hand, but he did not know her body enough to traverse it where he could not see. He wished he did, though. He wished vehemently that he did. But it would be enough for now that she had said more often , brought him that much closer to being able to know her. She knew him well by now, from the months she had taken care of him, the months he’d spent ignoring her presence in favor of wallowing in self pity, and now it was his time to catch up.

By the time he was done she sounded to be asleep. Her breathing was slow and even, and her knees were drawn up to her chest to rest her head on. It didn’t look comfortable, being crunched up like that. As he rubbed her sides soothingly he murmured her name once to see if she would stir, but she didn’t. The woman slept in the oddest positions, sometimes.

In the absence of her reply Miraak shifted carefully onto his knees and wound both arms around her to pick her up, one beneath her knees and the other tucked around her torso. The candles were stubs now, and as he walked by one, it fluttered and went out completely, bathing them in darkness. He used his feet to feel around and find her bedroll, set an arm’s length from his, and unclasped at the side to unfold so she could use one of the blankets given to them by the farmer. He toed it open and knelt, willing his leg not to give out and let them both collapse, and deposited her gently onto the thin fur inside.

For a moment he let himself crouch there and rub the backs of his fingers over her cheek, listening to the sure, soft sound of her breathing, feeling her breath break against his knuckles. Meticulously he traced one finger over her lips to find them and bent, cradling her head in one hand and her jaw in the other, to kiss her, only for the fourth time. It felt like more than that. It felt like he had known her for years, centuries even, not just a few months, and it felt like she had been at his side forever, but somehow it also felt like he had met her only yesterday. What he wouldn’t give to disperse that unfamiliarity between them.

“Sleep well, dii fil ,” he whispered, unraveling the blanket and pulling it over her as he kissed her forehead and tucked the fabric around her sides. What he wouldn’t give to lay down beside her, to wrap her in his arms and let her sleep soundly, well past sunrise, to keep her warm and relaxed and let her truly, truly rest. What he wouldn’t give to sleep next to her.

With a quiet sigh he pushed himself back to his feet and felt around for his own bedroll, shifted it just the slightest bit closer to hers, and blew the second candle out before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The first time she realized after three years with him, two years spent as a lover, a partner, two years touching him, two years sleeping beside him, two years kissing him, she finally realized that there was more--it was because he kissed her.  

His kisses were routine at this point. She let him do what he wanted, usually when he wanted, whether it was to kiss her hand or her cheek or her mouth. Even so, she enjoyed each one as much as she had the first; he was an excellent kisser--he knew it, too--and never once left her wanting. She couldn't say the same for her own kisses, truthfully, but she was trying.  

They were in Yokuda. Yes, it took her three whole years to realize it; it took a trip to a barren desert island. It took Miraak sliding his arms around her, drawing her through the warm oasis water towards him, his hair soaked and pressed back from his face. She had told him a thousand times before he looked good with it swept back, and she would tell him a thousand more times. It opened his features, somehow made his face more...just more. Tharya let her hands settle on those unforgivingly broad shoulders, droplets sliding enviably down his arms and chest. He looked good wet, too. Too good. Miraak chuckled; she no longer hid her staring all the time, especially since he enjoyed it so much. Not all the time, but definitely still sometimes.  

His kiss was strong, warm, open-mouthed and endless. He enjoyed leaving her a little breathless, but this...all she could think to do was curl her hands against his chest. With a dizzy feeling she felt his tongue trace her lower lip before pressing past it, into her mouth, but the hand holding her head didn't let her shy away from it. If anything, he held her closer, any part of their bodies that could touch pressed flush to one another. Her chest burned from the few short, quick breaths she'd managed between his kisses, but that pressure was quickly relieved when his mouth left hers. The small gasp that left her was embarrassing to say the least, but quickly swallowed down as his lips reappeared hotly against her neck, kissing her throat as if it was the most sought after thing in the universe.  

Maybe for him it was.  

It was in that moment as he made love to her neck--she had no idea why she thought of it as such, but it seemed fitting--that she realized that not once in two years of loving him had she ever thought of making love to him. But now it flooded into her head and became all she could think of. Would he kiss her differently in bed? Touch her differently than he usually did? Would he kiss her like this? Though mostly by accident, she had seen him naked before, but that was next to nothing compared to thinking of him naked, of the roll of the muscles in his torso as he moved, the firmness of his thighs and strength in his arms flexing to hold his body, the delightful landscape of his back and shoulders shifting, the creases in his palms and the smooth staff and sword callouses just like hers. Would dragging her fingers through his hair have a different effect? Over his chest? She lost herself briefly to thinking of positions, letting her mind paint quick images, create phantom sensations that sent a shudder through her spine. There was no doubt in her mind she was just as excellent a lover as he was a kisser. Maybe better.  

When her eyes fluttered open, Miraak was looking at her with his forehead pressed to hers, one eye open.  

"What?" She asked quietly, curling her fingers against his shoulders. His gaze was contemplative, as if he was seeing something he hadn't noticed before. He closed his eye and shrugged lightly. 

"I like that look on your face," he said after a moment, smiling just the slightest bit. A smug smile though, a sly one, a scheming one. She avoided giving him the satisfaction of her blush by laying her head on his shoulder and pressing one hand to his chest. He relaxed, both arms snug around her, and after a moment started to hum, which was a rare treat. That wasn't what she was fixated on though. It was the look in his eye, the change in his scent, and the heavy thudding of his heart below her palm--too fast for a man simply relaxing after a long day of traveling through the desert.  

Carefully she took each piece of information and each question she had posed to herself and filed them away as important to remember. They would be answered in due time--Miraak had made it quite clear he wasn't celibate in the past and wouldn't be in this life either, but he had yet to broach the topic with her. She didn't mind. It would take time. If she gathered her thoughts enough beforehand, she could talk about it first. If she managed to not make a total idiot of herself in the process and overcome her own ridiculous shyness, her own reservations, she would ask him.  

For now, though, she was content with sitting in his arms in the oasis and listening to him hum before they entered a new grueling day of travel on Yokuda.  

Chapter Text

They had taken so many baths together before, he had lost count. She still wasn't entirely comfortable being naked in front of him, but he didn't mind. She would be eventually, if the fact that she shared a bath with him was any indication, and he would wait for as long as she needed. They had taken so many baths together, and he had sat awake in the cooling water as she dozed on his chest a thousand times, stroked her hair a hundred. 

So why did this time feel so different?

It was strange but...it felt almost as if...he didn't belong in the universe anymore. Not more of his melancholic "man out of time" musings, he knew those for what they were. This was...this was different. It felt like he was fighting to even exist, fighting to take every breath. Sometimes it felt as if he wasn't touching anything, like the tub and the water and her body were sinking through him. It left a queasiness in his stomach. The world was trying to push him out, rejecting him. 

There were old, old myths that claimed strong Atmoran mages could feel their deaths approaching. He had no idea how that was physically possible, but he knew it was probably true--there were quite a few odd features that were unique to Atmorans, and not all of them evolutionary. Things like sun reflecting off the snow didn't hurt his eyes, and he could understand why--if his people spent so long in the snow, it made sense to develop a natural counter to it. But to predict one's own death, to sense it coming? What basis did that have? 

Even so, it was the only explanation he had. 

It wasn't easy to grapple with. The stars were disappearing from the sky; whatever Tharya said, he saw it. He had studied the cosmos endlessly and knew when something was wrong. But, apparently, he wouldn't be around to discover what was happening this time. With a frown, he looked down at the top of Tharya's head, tilting his head to see her sleeping face. He couldn't be about to die. It'd only been a few months, not even a year. There was so much he had left to do: properly meet her family, see Skuldafn, let her fly on his wings above the clouds. There was Dukaan to worry about too, but Dukaan he had known before. Dukaan had handled his death--or disappearance--once before, and it would hurt, but he would do it again. Tharya, though...

Carefully he let his fingertips slide down her arm and over her stomach, shaking his head slowly. It felt ridiculous to mourn when he wasn't even sure if he was truly going to lose it. But there was still so much he had left to do. To show her, on overcast days, atop the College, where the clouds met to form a ghastly coastline far to the north. To sing for her again, like she always begged him to do. He hadn't even taken her to bed with him. He hadn't even made love to the Last Dragonborn.

That, at least, was the most terrifying. He had no desire to die with Hermaeus Mora as the last being to know his body. He had no desire to die without having her cool little hands on him at least once, the soft part of her inner thighs pressed around him, without knowing what she sounded like when she was in bliss. He had no desire to die without feeling her skin touching his, or without a complete map of her body and the knowledge of how she reacted to his touch and where and when. No desire to die without seeing her face when he pleasured her.

He had never quite thought of it like that before, never thought of her and him and intimacy together, but now it seemed like the only thing in the world. Abruptly he wanted it very much. Abruptly he knew he wouldn't have it.

But it would have to be that way. Nords did not think of intimacy as the Atmorans did. And certainly not as a Priest of the Moth did. Sacred as it was to him, her boundaries were sacred too, perhaps even moreso, and her comfort was sacred. Everything about her was sacred. He was glad he had been gifted a few months to witness her divinity. It was better than none.

It was ridiculous to cry over. A year ago he welcomed death in Apocrypha, prayed for it, begged for it. And now he was shedding tears over the knowledge that he would be gone before tomorrow's sunset. 

Quietly he closed his eyes and let each tear stroll down his cheek, soak into his beard, without a single sound or uneven breath. Nothing that might wake her. With whatever hours he had left, he wanted to ingrain this moment into his skull, into his brain, into his very bones: remembering what he had not had before. The feel of her skin. The soft sound of her breathing. The weight of her body against his. It wasn't worth it to wake her, even when he didn't know if he would be alive when she woke up. 

Best to let her sleep.

Chapter Text

"What did you do?" 

Raydrin watched the man get up slowly from the ash and ice, holding onto Jórunn for dear life. She was shaking, beaten badly, but still determined to stand after the Black Book had vomited them out. Raydrin squeezed her hand between his own and stared. This person she had brought back - there was only one name that fit him. He was big, strange. Robes a dusty green-brown, but maybe they hadn't always been such a putrid color. As he got first to his knees and then, swaying heavily, to his feet, he rose to a fair height above either of them, standing by the center of the Skaal Village. Exactly where Storn died. As he turned, one foot dragging behind the other, the drooping, creeping mask that hid his face came into full view. 

" What did you do? " A new voice said from behind, high and distraught, and Frea shoved through her gathering kin and past Jórunn only to abruptly stop, staring at the man in the mask. "You..." Raydrin swallowed to wet the ashen dryness coating his throat. "You brought him here?!" She spun sharply, marching towards Jórunn with her shoulders tight and fists clenched, pale face purpling with rage. "How dare you! You sacrificed my father to Herma-Mora for the knowledge to defeat him ! And you dare bring him to this village?"

"I- I don't know," Jórunn croaked, as if stupefied by her own actions. As if someone else had carried them out on her behalf. She stepped closer to Raydrin's arm, her bloody fingers limp in his grip. "He...he doesn't want to die."

"He should !" Frea roared in Jórunn's face, one hand scrambling for her sword. Cries went up from the Skaal around them, uncertain and hasty, before one of them - their blacksmith, Raydrin thought - stepped forward. 

"Frea! You cannot kill a Skaal-friend," he barked, hands spread high to placate her as he stalked over the snow-packed ice, the deep wrappings over his boots cushioning his steps. "You cannot kill the Dragonborn." 

The man in the mask shifted slowly, not readying himself for any kind of fight but rather trying to support his weight and hold in his injuries. Even without standing by him Raydrin could hear him panting, see the heavy rise and fall of his torso under his ancient parchment robes. He had no sword and no staff with him, only his mask, and dark brown blood soaking his clothes. Nothing about him, not even his stature, spoke of readiness. No, he was sagging, on the brink of collapse, impartial to the Skaal arguing when all he could do was try to breathe without inflaming his broken ribs. 

"No!" Frea barked at last, holding her sword tightly in one trembling arm, and with a huff she turned away from Jórunn - not before spitting harshly onto the toe of her boots, with a look Raydrin was glad she couldn't see. A look that spoke of the wish to kill. "I cannot kill the Slayer of the World-Eater." She stomped away, readying her sword, jaw tight and red as she yelled. "But I can kill the slayer of my father !" 

Raydrin leapt forward, accidentally jostling Jórunn with him, and tore his sword free; Jórunn had brought the man back, so she thought he was worthy of protecting. At least he hoped, or else his pulling a sword on a Skaal shaman in front of her village would end worse than it began for all of them. He let go and ran across the hard, slippery ground, prepared to deflect the blow; why wasn't he moving? Why didn't he do anything? Instead the mask simply stared, watching lazily, and he just held his ribs and breathed hard.

Fus!

The Shout hurtled forward like a crack of thunder shoved into his ears, the world rattling unsteadily as Raydrin and Frea were shoved back. Frea slammed into the stone wall of the well, bones cracking as she tried to brace for the impact to no avail. Raydrin's feet left the ground below him as he skidded and slipped to his stomach, rolling with nauseating speed into the side of one of the Skaal houses. His sword clattered out of his hand, bouncing and ringing on the ice before sliding to a stop by Jórunn's foot. That man didn't Shout like her. Not at all. Raydrin's heart was running so rapidly he felt like he'd throw it up; an indescribable fear squirmed thickly in his veins, trying to get out. And his ears. His ears rang and throbbed, muffling the outside world as he groaned and got to his feet. 

"We need to go," Jórunn said hurriedly, tapping the sword with the edge of her boot before bending to pick it up. Raydrin wheezed as he took it from her, shoving it back into its sheath.

"Are we taking him? " he asked, watching as the man in the mask lumbered forward slowly. Frea had not yet gotten up, but she was alive. In pain, but alive. 

"Miraak," Jórunn called the name uncertainly, unbelieving, and to his surprise the mask tilted their way in acknowledgement. "We're leaving." 

The Skaal didn't try to stop them; no, they parted as he helped Jórunn limp away, and they parted farther as Miraak followed at a distance almost the length of the village. He moved slowly, sluggishly, shuffling his way along like one of the living dead, cradling his ribs in one arm and dragging his left foot over the ice. 

"You're a traitor, Dragonborn!" Frea shouted suddenly as they stepped outside the bounds of the village. "A traitor and a murderer! You may never enter this village again! Never return here - never return to Solstheim! Never!" Raydrin swallowed again, pulling up the face cover hanging around his neck and pulling down the goggles. There was an evening wind stirring up from the coast; with luck they'd find a place to shelter, a foothill or a burnt copse of trees, that would keep most of the ashen wind off them at night. 

"We should get to Tel Mithryn," Jórunn whispered, squeezing his arm before adjusting her covering and finding her goggles offered in his palm. "Back to Neloth. Maybe he'll want him." Back to Cass and Brelyna. Neloth probably would want him, and there would be nothing better than getting that phantom mask out of sight and out of mind. But, as Raydrin checked back to see if Miraak was still following, he sighed. Could they just abandon him to be a Telvanni lab pet? Was that any better than being a Daedric plaything? 

Miraak did follow. He followed them into the night and stopped when they stopped, but he didn't rest; he dragged his feet through camp and stood at the edge, staring out from behind his mask at the grim dusk of Solstheim. He stood there the entire night. Neither Raydrin nor Jórunn made any attempt to retrieve him, though the thought to offer to tend to his wounds did cross Raydrin's mind. Instead he focused on Jórunn, giving her what little salve he had left and offering what little camp food they had to ration before they got to Tel Mithryn. He cleaned and dressed what he could of her injuries, held her as she dozed off quickly and huddled close when the wind picked up. Miraak didn't move. Raydrin wondered if he'd fallen asleep standing there, or passed out finally. Or if he'd died. 

The next day was the same, even more slow-moving. The wind overnight had kicked up ash dunes and loose sand and char from the forest and coastline now coated everything, but there was a slightly pleasant hint of salt, of clear sea air lingering in his nose. It felt good. It reminded him of Skyrim, where the air was crisp and clean and mountainous, and it made him want to leave Solstheim for good. Jórunn said little, saving her breath for laboring over the ash with only his arm and murmured guidance; the cane they had kept for a while, but in such rough terrain it only served to stir up ash and black dirt in large swaths ahead of them. It sat waiting for her return with Mathyas in Raven Rock. Raydrin hoped they would return. At their pace and with Miraak constantly lagging behind they covered only a few miles each day, and coastal, humid Tel Mithryn was no short stroll from the mountainous, frigid Skaal. 

Within the third day he swore he could see the haze of Tel Mithryn's silhouette through the grey, and on the fourth he was sure. It assured him to some extent, leading two Dragonborn with such heavy injuries through the wastelands. On the fourth day they came across reavers who pounced on them like sabre cats on the most unassuming prey - they had Raydrin outnumbered seven to one, but just when he feared they would overpower him as an army overpowers a scout, Miraak appeared. Swinging a Bound blade with footwork foreign to Raydrin's eyes but certainly footwork of a trained swordsman, ancient grey-brown tattered robes cracking with dried blood as he moved, he slashed through the reavers alongside Raydrin, still holding his ribs with one arm. It was sloppy, the work of someone with nothing left to give, but sometimes sloppy work was most destructive. 

Yol...toor shul!

The Shout tore through the open world and echoed into a booming pitch, and Raydrin felt his footing go sideways as he toppled and threw his arms up to protect himself from the shockwave and funnel of heat, scorching and unforgiving, that shot forth. A sound like thunder just overhead cracked and split the grey daze of the sky, scattering all around Solstheim before settling into a distant nothingness. When he scrambled to his feet, ears ringing and muffled, yet feeling the vibration of each footsteps in his bones, there was a swath of fire waist-high crackling over the barren ground. The First Dragonborn dropped his Bound weapon, and it vanished before it could hit the ground. He was panting again, holding his ribs tightly, taking a staggering step to turn towards Raydrin and Jórunn. The mask’s eyes stared at them each, still and glazed.

“Can you give us some warning before you do that again?” Raydrin asked, unable to keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice. The man seemed to have little regard for the sake of their safety; he Shouted close and unrelenting, louder than anything. Swallowing his dry breathing for a moment, Miraak nodded once, and spoke for the first time in days:
“I will try,” was all he said, words hoarse and scraping. 

They moved even slower for the remainder of the day and made camp early. The fifth day Tel Mithryn was in sight, and by evening Raydrin knew they wouldn’t reach it before sunset unless they kept moving; he consulted briefly with Jórunn, whispering his estimations to her, seeking her own guidance. She was better healed, but still all the walking had not done her any good. She was exhausted and hungry, wounds irritated and still aching.
“Could we get there tonight?” she asked finally, to his surprise. Raydrin peered at the distance with the last shreds of sunlight streaking above the mountains.
“Within a couple hours, I think, if we move a little faster,” he replied. “But we don’t have to. We could camp tonight and-”
“Let’s keep going,” she murmured, turning suddenly towards where the First Dragonborn dragged behind. Raydrin didn’t know how she always knew where he was, but she’d done that before; turned to look directly at him without being able to see him. “We can make it.” So they kept going.

With his only torch they tramped across ash dunes and scorched plant carcasses that littered the areas closer to the coast, blackened roots that were easy to trip on in such poor light. Miraak gradually came closer until he was only an arm’s length from Raydrin’s side, his steps lengthy but heavy. They hadn’t consulted him before deciding to press through the night, but Raydrin was uncertain if it would’ve made any difference. He already followed them a Dwemer automaton, stopping and going at their will as if he had no freedom of his own movement; perhaps he saw their goal, and was willing to sacrifice another two hours on foot for the chance to sleep, if he ever did. 

It was deep night by the time they stepped into the dim light of the lanterns hanging on the outside of Tel Mithryn’s towers, illuminating each doorway and parts of the ramps and stairs up. Raydrin led Jórunn slowly up the uneven footing of the main tower’s ramp, guiding her feet carefully amongst the gnarled and uneven roots and vegetation that stretched up to the large wooden door. Miraak followed on their heels, moving strangely impatiently now, ducking into and out of Raydrin’s periphery as if trying to shove past them. He didn’t, but his urgency was felt. By the time they reached the door the First Dragonborn was brimming with an energy that had been strangely lacking for the past five days - Raydrin hoped, as he pulled open the huge wooden door, that it wasn’t his last burst of life. He’d heard of such things, a “second wind” in the hours leading up to one’s passing. In the past five days they had learned nothing of the man, nor spoken to him beyond one or two words, but strangely the thought of him dying made Raydrin... stressed. Why? He wasn’t even connected to Miraak like Jórunn seemed to be. What reason would he have to mourn the man, beyond the loss of a life? Raydrin witnessed too many deaths to be shaken by one of a stranger.

“You have to step into the column and it’ll float you up,” he instructed, turning partially to look at the mask looming behind him. The rest of Miraak seemed to meld back into the deep darkness between globes of light cast by the lanterns. “There’s a platform to step onto at the top.” The Dragonborn gave no reply, no inkling that he understood, but Raydrin ignored it. If he fell, he fell. If the fall killed him, it killed him. It didn’t matter. He hoped.

Together with Jórunn he stepped into the strange, swirling column of magicka, feeling his hair and clothes lift first before the rest of his heavy body followed; the experience wasn’t as weightless as he would’ve liked. No, it felt as if the magicka just barely had a grip on them, like they would slip out at any moment and tumble down and crack their skulls on the hard glyph below. He wondered briefly if Neloth had devised it to be that way - from that old wizard, nothing was too outlandish.

He nudged Jórunn forward first to get her onto the platform safely before quickly following suit. Before he could turn to see if Miraak followed, Neloth’s voice rose, tinny and decisive, from across the main room - part laboratory, part living quarters, and part library.
“Ah! Dragonborn!” he called, tossing down a tome rather haphazardly onto a table holding a carefully constructed system of glass beakers and phials. His apparent disregard for the fragility of most things in his lab was concerning; Neloth seemed to toss and shove things around quite easily, yet somehow they never broke. Yet he used a delicate touch when performing his experiments. That touch seemed to extend nowhere else. “High time you returned. I was beginning to wonder whether or not old Hermaeus Mora had taken you in, as well,” he said. “You both look positively sickening.” He could’ve stopped at sick. “I suppose you should come in and sit - I’ll send Varona for some canis root tea and dinner. Varona! ” he called, shouting abrasively into the tower which seemed to a tremble a bit at his sudden volume. “Your cousin and her companion went back into Raven Rock to fetch the other one. I can only assume they’ll be back in a few days.” The other one had to be Mathyas. Why did Cassathra go for him? “So? How was it?” The Telvanni prompted, as if asking for their opinion on the weather. “Did you go to Apocrypha?”

From the depths of the shadows somewhere behind Neloth a second figure appeared, scurrying quickly with a tray in hand. After Varona came two more figures; one Raydrin recognized as Neloth’s squirrely apprentice, and the third was taller than any of the three Dunmer by some inches. She bowed her head to step through the doorway and came quietly into the main room, a pillar of dark, forest-like greens and leathery browns, with impressive gold hair just past her waist.

“We did,” Jórunn confirmed in a rasp as Raydrin helped her into a nearby chair after removing a stack of books for her to sit. He himself leaned gratefully against the thick railing beside the platform, exhaling a deep sigh. “It was...terrible. Disgusting.”
“And you read the Black Books?” Who was that woman? Neloth’s pestering questions faded from Raydrin’s mind as he peered at her. She was tall for a Nord woman; she was tall for anyone. And she was staring expectantly at Jórunn, as if waiting for her to say something specific, but the woman herself did not speak. She didn’t give her name or ask any questions, only remained quietly where she was, standing out of Varona’s way and just barely in the light cast from the hearth.

“I suppose you’re welcome to stay here, of course. You look as if a journey back to Raven Rock might kill the both-” Neloth trailed off suddenly, and the platform beside Raydrin squealed under a new weight. Miraak’s robes settled as he stepped away from the column, and suddenly the woman across the room gasped, loud enough and hard enough it seemed to suck all the air from the room. “ Well. Is that...him? You brought him back? ” Neloth exclaimed, but the focus on him had deteriorated the moment that woman made a sound. They...knew each other, Raydrin realized. Though the mask hid Miraak’s face, the woman’s reaction was enough to go on. She, at least, knew him. Somehow. Or his mask. Perhaps she was a Skaal? Perhaps she would try to kill him for Frea?

“Please take my regards, Dragonborn,” Neloth said in awe, searching his table for a wrapped kit of torturous-looking medical tools. It was clear that Dragonborn did not refer to Jórunn. “It is a wonder you survived so long in such a place. You are the one who put the island under your control, are you not? My name is-” Without a word Miraak passed him by, reaching one hand up to carefully, gently pry his mask off. It clattered to the ground loudly, face up, staring at nothing. Somehow it looked just as menacing without the solidity of a head behind it.

“ Nulja ,” Miraak spoke softly, and Raydrin felt Jórunn’s hand squeeze suddenly around his own. But how could he begin to describe this? “ Te?” Whatever language he spoke it wasn’t Dovahzul. Shaking visibly, even from across the room, the blonde woman took a stiff step forward, her hands outstretched.
“ Te? ” she echoed in a dry whisper, lips trembling. From the side Raydrin examined the First Dragonborn’s features, as much as he could see: his skin was a rich, earthy brown, his hair and beard were short, dark, almost black, but under the light their brown color shone through. Scars, darkened to unnatural colors, littered his face, and black veins like scorched fingers stretched into what little of his neck was visible, striking more clearly into his temples and cheeks.
“What’s happening?” Jórunn whispered. “Whose voice is that? I can feel...he feels...” she trailed off into shocked silence. Whatever she could feel had to be coming from Miraak. Who else? His eyes were hard to see but the pupils looked...malformed. Discolored and strangely shaped, like goat’s eyes.

“ Nulja ,” Miraak said again, this time louder, his voice breaking. He fell to one knee heavily in front of the woman, and his other leg - the left one - slumped dumbly beside its counterpart. “ Nulja, porvaer, nulja. Nulja. Five thousand-” he reached out to grasp the woman’s ankles tightly, so tightly the leather of his gloves creaked and she winced. Her cheeks glittered in the low light with streaming tears, eyes wide. Slowly, carefully, she reached for the First Dragonborn’s face, her hands trembling violently against his ears. The moment she brushed his skin she recoiled in shock, pressing her hands tightly together and then to her stomach. Raydrin noticed, as she moved slightly, the jagged scar about a finger’s width encircling her neck. 

“ Miraak, ” she whispered, not in the way they had been pronouncing his name all along, but longer, more drawn out, a softer, more elegant sound. She spoke again in that strange language they shared, but Miraak didn’t reply. Gripping her legs he simply buckled, bent over her wrapped feet, and began to weep violently, inhaling to scream into the floor, heaving as if he would vomit. The scream made Jórunn and Raydrin jolt against each other, the sound filling and rattling the tower all around them. That kind of crying did not come from a simple reunion. It didn’t even come from mourning. It came from somewhere that hurt more than both, somewhere deeper, somewhere more agonized, somewhere so unreachable. They could not just know each other , Raydrin decided. This was not the kind of reunion one witnessed between even the oldest of friends. No, the proud, arrogant First Dragonborn who stole souls and baited Solstheim under his boot, he did not exist here; for the first time since taking him from the Skaal village, he was simply a man. A man, fully prostrated and weeping at the feet of someone who knew his name, and beyond that, his face - that kind of repentance did not come without the most harrowing of separations. 

The woman cried with him but silently, and her face did not match her tears; disbelief blew her pupils, shock drained her blood from her cheeks. But she knelt slowly, easing the First Dragonborn up so his wailing could penetrate the deathlike stillness of Tel Mithryn all around them, and let him collapse again over her lap. He was trying to speak, Raydrin heard finally. Trying. Barely succeeding. Repeating something over and over, like a prayer, or an admission of defeat. Begging , he realized slowly. Begging.  

He only managed to pull himself up after long minutes, looking feeble and unable to support the weight of the world pulling him back down; he held the woman’s face in his hands, hiccuping and hardly breathing, choking for air, choking on his tears. She tried to soothe him, to wipe them away, but none of it worked. He wheezed and gasped like he was drowning. Maybe he was.

“I- leave you...with the knowledge-” he croaked, and magicka stiffened the air all around them, flowed between his palms, pressed inwards against the woman’s head. “That you may- not be lost...in this- this world-” she winced as he gripped her head tightly, gloved fingers digging into her hair, “ once I am dead. ” The magicka burst into light and then was snuffed out immediately, leaving the woman cradling her forehead as Miraak crumpled in front of her, hitting the floor with a dense thud. What had he said? With the knowledge that you may not be lost in this world? What did that mean?

Once I am dead?

For a long time, Tel Mithryn was silent. Carved intricately from marble, everything was still; no breaths were taken, no eyes blinked. No one moved. Staring at the pair, Raydrin watched as the woman tried to gather the Dragonborn in her arms, but he moved bonelessly, unconscious. There was no life left in him, yet he was breathing, just barely. The black veins seemed darker now, and as she picked him up Raydrin could see the other half of his face, his cheek that looked to be sliced messily through to reveal scaly, greenish flesh. Like one of Mora’s tentacles.

Neloth was first to speak after long moments of listening to the woman cry and try to reawaken the Dragonborn who looked so corpse-like in her arms. He cleared his throat gently, wiping his dry lips, and leaned forward a bit.
“What...is your name?” was all he asked, at a rare loss for words. What was there to say? This woman obviously knew Miraak, intimately, and that could only mean very few things. When he knelt before her he only said two words in Common, and they were five thousand. The puzzle was beginning to grow clearer now, and there were fewer and fewer pieces the more Raydrin replayed what just happened in his head. Beside him, Jórunn was trembling in her chair, holding her chest tightly.

“He-” the woman began, clutching Miraak’s parchment-like robes in her fists before stopping. She looked...surprised at herself. Surprised at the sounds coming from her own mouth. “He,” she said again, experimentally, through her voice congested with tears and hoarse from crying. “He...gave me-” she stopped again, swallowing, looking down at the Dragonborn. “He gave me,” she said finally, in one shallow breath. “Rok ofan zey rotte tinvaak fah hi. Zu dreh ni mindoraan...druv? Druv!”

“Yes,” Neloth said slowly, nodding along as she spoke. “I could see he gave you something. Transferring knowledge like that-” he cut himself off, examining the woman curiously, as if seeing something new. “Otherwise we would not be able to understand you, nor you us, just as it has been since you arrived on my doorstep.” How long had she been in Tel Mithryn, then? How many days? “He gave you this language, did he not? His last act in the living world was to give you the rite of...communication, so you would not be alone.” His last act? 

“So, I ask again...Atmoran. What is your name? ”

Chapter Text

It took Ahzidal almost three months to return from Bordahven after quelling the western rebellion; he moved slowly, making many stops as his overlords instructed to extinguish skirmishes, raze villages, and reinstate loyal locals to positions of power while executing so-called freedom fighters. The boy he carried with him through it all. He wasn't old enough to remember such things later, after all, and letting him out of sight was not an option. Not with whatever power he had. Ahzidal kept him away from the dragons, though, lest they felt the soul of their fallen brethren swirling and occupying his little body. Could they? Ahzidal didn't know. Was the boy aware of the dragon soul he had...absorbed? Eaten? Stolen? What was the correct word to describe whatever phenomenon he had witnessed in Bordahven? Did the dragons know - did Alduin know such a power existed? Alduin would never grant such a terrifying ability - the ability of total death of an otherwise immortal being - to any human. Long nights Ahzidal sat awake in his tent or in the dingy wayward inn rooms afforded to him on occasion staring at the boy, watching him sleep in a makeshift swath of extra blankets, a single decorative pillow small enough to fit him, and occasionally, when the night chill grew bitter, Ahzidal's robe. Waiting. Watching for that soul, for any indication this boy knew more than just a few words of Lower Atmoran, including Móna . 

He remembered the face of the boy's mother as he tried to recall his name; her round, frightened eyes, large and light, her tight, dirty curls and sun-tanned leathery skin from working on the coast. She was Atmoran surely, if short, so whoever had fathered the child was Yokudan - Ahzidal did not remember seeing any other parent or any Yokudans close to her age and suitable for marriage. The boy did not have her skin or her eyes, but he had her curls, smooth and effortless. It was difficult to tell if he would grow into her face as well, but Ahzidal hoped not. He had not yet grown hardened enough that the act of ripping a child away from its mother did not disturb him, even slightly. He thought of his own children in Saarthal, and how they had been ripped away from him to be slaughtered in the threshold of his house. And he thought of how that mother in Bordahven must have seen him, no better than the Falmer assassins of the Night of Tears. She would never know what became of her son, whether he lived or died. What name had she been screaming as Ahzidal fought her off, stomped away? What was his name? 

Strangely he grew used to the boy's presence. He cried for days after leaving Bordahven, and then fell desperately ill, so Ahzidal kept him closer than before. Bought a long woolen scarf from a village weaver that he could tie around his torso to keep the boy against his chest as they rode across Atmora towards Morne - it was humiliating, but the boy needed warmth. He had only been in whatever thin underclothes he slept in when the dragon fell atop his village that morning, and there was nothing to clothe him with save too-big fabrics. Ahzidal ordered something to be made for him, even if it was just a gown and trousers, and within a week the boy had an outfit of his own including knit socks that seemed to make him very happy. He enjoyed pulling them off and tossing them at Ahzidal so he'd put them back on when he rolled around on his makeshift bed by the tent's central fire at night. The little hat made for him he liked less, but it kept his head and face warm, and that seemed to ease his horrible cough. The illness subsided slowly, once they found herbs and food enough to keep him sustainably medicated. What was his name? The others sent with Ahzidal had not been in that part of the village at the time, so they did not know. They all simply called him the boy. 

When they reached Morne, Ahzidal took him to the Grand Cathedral to be baptized in the font of Vatus Pætrio's waters, unsure if his mother had yet made the long journey to the center of the continent. The boy seemed very interested in the cathedral, bending over Ahzidal's shoulder to peer up at the ceiling and say simple words that echoed grandly around the huge building. Ahzidal tried to teach him how to say cathedral in Higher Atmoran - he'd been teaching him Higher Atmoran since the day they left Bordahven - but it was difficult on his Lower-trained tongue. He went to the water gladly, thinking it a great swimming pool, and sat in the Grand Cleric's arms with delighted laughter. 

In Morne he could leave the boy behind for a bit with hired help or with his colleagues, but the first time he did so he returned to their lodging and was overcome by the sound of terrible wailing, which did not stop until Ahzidal picked him up again. Some tiny, dying part of him was glad, but also scared. What reliance had he created? But it felt good to have him again, so Ahzidal took the wool wrap and brought him out to Morne one day, to see the capital city of their continent for what he assumed was the first time. Western Atmora, especially the far coastal reaches where the boy was from, was much too far for someone to make the trip carelessly with a young child. Perhaps, if Ahzidal had left him to grow up as a humble Yoku-Atmoran fisherman or sailor, he would've come to Morne one day on his own. The city was too big and too busy for the boy to walk on his own, so Ahzidal carried him everywhere, one arm beneath his wool wrap to ease the pressure on his back - despite the occasional kick in the gut, it felt worth it at the end of their long day together. Ahzidal brought back books, easy primers that were still out of his comprehension, but Ahzidal didn't know if he'd ever seen one before, living so far and so remotely. He bought the boy a canvas doll of a horse stuffed with down that made it soft and malleable, and four more pairs of socks. 

After a week in Morne Ahzidal informed the others it was time to return to the Medja-Moore; some of them asked if he intended on adopting the boy, or putting him into training in a few years when he was of age. Perhaps they had expected Ahzidal to leave him at a Morne orphanage and leave the rest of his life up to the gods. But they had not seen what Ahzidal saw, so they all murmured to one another as Ahzidal brought them to the Grand Cathedral and deep below, to where the Waygate stood, dark, red-veined stone standing eight and a half feet tall with a milky gold portal contained within its archway. He would not take the boy up the treacherous mountain path on Aiza-el-Dorm. The Wayroads were safer, brighter, and quicker. They occupied two small rowboats, rowing along the glowing gold river slowly, intercepting no one else; no one but Dragon Priests used the Cathedral Waygate, since no one else knew it was there. Normally the Wayroads, whether on water or walkway, would be populated by at least a handful of others, but not the Dragon Priest routes. And certainly not the route to the Medja-Moore. The boy fell asleep to the rocking of the boat and the familiar sounds of water, drooling peacefully against Ahzidal's chest as he rowed, the steady movement of his torso like a hypnotic dream. It was the deepest the boy had slept since leaving his home; he hung heavily, bending Ahzidal's back forward, even snored a little, and did not twitch or whine once, or try to pull Ahzidal's beard, cocooned in the wool scarf. Perhaps it was the sound of the water that soothed him so greatly. 

It was deep night when they stepped through the Waygate in the Medja-Moore, and the others complained that Ahzidal had rowed too slowly or they would've arrived in time for dinner. He ignored it all, ordering his pack and belongings to be brought to his room tomorrow morning, and then moved slowly through the halls as the boy slept. He stirred in the Waygate room, knees digging into Ahzidal's ribs, but otherwise remained still. Ahzidal hoped the gentle pace and soft sway of his body helped replicate the soothing effect of the water. When he reached his room the fire had been stoked and the lamps lit, and his bed had been made up and a bath readied for his arrival. And, unexpectedly, someone was waiting for him. 

He first met Morokei many years ago, after Morokei had completed his training and passed the tests to become a Priest, after Ahzidal had been allowed to join their ranks without a childhood wasted in training. His arcane knowledge, extensive travels, and his firsthand accounts of the Night of Tears and the Return - that was what they were calling it now - had earned him a semi-respected probation as a Priest initiate, and then he had been fully accepted during the same ceremony as Morokei's. Since then they had both aged, sprouted their first silver hairs together, and ruled as two of the ten Dragon Priests of the most central and most grand Atmoran compound. There were six others scattered to each region of the continent, but they were not as powerful as the ten Medja Priests. No one was. No one in the known world. 

"What is that?" Morokei snorted, looking at the woolen bulge on Ahzidal's chest.

"He is sleeping," came the rushed reply, "quiet yourself." With an uncertain chuckle Morokei came away from the fireplace, peering at his old friend with untamed curiosity. Leaning over Ahzidal's shoulder and putting an embracing arm on his back to welcome him back from such a long journey, Morokei's dark eyes widened as he pulled back a little fold of the scarf.

"A child?" he whispered, shaking his head. "What in Alduin's name did you bring a child back for? Who is he?" 

"Help me make a place for him to sleep," Ahzidal groaned, gesturing to the knot at his side that would undo the scarf. Morokei hesitated before he acquiesced, helping Ahzidal out of the wrap and taking the boy in his arms - Morokei held him much better than Ahzidal ever did, much more like a man who knew how to handle children - and rocked him slowly as he kicked and whined himself awake. 

"Hush, aelskling , or you will wake the Grand Mage," Morokei chuckled, but the boy refused to go back to sleep. He saw a strange face above him and began to cry again, catching Ahzidal from the corner of his eye and rolling dangerously in Morokei's arms to reach for him. 

"Gods," Ahzidal groaned, dragging both hands over his face as the crying continued. 

"Leave him with me," Morokei encouraged, nodding to the adjacent bathroom. "They've made a bath and left a meal for you. Tend to yourself first, zeymah ." How like his old friend to be so selfless. 

Ahzidal did not wait to be told again, even if it meant leaving the boy's wailing firmly in Morokei's hands. He sat in the bath until the water turned lukewarm, and then chilled, and even ate there, holding the plate in one hand and scarfing down whatever there was to eat. Such impropriety would've escaped him if he were not so tired. And, as he ate, though he didn't notice at first, the crying gradually tapered off. It was replaced by Morokei's soft voice, and the boy's interested babbling and laughter. The boy would need a bath and a meal as well. Perhaps the warm water would make him calm again, though they would need something much, much smaller for him to bathe in. Perhaps one of the kitchen's deep bowls, or a wide basin. There were no children of his age in the Medja-Moore, and thus, nothing to accommodate his existence there. With a sigh Ahzidal stepped out of his bath and listened to Morokei in Lower Atmoran, counting or maybe singing. He returned to his bedroom dry and changed, easing his hair slashed with grey - more than Morokei's - from its long-lasting braid. 

"He's very small to be two," Morokei noted, letting the boy dangle on his fingertips as he took a few confident steps before crashing into the Dragon Priest's torso with a delighted squeal. He'd be tired soon, and the amusement of walking three or four strides and then falling into Morokei's waiting arms would wear off. Where would they put him to sleep? He would be swallowed in any normal sized bed, but they had no small cots his size, and it wouldn't do to put him with initiates at his age. 

"Half Yokudan," Ahzidal hummed from the fireplace. 

"Why did you take him?" 

There was a long, warm silence as Ahzidal stared into the fire, balancing his elbow on the mantle and his chin in his palm. Morokei smiled down at the boy as he huddled into the generous drapes of his greenish robe, fascinated with the embroidery and dark, patterned vines. 

"The villagers said he showed great promise in magic," Ahzidal said finally, "apparently he has some innate power." It wasn't false. As much as he trusted Morokei, enough to brush his hair and rebraid it as any good Atmoran did, he did not trust that Morokei would know what to do with the knowledge of the boy's true power. With the true story of what Ahzidal had witnessed, what would he do? And, selfishly, Morokei did not know just how the boy had been taken. He assumed Ahzidal had felt his power and had negotiated with the villagers to take him for training; it was possible that, in the future, the boy could return to that coastal region of the West as its Lord Priest. He did not know what happened in Bordahven, nor that Ahzidal had ripped the boy from his mother's strong hands and beat her back in a frenzy of terror and lack of control. He would never need to know. He did not need to be haunted by her face as well. 

The boy looked at home in Morokei's arms finally, comfortable in the other man's embrace, though his eyes followed Ahzidal sharply around the room. With a withering sigh Ahzidal sank into the cushioned chair by the fire, dragging his fingers lazily through his damp hair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morokei stand, leaving the boy by himself on the floor, but strangely enough he didn't seem upset by it. He was content with examining his new socks. The glint of a silver hairbrush caught in the firelight and Ahzidal sighed again, but did not protest when Morokei started to gently sort through the tangles and waves of his braid-crimped hair and brush it. They watched the boy together in silence, watched his simple delight at removing his socks and turning them inside out and then putting them back on backwards, then trying to figure out what was wrong with them and repeating the process. 

"Does he have a name?" Morokei asked finally, pushing a section of smoothly brushed silver-black hair over Ahzidal's shoulder. In his mind he pictured the boy's mother screaming, tried to remember the form of her lips and the pitch of her voice as she had called out for her son. 

"Aegisvjir," he replied. "I believe his name is Aegsivjir." 

Together they taught him Higher Atmoran and reading and writing in the three years that followed; Aegisvjir gained back some weight to make him chubby and happy again, and they had a small, roundish wicker bed made for him. He grew taller, but not by much, and very soon after being brought to the Medja-Moore he could walk independently. Eventually he grew attached to Morokei, and Ahzidal was glad to let him go; he was not keen on raising children like his friend was. On his fourth birthday - which they celebrated each year on the day Ahzidal had brought him back to the compound - Morokei adopted him. It was not uncommon for Priests to adopt, though it was almost always done within the Priesthood. And so, on his fifth birthday, Morokei and Ahzidal agreed to put him through training. To do so they were required to change his name, and so they sat as a pair in the garden and tried to put together a fitting Dovahzul name for Aegisvjir. 

"His name means shield...man," Morokei pointed out as he chewed through a cooling pastry taken from the small napkin between them. "Shield-brother, or shield-something or other." 

" Spaan-zeymah . There is no fitting combination of those words," Ahzidal replied after a bit, shaking his head. " Spaan is not a good word for a name."

"I agree." 

" Okaaznak ?" 

"Ocean-priest?" Morokei snorted. "A bit presumptuous to name him priest, is it not?" But after a moment of thought he wrote it down, just in case. " Ziikaaz ? No. Ziiaak ? Ocean-guide?" 

"Perhaps," Ahzidal hummed, and then gestured to the paper. " Aak is a good suffix. Guide. Guide to what?" 

" Lok ? Sky?" 

" Lokaak is a dreadful name," Ahzidal muttered. Sky-Guide suited his fascination with stars, but not Lokaak. It made him think of the dragon felled in Bordahven for some reason he could not explain. He had not forgotten Aegisvjir's mother, nor the moment he witnessed the boy take in that soul. 

" Mir ."

"Like miiraak ? You want to name him portal?" 

"No." Ahzidal reached for the pen and scribbled it down before the idea left him. " Mir-Aak . Loyal-Guide."

"Allegiance-Guide," Morokei said in a correcting voice. "Allegiance is the primary definition of mir." 

"Loyal is," Ahzidal snipped. "He will be Loyal-Guide."

"This name means Allegiance-Guide," Morokei protested. "It is allegiance." 

"Loyalty is stronger than allegiance. He will be Loyal-Guide," Ahzidal said firmly. Morokei rolled his eyes but wrote the name down. 

With a fair list in hand they went that night to find Aegisvjir, who, as the only child in the compound who was not an initiate, had been conscripted by the servants and cooks to run small errands for them during the day. As far as they could tell he enjoyed his freedom and the occasional task from downstairs - it let him explore the compound, as large and maze-like as it could be. Sitting comfortably between Morokei's legs he peered at the list carefully, still shorter than the others his age, still small. That worried Ahzidal to a small extent; he knew from Morokei's stories the initiates were not kind to one another, even as young as they were. Adults, teachers or Priests, usually did not interfere in the politics of the initiate dormitory wing. Aegisvjir was small and not full-blooded Atmoran, and his Higher Atmoran was not as fluent as it could've been. Morokei coddled him by speaking in Lower. The stress of speaking in it constantly and having to learn Dovahzul as well would not treat him kindly; already he spoke fast and with the accent and cadence of the West, and the teachers would not be kind to him for it. 

"Why should I change my name?" he asked suddenly, his voice very, very small. Usually he was loud and happy, and full of laughter. "Do they not like it?" 

"No, aelskling , there's nothing wrong with your name," Morokei assured, rubbing Aegisvjir's middle with one hand. "But if you want to be a Priest like Ahzidal and I, you'll need to make a name in the language of the dragons." That gave him some confidence. He did want to be a Priest, or so he said. Perhaps he admired Morokei and Ahzidal enough to want to share their life, perhaps he wanted to sate his bottomless appetite for books and astronomy. Both would be quenched if he managed to become a Priest. "It won't be very easy for a few years, but when you become a Dragon Priest, you'll be able to do anything you want." Ahzidal scoffed through his nose, sending Morokei a look over Aegisvjir's head. He coddled the boy too much, and perhaps because he was now his legal son, he felt more interested in painting the world as good and ready for him. Pretending he would do amazing things when in truth he would only be another nameless face to history, another cog in the gear of the Dragon Cult. 

"Papà," Aegisvjir spoke finally, his voice undetermined, "is it possible to chart the stars like the ocean?" He had abandoned the list of names entirely to ask the question. With a grin Morokei nodded and swept him up so he dangled in the air with a delighted laugh, holding his father's sleeves tightly. Morokei would not be able to hold him forever, if he chose to become a Priest. 

"Of course, aelskling ," he promised. 

"Then I want to be Miraak," Aegsvjir decided, wrapping one arm around Morokei's neck and slinging the other around Ahzidal. He hugged them both together, squeezing their heads. "It sounds most like the stars." 

And so at the end of the year, Morokei and Ahzidal presented Miraak together to join the initiates. Initiates did not get inaugurated every year, but this time it luckily fell on the last year Miraak would be eligible to join, before he aged out of the entry-levels. It would take most of the children thirteen or fourteen years of studying, training, scheming, and struggling over one another to reach the final tests, and then only so few of them would be allowed through. Most of them would remain as Acolytes for many decades. Only a select handful would be raised to full Priesthood when the time came. Together they watched him step into the large waiting hall dressed in his white - the color of Atmoran funerals, symbolic of death - and he paused at the door with a scared look before being whisked inside. They, like the others who had put forward initiates, did not wait for him. It was customary that initiates did not see their guardians for the first year of their training, so Ahzidal and Morokei would have to try and remain as hidden from his view as possible around the compound. It was a brutal separation, but, Ahzidal thought, a necessary one. Morokei raised him too softly. A year would do him well. 

The year came and went. Miraak wept profusely the day he was allowed to see his father again, humiliating himself by sobbing and snotting all over Morokei's robes, but Ahzidal was, in some respects, happy to see the boy again. He'd grown skinny and was no taller than when they last saw him. His Higher Atmoran had improved and that quick, slurred Western accent had been frightened out of him; only now it was replaced by a deliberately slow, and strangely over-enunciated speech. He spent days complaining of the treatment in the dormitory wing, most of it by the other children. He wept of loneliness and a desire to read all the books being kept from him. His hair had grown out - initiates were not allowed to cut their hair for many years except to trim it and keep it healthy, but the look didn't suit him. The curls flopped and bounced with no guidance, so, one afternoon, Morokei showed him how to put his hair up, and how to tie a cloth strip that would keep it off his face. He bemoaned his long hair and more than once got caught trying to chop it in the two years that followed. When Miraak was eight, and solidly among the ranks of the initiates - the first to drop out or be expelled left within the first year, and some in the second, but none in the third - a new boy came to the Medja-Moore. Barely older than Miraak had been. Ahzidal watched as Morokei tended to him, too, and when he was four, also adopted him. 

His name was Alljof, and he had bright green eyes and light brown hair with pale skin. He was a charming little boy, easy to please. Miraak was hesitant at first, but took to him quite quickly, fashioning himself a protective older brother. He read to Alljof at night after sneaking out of the initiate rooms, and showed him meager spells he had not yet mastered before Morokei caught him. Miraak tried to teach him how to sing, a skill he had acquired in his first year. Alljof attached himself so thoroughly to Miraak that even Morokei had to help plan Miraak's nighttime escapes from the dormitory wing to reunite the pair of brothers. 

"They're just like us," he laughed one night sharing tea with Ahzidal, whom he assumed would have nothing against what he was doing, the rules he was breaking. The next day Miraak's room was changed, and a curfew on the dormitories was set. Morokei looked at Ahzidal glumly over dinner with the other eight Priests, but said nothing. Those two boys were nothing like them. 

Two years later, Alljof became Vahlok, and they sent him in his white dress into the big waiting room. Behind those heavy doors he would not be entirely alone - Miraak was there as well, and for a year the two slept and ate and worked and studied and trained together, so that after the year of separation ended they were closer than ever before. Vahlok did not weep when he was allowed to reunite with Morokei because Miraak had held his hand through it all. It made Ahzidal's teeth grind. The point of the separation was to foster mental fortitude. Morokei had adopted two boys and was now putting them through training together, where they were supposed to learn superior strength, autonomy, quick thinking, magic, and leadership. Instead they would learn to lazily rely on one another and sneak around and break rules. At Ahzidal's suggestion, initiate rules were enforced stricter, and the consequences expanded to include not only withheld meals but sleep and chairs being removed from rooms so rulebreakers would stand in shame in front of their peers. As word floated back from the teachers, he heard Miraak's name fewer times as the rules squeezed in on him. The boy would finally learn discipline. 

Morokei disliked him for it. 

"You're punishing my sons just because you cannot remember the happiness of a family," he snapped one night. "I thought you would be glad, Ahzidal. You and I are life-brothers - I thought we could raise them together. I thought that would make you happy ." He never mentioned his family, his daughters and sons who had died in Saarthal, but he drew very close to doing so. "You're becoming like the Grand Mage, Ahzidal. A loveless corpse walking." 

"You chose to adopt them and put them through this gauntlet," Ahzidal snapped, "you cannot break rules that have held for centuries just because you have decided you love them too much to let them suffer any consequences! If you were going to coddle the boys so much I would not have let you rename them!" 

It was not their last argument. For years as the two boys endured and suffered and learned and looked after one another, forever under the scrutinizing eye of their proctors, their guardians squabbled over their raising, their childhood. Soon they were not children anymore. Miraak grew - still not enough to avoid harassment - and finally was able to cut his hair. Ahzidal disliked it short; it spat in the face of long Atmoran tradition, but he heard no argument to wear it long again after wearing it in a high tail and knots for years. Proctors said he had a high skill in magic and took a strong interest in the blade, which was not unheard of but still uncommon in the Priesthood. Ahzidal watched him grow strong in the training yards. Soon he did not stand over his peers but he was more broad in the shoulders than most of them. Morokei reported happily that his singing voice was nothing short of divine, a crisp and powerful baritone that had not graced the Medja-Moore in some years. He sang for them at request, and Ahzidal had to agree with Morokei's assessment. But the boy had grown into arrogance. He disliked tradition for the most part. Ahzidal found totems of the old Mighty in his and Vahlok's room once they were allowed to share, and they were not Vahlok's. 

Vahlok's loyalty came from fear. It became increasingly obvious to Ahzidal that Miraak's came from self-serving deception. He remained loyal to himself when he chose the Moth School - a school neglected by most Priests - loyal to himself when he trained the blade. He protected Vahlok fiercely but he remained loyal to himself against all others, slowly topping his peers in subterfuge, in ways not all of them could understand. Ahzidal stepped back from his life. Miraak was beginning to grow and spread in ways that befit a Dragon Priest, even despite Morokei's coddling. Vahlok did not follow entirely; he picked up on his brother's scheming and became as secretive, but he was still far too kind to the others, whether it was real or not. His voice was crisp and beautiful as well, and he chose a well-respected School - the Hawk - that would serve him far and well. Miraak left training at nineteen and became an Acolyte almost immediately. He passed the three tests with definitive brutalism and lack of cooperation, striking on his own constantly, leaving others behind; all celebrated traits in a Priest. The other Priests longed for his intellect and strength to claim as their own, and his powerful voice to grace their ritual circles. The clamor for his presence only fueled his ego, and with it intact Miraak stepped fully out of Aegisvjir and into a Priest. With it, he only became more arrogant, challenging senior Priests, raising his voice at peers, making public displays of humiliation of those who had been Acolytes longer than him. And he preached and sang about the Moth School so much it was difficult to tell if his loyalty had ever once been turned on the dragons. He believed his body a sacred reliquary for the housing of an immortal, pure soul; he believed in giving himself like a streetwalker, as Ahzidal understood it. He believed acts of affection a way to cleanse the body of worldly sin. Miraak argued endlessly with him about the supposed autonomy and care the Moth provided, citing scriptures and theory, but Ahzidal was not interested. The arguments extended to his pitiful conduct as an Acolyte and his ridiculous projects charting the stars and constellations. They extended to his very public affair with the First Consul's wife, which caused a national stir in the highest circles and ended with his wrongful killing of the Consul. They extended to his shallow worship of Alduin and the dragons. And all the while Ahzidal wondered if he still had that soul inside of him, if it was still there. 

Vahlok left training at nineteen, and he and Miraak were promptly raised to full Priests and gifted the Thu'um by Alduin and Paarthurnax. Ahzidal objected to someone so young being raised, but Morokei shot him down. Soulstheim needed six Priests; the four of them would leave Atmora, and two others raised from Acolytes to Priests from Skyrim would join them. 

"You'll be Grand Mage there," Morokei said wearily one night, handing Ahzidal a cup of hot tea as they sat by their fire. Their evenings together had grown more sparse, their hair more silver. Morokei kept his beard short now to match his sons, but his hair was still long and braided. Ahzidal had taken to wearing his loosely. Grand Mage was a title he deserved, he thought. He could do the job of a Grand Mage easily. "And Miraak will be First Mage."

"What?" The teacup did not move. "First Mage? Gods, he's a child still!" Ahzidal argued. "He's twenty-four! He has a century and a half left to live!"

"He's strong," Morokei retorted with an annoying kind of fatherly pride. "And incredibly smart. You know that."

"That runt has no qualities to envy," he snapped. "He barely does his own duties here. He's too busy shoving his cock in anything that moves and staring at the cosmos. He doesn't follow orders, he never has! He doesn't worship!"

"He does everything that is required of him and more," Morokei shouted. "He is abrasive, yes, he can be arrogant - but he is not a child anymore! He is the best Priest we have of his generation." 

"The best ?! You have aged beyond recognition if you think that runt is our last hope. I would sooner put Vahlok in his place than have him as my First Mage. Vahlok would make an easy puppet."

"Do not speak of my sons in such tones," Morokei warned. "They were yours once, too, before you abandoned them with me!"

"Oh, release yourself from your petty daydreams, old friend ," he snarled, tossing the teacup down. "They were never ours. They were always your fantasy project to raise. And what a despicable job you have done to them!" 

But the decision was not his. Alduin himself named Miraak First Mage, so, as the four of them stepped through the Waygate to Soulstheim, First Mage he became. 

First Mage he stayed for six years. Six long years on Soulstheim, in which he sponsored the construction of a grand white palace for his Moth followers, in which he raised militia to fight undead and the twisted nightcreatures. Six years, countless lovers, public and private. Countless nights in his study with the stars. Countless trips through the Waygate to the Grand Vault of Morne, for what Ahzidal and Morokei never guessed. Six long years as he grew too abrasive for his father. Six long years, split between his ridiculous white palace and Caecil-Moore on the sea. But three years in he changed. He grew dark. More ferocious. Three years in he graduated into a solitude unlike before, where he had so relied on Vahlok and Morokei to support him. He sawed through their bonds slowly but surely. Morokei did not know what changed. Vahlok could not guess. But Ahzidal had an inkling. He had an inkling because he had been through it once too, and he had an inkling because his Black Book, so securely kept behind guard and key in his rooms, was missing. 

Ahzidal did not tell Morokei about Bordahven, about the Book, about the Woodland Man. He did not tell him why or how Vahlok found out about the rebellion brewing inside Miraak, or why Vahlok sacrificed Miraak's treasured vahdins to the dragons as a measure of goodwill, as a measured warning. It was overt but a good distraction, Ahzidal thought. He thought as much until the next year, when, alone and aged, stone cold and alight with vengeance, word came, and Ahzidal watched with Vahlok, Dukaan, and Zahkriisos as Miraak raised his Voice and murdered a dragon and, bloody and tattered, came away triumphant with its soul. 

Morokei watched too. Watched one of his sons turn against the world in one frightening, decisive swoop. Watched the entire battle. He let Miraak return, without the others knowing, to speak with him one last time. His body was sick and he would not live to his full life, he knew, but his son was his son. Rebel or not. Martyr or not. 

"You have chosen, aelskling ," Morokei whispered to him while he carefully healed his gashes and bruises and blows. Miraak was breathing heavily, gripping his knees in an attempt to stay quiet as his body knit back together. "However you have come to it...I pray you may leave it alive, aelskling ." 

"I will miss you, Papà," Miraak said in a hissing breath. "But do not come after me. Do not let Vahlok come after me. He will try." 

So he watched the boy from Bordahven shape history. Twenty-one dragons fell to his Thu'um and sword. But he could not watch his sons fight. He left for Skyrim, and on the journey his health failed. And six, almost seven years after they had come to Soulstheim, as he lay ailing on his deathbed in the warm city of Bromjunaar, a Priest there whispered to him the news of Miraak's death, the news that Soulstheim had been severed land and sea and Vahlok had killed him. When it had ever become the duty of the younger brother to slay the elder, Morokei did not know, and he died weeping in lament for his sons, who seemed to have both died with him that day. The boy from Bordahven who had become his son had grown into a flourishing man, a man of the world, and had reached his dreams for it. 

Five thousand years later Miraak was nearly unrecognizable. Morokei watched him now, his face which had never become his mother's scarred and darkened, his beautiful golden eyes flat and still like undisturbed lakes of molten coins. He had grown silent like the monks in the Medja Mountains who took vows and cut out their tongues. He now looked out of place, awkward, strange in this new Era, like a stubborn old stain. He watched the world with intense, violent suspicion. But he had a sun to revolve around now, a core, a star to discover, to pray to and observe and fall in love with. She treated him gently and lovingly, in ways his partners of ages past never had. For her he was malleable and gentle, for her he was a man again; the way she cupped his chin and touched his chest, held his hands, spoke his name, kissed him, embraced him, eased the pain of his prolonged existence - it took great strength to be so vulnerable again. When Morokei told him as much, Miraak merely snorted. 

"I am used to being weak now," he replied. "Sometimes being weak is all I can bring myself to do." Those words made him think of Ahzidal, who so sought strength and control, and his reprimands of Morokei's raising of the boys. Sometimes being weak for those you loved was all that was needed. 

"You were very strong for a very long time, aelskling ," Morokei replied softly, smiling at him. After a moment of thought he reached to put an arm on Miraak's back, rubbing gently between his taut shoulders. "Thousands of years. You deserve to find peace now where you may. She will protect you." 

"I know she will," Miraak said, his voice strained as he loosened his arms and leaned into Morokei's side, and then turned to hug him. Still he had never grown quite as tall as Atmorans usually did, only up to Morokei's chin, but it made him pleasant to embrace again - it felt like holding the boy from Bordhaven once more. Miraak laid his head over his father's shoulder and exhaled slowly, letting Morokei rock them together side to side on his heels. "I am sorry I left, Papà." Morokei only laughed, stroking through those dark curls that had loosened into gentle waves over the years, inhaling from the beloved night sky.

"I will never need a reason to hold you, aelskling . I promise."

Chapter Text

"Elskavin."

Miraak's voice was across the room, quiet but firm for her attention. Turning away from the shabby pantry that held mostly small sack of fruit and dried meat - these bandits were badly understocked, but it would at least last them the night before they got back on the road - she tucked her spear into her elbow and meandered across the drafty room. Cradled on the First Dragonborn's fingertips was an oblong, hexagonal box about as big as his palm. It shone dimly in the low torchlight, the gold dull and frigid.

From across the room Bhijirio looked up, arms full of cold alto wine bottles and somewhat stale bread. “What’d you find, Gloomy?” he called, chewing through a wilted apple as he strutted over, tail flicking inquisitively over the stone floor. “Looks expensive. Can we sell it?” As she joined the pair Tharya laughed grandly at that, shaking her head as she transferred her staff to the crook of her arm.

“It is frozen shut,” Miraak murmured as she took it from him, examining the box carefully. There was only one thing this could be.
“No, it isn’t,” she chuckled, holding its corners between her thumb and forefinger of each hand; pressing inwards on each corner at once, she could tell the mechanisms inside were definitely frozen, but not the box itself. There was more resistance than usual, but she pushed harder, and then suddenly all but one of the corners gave way and caved inwards. The fourth one did the same with a little jab from her gloved thumb.

Miraak’s face showed no surprise, but she could smell the slightest tinge of displeasure coming from him. Unbelievable, but entertaining that he was upset to be wrong over something as small as a box. Bhijirio hummed in interest as the heavily engraved lid popped open the slightest bit, allowing her to pull it up all the way with one finger.

Resting on a perfectly shaped crimson cushion was a pale pink gem, a long, slender rhombus shape, with points on either end that looked as sharp as the tip of any dagger. It gleamed brightly despite the low light, and was so polished she could see their distorted reflection on the glassy surface.

“Do I know something you don’t?” She asked with a grin, looking up at Miraak’s hovering, curious face.
“Ha! Finally,” Bhijirio cackled, nudging the Atmoran’s arm lightly.

“This is a Stone of Barenziah. There’s twenty-four of them floating around the world, but I’ve only laid eyes on three. Now, four,” she added, holding the one in her hand up. “I have a contact in the Thieves Guild that’s trying to collect the whole set. We’ll make a stop by Riften and drop this off.” Bhijirio grimaced slightly before taking another bite of his apple.
“So we aren’t selling it?”

The Atmoran scoffed as she shut the box again and the two men followed her out of the room, down the broad, winding staircase that led down the tower and back into the belly of the abandoned fortress. One of the few that hadn’t been touched yet by Torygg’s widespread restoration project.

“You have a contact in a mismatched, ailing group of pickpockets and petty thieves?” He asked. “At least ally yourself with a reputable guild.”
“They aren’t my personal spy network,” she said with equal sarcasm, and he merely grunted. “Besides, it’s just one guy. Etienne. We’ve done a little business since the party, but we don’t keep in touch too often. I try to visit whenever I’m in Riften.” Which was almost never, given how much she hated the stinking shithole of a city.

“The party?” Miraak echoed curiously. He and Bhijirio shared a similar look, but the burly Khajiit merely shrugged. “I did not believe you attended parties.”
“Oh,” Tharya replied, looking up at them as they came to a landing and started down the second flight of steps. “I never told you about Elenwen’s dinner bash?”

21st of Frostfall, 4E 201

Normally, in cold this bitter and wind this hard, she would be wrapped up in a thick fur cloak with a scarf to cover her face and mittens so big her hands were stiff, but in the outfit afforded by Delphine, the early Skyrim winter was beginning to feel like the depths of the cold months north of Winterhold.

It didn’t help that the innkeeper - or Blade, or whatever she claimed to be - had scrubbed her face damn near raw to get rid of her warpaint, and the irritation had never been able to properly settle. The wind biting her aching cheeks and forehead only made things that much worse. By the time her carriage was coming to a stop, her back was frozen stiff, and her face was so numb she was beginning to worry.

“Madam,” an Altmer guard said as he appeared, extending one gauntleted hand to her as she stood, shivering, from her seat. Delphine had told her there would be guards and Thalmor officers everywhere, but...to talk about the belly of the beast was one thing; to be inside of it was something new entirely. Warily she took the guard’s hand and stepped slowly out of the carriage, the freshly-fallen snow crunching below her fine boots. Fine, but thin. “Please have your invitation ready.” Without another word the guard brushed by her to another approaching carriage, waiting with trained stillness til it came to a stop and repeating his script to the guests arriving.

She circled her carriage to stand beside the high seat of the driver, who was muttering curses and counting out the coin she had paid him with one last time. It couldn’t hurt to get a good look at the place before delving in headfirst. 

The Thalmor Embassy in Skyrim wasn’t merely a building, but a complex. The entire thing seemed to be built on tall foundations - she spotted a staircase leading up to a wide, paved courtyard only twenty or so feet from where she stood - and, surprisingly enough, built in Nordic styles. There were touches of Cyrodiil here and there to keep things looking neat and not too native, just as the Thalmor liked. It fit well into Solitude's topography, which made her think the place had been something of equal importance before being usurped for an embassy. Stone walls encompassed the courtyard; decorated tiles littered stairs; clean-cut, dark stone buildings had windows with elaborate, wrought iron designs over the glass. The entire place was a deception. It looked familiar, it even felt familiar - she wouldn’t have been surprised to find its like within the walls of Solitude itself - but she knew once she stepped inside, all thoughts of familiarity would wash away.

Behind the main building that people seemed to be entering into, there was at least one more, smaller building built in the same materials and styles. Across the courtyard, overlooking the edge of the mountain, was a third, about the same size as the first. All of them were at least two storeys, with the main one looking like it could be almost three. She stomped a little on the ground, but the snow dampened everything; it was too hard to tell if they each had basements. 

But there had to be dungeons around here somewhere.

“Having second thoughts, missy?” The carriage driver spoke suddenly, tucking the coin purse away and blowing hard on his hands before fumbling them back into his gloves. “Don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to spend a whole night locked up with these folk either.” She couldn’t be sure if he meant Altmer or Thalmor, but she didn’t bother to ask. Instead, Tharya turned, looking up at him for a brief moment. Brief, but long enough for him to remember her face, at least for a little while. By the end of the night, he might be the last person to see her alive before setting foot in the Thalmor Embassy.

“Thanks for the ride,” she replied, reaching up to shake his hand. “Get down safely.”

She searched the hidden pocket sewn into the inside of her cloak to extract the forged invitation before setting off towards the staircase leading up into the courtyard. There was a small queue of other guests all shuffling in the cold and handing off their little folded papers to the armor-clad Altmer at the door. Maybe they were barely checking - maybe the sheer amount of guests and the freezing weather had turned them lax? She didn't want to think about what could happen if they looked at her invitation a second too long or a bit too closely, asked how she got it, from who or when. Quietly she joined the line behind a stocky Redguard man who looked ill-dressed to deal with the cold, shifting on his feet and running his fingers over the creases of his invitation. 

"Ah, damn," he said after a minute, tossing his hands up and dragging his feet to a nearby bench at the base of the courtyard wall. He looked surprised to see her, squinting back down the mountain for a moment before making a broad gesture in her direction. "M'lady!" He greeted in a voice equal parts boisterous and joking. "I thought I was the last one up here. You know you're late, right?" She pressed the invitation between her gloved palms and exhaled a steam of breath into the cold, dark night. Late? How late?

"They'll still let us in, right?" she asked him after a minute of composing herself. Maybe if she could lump herself in with this man they had a better chance of getting in; as a pair maybe they could appear more important than if either of them were solo. 

"Eh, I dunno...hard to tell. Punctual people, y'know." He shrugged one shoulder casually. The line moved forward a couple people and a pair of rich-looking Nords in finely embroidered tunics and gowns with expensive fur trims climbed the stairs. "Ah, I'm just kidding, you know? Of course they'll let us in." He took one look at her face and chuckled; his smile made the thick ends of his moustache press back into his cheeks. "Didn't mean to scare you." Was it that obvious that she wasn't cut out for this kind of work? From the moment Delphine had proposed the plan she'd hated it, but what else could they do? Tharya was a common Nord with a common background and a knack for magic. She'd barely been Dragonborn for two and a half months. And now here she was waiting on the steps of the Thalmor Embassy, hoping to steal from them and get out alive? 

"Madam?" 

While she was too distracted in her head she hadn't noticed the line empty, leaving just her and the Redguard waiting by the bench as the two soldiers stared at them. One was holding her palm out, and the man beside her had a writing board with a neatly printed list of names, most with perfectly horizontal lines through them. 

"You were ahead of me," she said to the Redguard, gesturing for him to go first. She needed to keep her composure. She needed to calm down and think straight otherwise the entire operation would be a bust, and they still wouldn't know if the Thalmor had anything to do with the dragons.

"Where is that damn thing...?" the Redguard muttered to himself, patting down his tunic and coat. Despite his lackluster attitude he was well dressed. "No chance you'd let me in without it, eh? Come on, you must know me. I've been here a thousand times by now."

"The rules are the rules, Razelan," the woman with her hand extended replied. "If you've been here so often, you should know that by now." 

"I get it, I get it," he muttered. "Hey, uh, go on ahead while I find that paper." Suddenly he gestured back to her and Tharya found herself moving before she could register it, handing the paper over before she could think. The woman looked it over with a scrutinizing emerald eye, as if trying to dissect it with nothing but her gaze. The cold stung Tharya's face. It pricked her lungs. Her throat felt closed to the air trying to get in - the paper was handed off suddenly, to the man with the writing board. He examined it only briefly before crossing out a name on his list in one firm stroke of his pen. Delphine had named her Laigritte for tonight. She had practiced responses over and over again, memorized conversation points, but the name worried her. 

"Ah, here we go!" She had barely stepped through the Altmer soldiers when behind her the Redguard extracted a crumpled paper from his tunic pouch and handed it over with a wide smile. The woman took it and sighed in exasperation, glanced at the name, and didn't even need to hand it over for her companion to cross the name off. This man was a well-known face here, then? A frequent visitor? Perhaps he could be of some use - only once she knew where his allegiance lay. If the Thalmor recognized him so easily, her chances of being able to trust him were slim. In silence she climbed the stairs leading to the courtyard and then walked slowly along the path to the door that had been cleared of any snow; the edges looked too precise to be done by a shovel, so maybe...magic? Had they really used magic just to clear some snow out? 

She tried to stomp again, under the guise of trying to loosen the snow from her shoes, and this time the vibrations that skittered across and below the ground fanned out in a wide ripple and bounced back to her almost violently. The ground had spoken this time; each building had a basement, and one of them was particularly deep. And strange, lateral features...tunnels? 

“Wow! Remind me to take you for a dance,” the Redguard said with a boisterous, teasing grin. Embarrassed, Tharya reached up to smooth her hair over before gesturing to the front door. 

“Shall we?” 

“No, I insist. Ladies first.” With no choice, she climbed the stairs ahead of him with mumbled thanks. A pair of Thalmor guards opened the doors without acknowledging her or her companion. Music and warmth and the light of horn sconces and iron chandeliers poured outwards from the entryway which seemed more like a portal to a different world. There was a sudden pressure on her arm, and her impromptu companion intertwined their elbows before they stepped through the threshold together. 

"Name's Razelan, by the way," he said quietly near her ear. 

"Laigritte," she responded, letting another armored Altmer take her thick cloak. Left alone in the dress she felt more exposed than ever before; the dark green fabric was snug in the torso and arms, and the fur lining the neckline and low shoulders wasn't as warm as she would've liked. Delphine had spent an hour brushing her back into some kind of elaborate braid and smudging makeup onto her face in their tiny inn room in Solitude. The one comfort was the knowledge she wouldn't have to wear the skirt all night; it was specially fastened by small clasps around the waist to loops on the top of the dress, and she had every intention of shucking it off the first chance she had. 

"A drink?" she offered, gesturing to the small wine counter in the corner closest to the door. Razelan hummed before nodding into the reception space instead. Its dark stone interior made it seem a bit smaller than it really was, but the white stone floors glittered expansively in the light of candles and the lit hearth; the vaulted ceiling stretched far up into the shadows, with a single, huge chandelier arranged with concentric rings of silver hanging down. This had to be some kind of hunting lodge or rural escape from the previous High Kings and Queens of Skyrim; its proximity to the capital and design pointed only to a former royal retreat. Still, it was one of the grandest spaces she’d ever found herself in in her measly life. 

"Why not mingle a bit?" Razelan said, and she forced herself to smile and nod and follow his lead. Being attached like this wasn't what she had envisioned when she thought of an alliance; somehow she would have to break away from Razelan and start her own work. But until then it could be beneficial to use him as a cover. If he wanted to mingle, why not? 

"You know these people better than I do," she replied finally, smiling at him. The Thalmor outside had recognized him, as he had expected them to. Alliance might be too strong a word. She would use him for as much as he could do, and that would have to be it. "Lead the way." 

People were quick to recognize Razelan and greet him, even if in passing; most of the guests had already broken off into small cliques and were chatting in low, polite tones amongst each other. Still, the amount of eyes that fell on her, all questioning, all looking longer than they should’ve, felt like she had placed an archery target on her head. She stayed quiet by Razelan’s side, letting him pass a word or two to the people who saw him, and grateful he never stayed to talk too long. At the worst most of the guests saw her as his accessory, and in these circumstances she wasn’t sure if that was so bad. Better to be overlooked than scrutinized. Still, there was a nagging voice in the back of her head that told her silence would only make her seem more suspicious, but she felt paralyzed in the lips - even if she wanted to speak, she wasn’t sure she could. That nagging voice sounded strangely like Delphine.

“Ah, Razelan.” But that voice, she knew that voice. It was too close and too clear for her to not recognize it immediately, but she kept her face placid as she turned with Razelan, who reached out to clap Proventus Avenicci on the shoulder.

It was hard to keep her eyes from bulging at the man; the steward of Whiterun, at a Thalmor gathering? How had he come this far north? Did Balgruuf know? Who invited him here? She found herself smiling a trained, shallow smile at him, but there was true mirth behind it. Proventus Avenicci was a Thalmor bootlicker and now she knew. Already she was composing the story for Balgruuf in her head - whenever she returned to Whiterun, this snake would be in the dungeons without so much as a second glance.

“Proventus!” Razelan greeted loudly, shaking his shoulder around with a vigor that made the steward’s lip curl lightly. “Long time no see, friend. The journey up here must’ve been even longer for you this time of year!”
“Yes, well, the Lady Ambassador kindly provided a carriage and accommodations in the capital,” Proventus replied, half murmuring into his drink as he took a long sip. “Pardon me, but who is your guest this evening? Have I seen you before?” He wasted no time in trying to rat her out, did he? Proventus may have been an idiot but he was a clever one, and had Thalmor support to boot. She had overcome him in Balgruuf’s court before, and not too long ago, but in the mountainous reaches of the northwest he now had the advantage, and he knew it. Surrounded by his benefactors and Thalmor agents who would love to see the country crumble, it was his turn to smile.

“Laigritte of Whiterun,” she introduced calmly, giving him a shallow bow. Much to Delphine’s dismay she hadn’t been able to perfect the curtsy. Proventus’ mouth opened to disagree but she cut him off. “You’re the steward there, correct? I’ve had some dealings with Jarl Balgruuf, myself.”
“Ah, have you,” Proventus replied after a moment of shock, “Laigritte?” Razelan looked between them with a gleam of almost childish interest in his eyes; he was enjoying the banter in the way someone enjoyed their friends getting along perfectly. She supposed in his eyes, that wasn’t far from the truth. “Shall we talk by the fire, Laigritte? The wind tonight is cold, but perhaps a chat with a fellow countrywoman could warm it up.” She glanced up at Razelan who was already untangling their arms and sending her off with a bright smile.
“Don’t forget, we have some drinking to do!” he said as she stepped away, melding back into the cliques of guests and seamlessly joining a conversation circle by himself.

She shadowed Proventus through the moving pairs and servants, only pausing to take two fluted glasses from a tray, but instead of going towards the fire he went to the indoor colonnade surrounding the reception room, standing in front of one of the smooth, polished columns supporting one of many cleanly rounded arches. All perfectly uniform, just as the Thalmor liked it; no discrepancies, no differences. Right angles, smooth curves, cold stone, and evenly spaced sconces to faintly illuminate the colonnade’s darkness.

"What brings you here, all gussied up to impress the Thalmor soldiers?" 

"Shut the hell up, Proventus," she muttered into her drink. It wasn’t ale or mead, but she would take anything at this rate to calm her fiery nerves. "Why are you here? Spying on Balgruuf?"

"You will keep your mouth shut," he hissed indignantly, glancing around to see if he had raised his voice too much. She forced a laugh - they couldn't risk anyone thinking they were unhappy. Unhappiness drew attention. "Don't forget I can tell them exactly who you are."

"I can turn all of Whiterun against you," she whispered. They each sipped their wine, surveying the reception with placid smiles and a tight grip on their glasses. “Then who would you be important to? Exiled from court, but too low for even the Thalmor to keep around like a pet?” He scoffed deeply, smoothing one hand repeatedly over the front of his padded tunic. Clever, sure, but he was easy to antagonize. Whatever the Thalmor saw in him she couldn’t possibly guess at.

"Keep to yourself and I'll keep to my own," Proventus murmured suddenly. "Not a word of this to anyone." Did he truly think she wouldn't tell Balgruuf about this? About his own steward working with authoritarian invaders behind his back? 

"Agreed," she hummed. Proventus seemed to relax, downing the rest of his wine and stalking off without another word. Fear permeated his scent but drifted away slowly into a dull anxiety that made him glance back only once at her. By the end of the night her cover might be blown anyway - their little deal meant close to nothing with that in mind. Already drafting her letter to Balgruuf in the back of her head, she stepped back into the shadowed colonnade surrounding the room and followed its length towards the wine counter. The first drink had gone down easy and she would need something twice its strength if she was going to survive this night. It was time to talk to Malborn. 

Malborn himself was absent from the counter for the first few minutes, leaving her to wait quietly with her empty glass in hand. She reminded herself to correct her posture and touch one hand lightly over her hair to make sure it was all still in place; it'd only been half an hour at this party, and it felt like thirty years. By the time she got out of here she would be grey and withered. 

Appearing from the right, one gauntleted hand rapped harshly against the wood counter twice in quick succession and almost immediately Malborn appeared carrying a crate of glass bottles. He exited a swinging wooden door that she presumed led into  wine storage or the kitchen, looking more than a bit frazzled before setting down his crate and smoothing both hands against the front of his dark livery. 

"I shouldn't find myself reminding you of your job again," the guard who had knocked on the counter said in a cool, low voice. Malborn gave a deep bow and shook his head once.

"No, of course not. My apologies." The guard shifted back into place but remained close by, glancing between Tharya and Malborn with one scrutinizing eye. "Welcome, m'lady. What can I serve you? We have the finest in alto wine, sweet Black-Briar mead, or, if you’re looking for something stronger, a glass of Colovian brandy." She spent what she hoped was a convincing minute trying to ponder the options but she knew none of them - wine was her father's taste, mead and ale her own. The guard still lingered, watching. Waiting for her to decide. 

"What would you recommend for so early in the night?" she asked finally, watching Malborn's face fall slightly. The wrong response? How was she supposed to know how wealthy people chose their wine?

"Well, the Colovian brandy would pair nicely with the lamb later tonight," Malborn replied with a servicing smile. "Perhaps a small glass to taste until then?" 

"Yes, thank you," she said, nodding slightly. Had she messed up so badly? The guard looked no different. Malborn plucked a small crystal glass with heavily decorated sides from below the counter, set it down firmly, and uncorked the brownish bottle to pour. 

"Your brandy, m'lady," he said formally, lifting the glass to her. "Do let me know what you think." 

"Thank you," she replied, taking it from him with a faint nod before turning away from the counter. 

Their first attempt was a failure, then, and she got the distinct feeling she was running out of time. How long until being seated for dinner? What time was it? The windows bordering the outward facing wall and flanking the fireplace showed nothing but darkness. Subconsciously she took a gulp of whatever Malborn had given her as she walked towards the fireplace. At least if she was going to be uncertain, she could do it while warming up. Razelan was sitting on one of the cushioned benches next to the blazing hearth, and when he saw her he patted the empty space beside him with a slightly drunken smile. 

"You emptied that one faster than the last," he noted with a wide grin. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who’d gotten to the drinking quickly. When she followed his gesture to her little glass she found it entirely empty. "Anything good?"

"Yeah, uh- Colovian brandy," she replied, frowning at the cup. 

"Oh, good stuff. I might try to get one myself before Elenwen ropes us into her speech-" As he pushed himself off the bench to get his drink the double doors on the opposite side of the room opened wide to admit two women: one tall and slender, with harsh features and thin, primly pressed lips, and the other shorter, somewhat meek looking, and human. She could only assume the lithe Altmer who looked like she was appraising cattle in a market square was Elenwen, but the realization came as less of a surprise than the recognition of who stood next to her.

"Elisif?" Tharya whispered, wide eyes whipping towards Razelan as he sank with a disappointed sigh back to the bench. What in Shor's name was the High Queen doing here? Entering with the Thalmor Ambassador, looking like a disciplined schoolgirl at her side? There was no way the crown could be allying with the Thalmor in the middle of a civil war. 

"She's a regular," Razelan snorted quietly. "Damn. Too late for my drink," he added. A regular. The High Queen of Skyrim was a regular in Thalmor salons and dinner parties. She'd never met Torygg before he died, but she had heard the stories about Elisif, and the stories made it clear she wasn't fit to rule. The Moot had yet to meet to confirm her as High Queen because of the civil war, and there were no plans to gather the jarls in the near future. What could they do if their own queen sold the country to the Thalmor - what if not fight? 

For a long moment, the tall Altmer woman merely stood there in the farthest reaches of the firelight, a pillar of dark robes and a sunken gold face. Her hair fell to her shoulders, fine, goldish-green Altmer hair, forming a severe widow’s peak in the center of her hairline. She surveyed the room with expectantly raised eyebrows, so unmoving they seemed tattooed halfway up her forehead. The fine lines around them were a permanent feature of her face. The room fell quiet quickly, and after a few moments of forced silence the Altmer stepped forward into the light, as if crossing a stage.

“Please, carry on,” the woman said, making a trained, elegant gesture with bony fingers. “Let the fire and wine warm you from the frigid journey, friends. Our kitchens are stocked with only the finest for your pleasure here. Dinner will be served shortly.” She looked to Elisif and nodded once, deliberately and slowly, and the High Queen left her side like a scurrying dog. Tharya chewed down on her lower lip. What was Elisif doing here? And where was the speech? The Lady Ambassador didn’t look like the type who would downplay herself in front of a room of distinguished guests.

For just a brief second she caught Malborn's eyes from across the room, looking over the mantle of the stone fireplace, and he looked more panicked than before. Elenwen said dinner would be ready within minutes, which meant they had only precious seconds to enact their plan. 

"I'll get you that drink," she said suddenly to Razelan, discreetly grabbing his arm just below the elbow when he started to move away from her. His scent spiked in alertness and anxiety as he took in her words, her expression. The cloud of sobriety was falling over him. "But I need something in return." He squinted lightly at her before examining the party, trying to decide whether or not he had half a mind to disturb everything the Thalmor had neatly planned for the night in favor of a single stranger. He didn't seem so high up on the ladder that a little shaking and stirring at this level would hurt him, but still his scent was...uncertain. 

"Like what?" he questioned finally, shuffling a little closer to her. Tharya inhaled slowly as she mulled over her next words. Past Razelan's shoulder Malborn was looking more and more worried. 

"Just cause a scene," she whispered. "You know, like-" Razelan cut her off with a laugh much too loud for her tastes, drawing the attention of nearly the entire party - Elenwen and Elisif included - towards them. Quickly she laughed along with him, covering her mouth politely with one rigid hand. 

The guests were all still mingling, but an edge of anticipation had seeped into the room - everyone stood and pretended to be at ease but truthfully they were on the knife's edge of action. Ready to rush into the dining room the moment dinner was called. Waiting, teetering. It was a strange mixing of scents: some people were more relaxed than others, merely anticipatory of what they knew was coming, but others were hesitant, wondering. No one was outright scared but they had switching levels of...awareness. She smelled it all while weaving through the pairs and small groups that had formed, passing by some of the most elite people in the entire country without so much as a care or a flutter of recognition. 

"Excuse me," she said quietly to get the attention of the Bosmer servant she had been aiming for. The woman turned with lowered eyes and wordlessly extended the silver drink tray balanced in one palm to her; each small glass was filled with Colovian brandy. Warily she took one and nodded in the woman's direction. "Thanks," she murmured, but still the Bosmer didn't look up or say a thing. She merely straightened out and continued staring into the Void. With a curl in her lip Tharya returned to Razelan, drink in hand. She knew she wouldn't like this place, but she was beginning to hate it more than expected. If she didn't start her work soon then she might be stuck here for more than just tonight, and subject to more than just an elitist dinner party. 

Razelan's eyes fell on the drink and almost immediately he popped forward to take it from her. Before his fingers could graze the glass, the thin, severe Altmer woman from before appeared in the firelight, its shadows only making the high lines and angles of her face sharper.
“Hello,” she said smoothly, though her voice had a somewhat nasal tone to it, tinged by soft, hissing s and t sounds that only came from years of nobility and talking down on inferiors. "I don't believe we've been acquainted as of yet. Forgive me, remind me of your name, my lady?" Her formality was overwhelming to the point it would have sounded mocking from anyone else, but not the Thalmor. Not an agent as seasoned and loyal as this one seemed to be. No, she reeked of Thalmor doctrine; it dripped off her words and sunk into the silence after them. 

"Lady Ambassador," Tharya replied, giving a slight impression of a curtsy she hoped was deep enough to be successful. "I've heard so much of you, I'm finally glad to be able to attend one of these..." she glanced at Razelan for help. "Banquets." By the way he looked, mouthing something repeatedly towards her, she'd messed up again.

"Our embassy is stocked year-round with the finest food and wine for the comfort of our guests," Elenwen responded with a graceful, shallow gesture of one long-fingered hand. Tharya wondered how much of their grain was coming from Skyrim farms. How much of the winter vegetables and crops, already few to begin with, were being redirected to this awful place and its masters. "Please partake in them at your pleasure." Regardless she forced a smile as if it was the most pleasant thing to hear in the world, hoping that would close their conversation. "But I believe you were giving your name before we were...interrupted?" 

For a brief second her mind slept and she thought of nothing except how dangerous this was, how stupid it was. She thought of nothing except being Dragonborn and the Blades, nothing except Malborn, except the civil war, nothing except My name's Tharya, and I'm here to figure out if you know anything about the dragons, could you point me to your office? The scents of the party had been flooding and circulating deep in her nose all night, so thick she could taste them on the roof of her mouth. The politely low chatter and the sudden thrumming of a lyre, the heel of a palm against the stretched leather of a drum, and of Malborn staring at her from far away, his dark glittery eyes like amber fire, all soaked into her awareness of the situation around her.

"Laigritte," she said after only a second, adding on another curtsy just for good measure, "Lady of Whiterun."

"Ah. Of course," Elenwen said with a slight, formal nod of her head. "I remember your name from the guest list." When she straightened out again the shadows of the fire made strange, warping shapes across her angled face and in her gem-like eyes, and for a moment it was like looking at a hagraven torn apart by her own claws. "Please, enjoy your time until dinner. Farewell." As she turned to leave, Tharya didn't bow or even reply; the entire time, Elenwen hadn't smelled like she was lying. That meant her fake name was really on a guest list somewhere and Delphine had done her job. But she had smelled like deceit. Ugly, pungent deceit, crawling out of the hottest Eastmarch geyser. And the scent of deceit was far worse than that of lying.

"Phew! You had me scared for a second," Razelan said as he got up, putting one hand lightly on her shoulder. "You sure you don't need a drink after that?" Tharya watched Elenwen snake through the crowd of partygoers and wondered what the Lady Ambassador had in store for her before the next dawn.

"I think I do," she muttered, and slipped out of Razelan's grasp to go back to Malborn. "Brandy," she muttered, and the Bosmer obliged with a hurried look over her head at Elenwen.

"Listen, we're seriously running out-"

" Friends!" The bellowing voice was Razelan's as he strutted to the center of the light thrown by the hearth, glass in one hand and arms stretched wide. Tharya took her Colovian brandy and threw it back in one burning gulp, much to Malborn's shock. She understood now why Razelan had asked if she needed a drink - not to be friendly, but so he could perform his favor without drawing attention. She looked over her shoulder once as he began to rant, seeing him slowly turning so his back was to the fire and then to the farthest wall, drawing all eyes in the opposite direction of Malborn and herself. Over the heads of the guests she managed to catch his gaze for a brief second, and as she ducked behind the counter he only raised his voice and doubled his efforts. He had no idea how much of this operation hinged on him; for a stranger, he had been more willing than most.

The narrow corridor behind Malborn's counter was dimly lit and fairly warm from the heat of the kitchens beyond, which he led her into at a brisk step without talking. She followed quickly, eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness only to be brought back into bright firelight and goat-horn chandeliers as they passed into the kitchen. This had to be one of a few throughout the compound; it wasn't large enough to feed multiple buildings. The aromas here were of herbs and soup, but more strongly of venison - was that dinner? She was starving. The shivering ride up here had cleared her stomach and she hadn't eaten since early this afternoon. It was past nightfall now. 

"Who comes, Malborn?" One of the cooks asked in a suspicious voice, even stopping the work of her knife in front of her to glare up at them. Narrowed Khajiit eyes watched Tharya’s every movement past the kitchen table.

"Nothing, just a guest feeling sick," Malborn responded in a professional voice. By the way Tharya eyed the line of prepared soup bowls as they passed, she wasn't sure she gave the impression he wanted.
“A guest, in the kitchens?” the Khajiit woman pressed. “You know this is against the rules.”
“Rules, Tsavani?” Malborn snorted, shooting her a dirty look. “I didn’t realize eating moon sugar was permitted, either. I’m sure the Lady Ambassador would love to clear that up.” Tsavani hissed suddenly, harsh and loud, eyes widening as she flicked one hand urgently at them.
“Fine! I saw nothing,” she croaked, and quickly went back to her cutting board with her tail flicking irritatedly behind her.

Through the kitchens there was another corridor, slightly wider and with a handful of niches and doors on either side for food storage. He fumbled with the keys for a moment before unlocking one of the doors and pulling her inside a large pantry. The air was cold and icy - this room likely shared a wall with the outside and held ingredients better preserved in cold. 

"Here's all you asked me to sneak in," Malborn said hurriedly, bending to push aside cheese wheels wrapped in wax paper and frigid glass jars and reaching into the wall itself to pull forward a small chest. It clicked open easily and he began to wrench her things out, setting them on the floor by her feet. "I managed to steal some arrows like you asked, but a bow was a bit harder." In reality she would've liked to bring her staff, but Malborn had fervently pushed against it; it was difficult to disguise a staff as anything other than what it was. She wasn't proficient enough in swordfighting despite Delphine's impromptu lessons, but she'd been using a bow for years. It was her only option besides her hands for magic. 

"But did you get one?" She huffed, feeling around her waist to find the small clasps holding her skirt in place. "That's all that matters."

"Yeah, I got one," he grumbled, setting her folded trousers down atop the leather backpack - her father's - she had packed with a cloak, extra potions, and a good dagger for tight spaces. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Why do you think I packed pants?" Tharya replied, letting the skirt drop and toeing off the flimsy slippers to pull on the thick winter pants over the thinner ones she wore below the dress, heavy wool with fur around the waist and ankles, and then struggling into each of her worn boots as Malborn produced them. "When the hell does the Dragonborn get good enough for real armor?" 

"Huh?"

"Nothing," she sighed. At the very least the rundown soles would be silent on Thalmor stone floors. Whether or not they would survive the snow outside was a different matter. "Do you have my ruana?"

"Right here." He handed it up to her and shoved the chest back into its hole in the wall, replacing its façade of cheese and jars before standing.

“This is all you gave me,” he said, hefting her backpack up and handing it over. “You need to get going.  I’ll lock the door behind you and pray no one saw me missing at the party.” Tharya flipped up the straps of her bag and took out what made up the bulk of it; an old leather cuirass, forcibly folded on itself, with fur lining the inside and a small loop to hold her dagger on the chest. She pulled it on as quickly as she could without knocking into the pantry shelves squeezed in around her, and as she adjusted the side straps and pulled on the gauntlets, Malborn exhaled heavily. Over the cuirass went the ruana, pinned snugly around her torso. “You’re on your own from now on, got it? I can’t help you anymore.”
“I know,” she replied, pulling her backpack, now significantly lighter, onto her shoulders. She’d removed it of its metal charms and souvenirs that could make even the slightest noise and left them carefully arranged in a small sack with Delphine. “Thank you for everything. With luck I’ll be out of here by midnight.”
“Eight watch over you- or Nine, whichever you prefer,” he added quickly, waving one hand dismissively. “Go, go. ”

Without another word he stepped back out of the pantry and ushered her down to the end of the long, dark hallway, pausing at the final door to extract his keys from a deep pocket.
“Give Delphine my regards,” he whispered as he pulled it open, checked the hallway, and then tapped her back. Tharya sucked in a breath through her teeth before stepping out, back bent and eyes quickly adapting to the lack of light in the corner the door led into.
“Malborn-”

The door clicked shut as she turned, and the muted rattling of keys in the lock met her ears. Her stomach twisted and leapt over itself as she looked back into the short hallway. She was on her own in the Thalmor Embassy; on her own to cut through the belly of the beast.

Nine, protect me.

Chapter Text

Miraak has shared space with the Last Dragonborn ever since his rescue from Apocrypha in 4E 203. Seven years, and three of them spent married. He has shared himself with her, lent his sword, practiced his magic, shed his blood, and whispered his love to her more times than he can count. He has held a Magna-Ge with his own arms for her. But once he is freed of Hammerfell and Jathlian, bringing his small contingent of shehai warriors who have grown more loyal to him than they have their king, once he joins the Last Dragonborn, the Redoran, the Psijic, and the Khajiit gambler he calls friends, he realizes there is one thing he has yet to share with her.

The battlefield.

They fought in proximity on Artaeum, but he hadn't spent that battle in his human skin til the very end. He'd never been shoulder to shoulder with her, in the dense eye of a battlefield, where she had been so many times before even first hearing his name. There is evidence of her past soldiering still engraved in her person, of course; she walks like infantry and rides like Whiterun cavalry, fells enemies from horseback with ease, can predict a field of battle countless different ways before the first drops of blood are even spilt. She is more than a soldier - soldiers, he thinks, are mindless creatures, taught to fight and told where to go. She is a strategizer. A planner.

The title General Stormhand fits her well. Better than any of her other titles, almost better than Dragonborn. Almost. Not quite.

"You haven't fought like this before, big guy," she tells him the night before, lounging around a small campfire that is their own and no one else's. She is careful to keep her tone from being patronizing; he hates going into things he does not know, and he hates not knowing things. But this lesson, however he receives it, is the most necessary one she can think of. It could save his life. "I wish I could describe it to you, but a battlefield is a singular experience. You'll never forget the feeling once the fight is done." 

She scrapes the bottom of one boot against the flat stones encircling the small fire. Her voice is wise, low, speaking in that sagely tone she rarely uses, least of all with him. 

"Keep focus. Be aware as of much as possible, but not everything, or you'll be overwhelmed. Don't stand still, but don't move too fast. It should come easy to you," she says, looking into the flames. "You're a calculated man. You don't do anything not worth doing, and you do it with precision. But close combat and one-on-one fights are your specialties, and this is going to be nothing like that. You're big, strong, and fast with a blade. Your magic will draw attention, and if it doesn't, your Thu'um will. They'll be on you like moths to a flame."

Her brows creased as she spoke, whether she knew it or not, perhaps realizing the reality of her words as she said them aloud. He did not fear making himself a target, just as he did not fear pain or injury, or death. He was too old, too lived, too worn to fear death. 

"Try to stick to someone like Mathyas or Bhijirio. They'll fight just a half a second slower than you do, and at different ranges, so you'll balance each other out. Don't get too close to other mages, or you'll make the group of you a big target. Pay attention to your flanks, but don't waste time on people." She found his eyes over the fire, her face totally placid. "If they fall, they fall. No matter who it is."

She had never chilled him quite like that before. 

"You have a wide range of fighting skill, though, so just trust your judgement. Stay in control," she squinted ever so slightly at him now, looking briefly to his staff and Jondor's sword lying perpendicular to his feet. "People either piss themselves or go beserk in the first seconds of a battle." He didn't need to ask to know which one she thought he would fall for. "Just...stay in control."

Control.

He thinks it's too easy the next morning when the army marches out before dawn. He thinks it's too easy, even though Tharya doesn't talk to him - or anyone - much. She reviews tactics with Mathyas in their saddles. On the left Bhijirio is fiddling with a strap of his gauntlet. He is not a soldier either, so Tharya had given him license to stay out of battles. He chose not to. He chose not to, so he could at least stop fiddling with the gods-damned strap before it makes Miraak break his own. 

He continued to think it was easy up until the very moments they were standing on the plains, horses safely away, staring down an approaching contingent of the Thalmor army. The Thalmor were unaware of their approach, but quickly became aware once they saw the banners in the sun. They spread out across the lower of the two small hills. Being above gave Tharya the advantage, but it would count for little when the dip between each ridge would be muddy and trampled by noon.

He continued to think it was easy - control is part of Dragon Priest doctrine, control is in his blood, in his marrow - as they tread down the hill, first at a trot, and then once the hill begins to even out, at a full run. For a few moments he feels ridiculous, running as fast as he can across an open plain, but the feeling is brief the moment his jagged, ice-covered fist crashes into a Thalmor skull. 

Control. It's harder than he ever imagined.

He fights, at first with just his limbs, magic protecting his fists and torso. There is little to do about the mud; he could cast ice or wards around his boots, but the concentration to hold those is something he does not have, and it's a waste of magicka. 

When he finds his father's sword in his hand, the battle seems to slow. But no, he's just moving faster. Deadlier. They fall easier on a blade, and agile Atmoran footwork that is seared into the tendons and muscles and bones of his feet is unknown to them. Fighting with his left hand sometimes proves beneficial, sometimes not. He tries to move as smoothly as possible, letting Thalmor push him backwards and then shoving his way forwards again, each time envisioning the act of drawing a blade back only to thrust it forward. 

He decapitates one, the resistance of a meaty neck almost nothing in his hands, and when another tries to tackle him, he grips the collar of their breastplate and rips it off with all his strength, shoving the curved tip of Jondor's blade through their clothed back when they fall into the mud at his feet. Others charge them; he Shouts them down, his throat full of fire. Across the field, Tharya's Thu'um reaches him, and the wind grows fierce as a tornado briefly crops up only to explode as it tears into the Thalmor ranks.

He realizes he is by no one's side, not even his students from Hammerfell, not even Mathyas or Bhijirio, who had been close to him in the brief seconds they had charged down from the hill. He follows the sound of Tharya's Thu'um, which comes again, cutting a path to her. The Thalmor seemed to have marked him out now, or at least the soldiers have, because they throw themselves at him with abandon, and he doesn't feel the resistance of their necks either. 

He catches a glimpse of blonde and dark brown, and a half-gold spear whirrs by his right side before sliding right back through the air to its owner. As he spots her, the battle slows again, and not just because he's moving fast. The Thalmor have thinned. 

Tharya is panting, part of her face splattered with blood, but it isn't hers. She looks around, deflects an oncoming blow, kicks her attacker back, and Shouts him to a crispy Oblivion. She fights like he has never seen before, swiftly but flowing, seemingly perfectly aware of everything, focused on everything, but unaware and focused on nothing at once. She is not timid, but teeters on the knife edge of systematic slaughter. He watches her spear an elf dressed as a justiciar, deflect an incoming blade and Shout again, and then take a lightning bolt from an armored mage before hurling her spear through their arm.

The last of her foes felled, and one screaming horribly, she rests.

Their eyes meet once she looks around, and Bhijirio limps in from the right. Tharya extends one arm to the Khajiit and wraps it around his torso, standing together in the midst of stinking carnage. Miraak remains alone, his heart skipping, his blood screaming, and all the wounds - small, but numerous - he's sustained beginning to throb in and out of unison.

Tharya looks at him again, and her face is grim but unsurprised. She recognizes the wild look in those golden eyes, the wideness, the blown pupils. The tight mouth and slack jaw. There is more blood on him than her, and the blade Jondor gifted him is dripping thick red. Mud cakes his boots and right side where someone probably managed to push him down. 

Control, the one thing he always kept, was the one thing he had abandoned today. 

The armored mage is still screeching horribly, holding onto their bisected arm. Tharya shows no signs of acknowledging or caring about their wailing. Indeed, she shows no signs of caring about anyone or anything, since her eyes pass over him again while she scans the battlefield. Bhijirio turns away and throws up on the dead justiciar. 

"Decapitations wear you out," she announces, but Miraak is too overwhelmed by the hammering of his heart in his ears to hear. "Archers!" She raises her sword from Ulfric, the blade clean. The wood and gold of her staff are both soaked bloody, bloody crimson. 

He wishes only for a scrap of comfort to wash away the growing disgust, the growing discomfort as he counts how many heads he severed today. He has killed people before, many in his past life, but across the years; never so many in one afternoon. Never so systematically, so machine-like. Only the sound of his heart filling his skull reminds him he is not a machine, not one of the hollow-chested Dwemer metal guardians found in the cities belowground. 

"Move back," Tharya says to him and the other soldiers loitering around her. "The Thalmor may want a second bout, but the archers might scare them off." Miraak realizes how far they've come from their ridge, where archers are readying themselves as tiny specs on the hilly horizon. "Everyone, on me. Move back."

Miraak dumbly follows her orders, falling into line seven men away from her and four away from Bhijirio, alone. His sword arm trembles. His ears hurt, and one is filled with a warm sea of blood. 

Tharya walks steadily, stepping over bodies without looking down, her spear and shoulders ever at the ready. Control slowly seeps back into his veins but it is feeble. He realizes sickly he wants to lose it again, to return to the beginning of the battle and that feeling of invincibility, the strength that had saturated his muscles, the focus that had cut his gaze down to the narrowest field possible. 

General Stormhand stops them once they're close and out of arrow range, and Miraak slots into the space at her side in utter silence. At least her mere presence offers something. To know she is collected and present when he is not. She lifts her spear to ready the archers, and a minute later swipes it down. The soft woosh it makes through the air is echoed tenfold by the sound of thousands of arrows cutting through the clouds and arching below the blue sky.

Chapter Text

Mathyas knew he never should’ve introduced them. He had no one but himself to blame for it all, and that realization haunted him so grimly in the two months since the night it started.

It came with a phone call and Vahlok’s contact photo appearing on his dim screen, and Mathyas put his drink down to answer the call - before he could even shake out a hello? Vahlok was talking, his accented voice distant and marbled by the static of a car Bluetooth.
“ Hey, Mathyas! Sorry for being late, I’m on my way right now. ”
“It’s not a problem,” he responded, gesturing vaguely around the bar. “Just drinks. Raydrin, Jorunn, and Cass are already here.”

“ Is Tharya coming? ” The question seemed a little odd initially, but Vahlok and Tharya got along well, they were close. On the other end of the call Vahlok spoke something aside in Atmoran to himself, and Mathyas raised an eyebrow to himself.
“Yeah, she’s coming after work.”
“ Good! I’m bringing my older brother. You guys will love him. We’ll be there soon!” Bringing his older brother? Vahlok had mentioned him a few times, shown him briefly in pictures, but they’d never met the man in person somehow, in all their Turdas and Fredas night excursions, in all their dinners as a group, in all their holidays. And what did bringing him have to do with Tharya coming?

In truth, Mathyas wouldn’t have really come if she wasn’t going to be there. When Raydrin put the text out he texted her first privately, wondering whether or not she’d be able to make it after work. They did that often, texting each other to make sure one of them was going so the other would know that even if the party was too long or the bar was too crowded, they could stick it out together. Tonight was one of those nights - part of him wished she would say no, wished she would say she was just going home after her work meeting. But she’d been excited by the idea of going out with everyone, so he decided that, for her, he could sit through the evening and leave early. Peering down into his cup he wondered why he’d gotten an IPA to begin with - she liked them, but he didn’t. Maybe he could pass it off to her whenever she showed up.

It only took a few minutes for Vahlok to appear at the hostess station near the swinging glass doors, letting in with him a blast of frigid, wintery air. He peered easily over the heads of everyone else in the bar and then pointed them out to the Breton woman who was craning her neck to look up at him and the man behind him with a look of bewilderment. Atmorans were an uncommon sight outside of their home continent, though not entirely rare. Snaking through the booths and small tables where people were beginning to appear for their Fredas nights with friends and family, all choosing the central heating and pleasant clamor of the bar over the frost falling outside, half-rain and half-ice, Vahlok made his way to their long, high table as he shrugged out of his coat. It didn’t look quite thick enough to stave off the night’s rapidly dropping temperatures, but if his boasting about Atmoran body heat was even partially true, maybe he didn’t need it.

The others greeted Vahlok with waves and half-hugs, and he smiled down the table to Mathyas while jerking his head towards the man lingering quietly just beside him, awaiting introduction. There was no way that was his brother.
“You guys have been teasing me forever, but he does really exist,” Vahlok was protesting as Cass laughed delightedly into her drink. “Allow me to present my big brother ,” he added with a dramatic flourish, reaching to put one arm around the other man’s back. “Miraak’s been mostly home in Atmora for the last year and a half, that’s why he didn’t come to anything.”
“How much is he paying you?” Cass snickered, reaching one hand out for the brother to shake. “I’m Cassathra, I’m Raydrin’s sister. Though I still don’t really believe you’re Vahlok’s brother.” He knew she meant it jokingly, but Mathyas was having trouble believing it himself. Miraak, was that his name? Miraak looked nothing like Vahlok. He’d expected the same lightish, honey brown hair and hazel eyes, the same paler skin, lean, tall build. Well, he was certainly tall , even if he stood a few inches below Vahlok. The older siblings were always shorter, somehow. But his hair was a dark, coffee brown, wavy and almost curly at the ends, painstakingly styled to look like it fell that way naturally and wasn’t styled at all. He had a short beard trimmed to razor sharp edges framing his broad jaw, but Vahlok had always complained about not being able to grow a full beard. His skin was a rich, earthy color, almost more Redguard than anything, and his eyes in the harsh bar overhead lights were an unsettling shade of gold.

Atmorans sometimes used the terms sibling loosely - it was one of the few little pop culture myths about them that turned out to be true. Close bonds of non-blood relations could consider themselves siblings, or some kind of other familial relation. He’d studied some old, strange Atmoran laws that had originated centuries ago but never been stricken from the book, and one of them said that a child who lived for a year and a day with a guardian would legally be considered their child after the time was up. But no, Vahlok had never given the impression that Miraak was anything but his brother. He’d never mentioned either of them being adopted, through the new laws or old. He spoke often of the man they had in common, their father - Morokei.

“Nice to meet you all, finally,” Miraak spoke at last, his accent similar to Vahlok’s but a bit slower. His voice much deeper, smoother, less prone to emotional inflections. “I was doing work back home for a couple years so I couldn’t come down often, but Vahlok was desperate for you all to believe him.”
“I wouldn’t say desperate ,” Vahlok snickered, nodding to the two empty stools across from Mathyas; there was a third one at the head of the table he was quietly trying to reserve for Tharya, but Vahlok sauntered into it with a grateful sigh. “What’re you drinking? Is that IPA?” He asked, making a face.
“Yeah,” Mathyas sighed, shrugging at the glass. “You want it? I don’t like IPAs.” Without waiting for an answer he slid the tall cup towards the Atmoran - he was never picky with his drinks, so anything unwanted usually got passed off onto him. “Nice to meet you, Miraak - right? None of us really believed him about having a brother,” he added, extending a hand across the table to shake Miraak’s hand. His hands, like Vahlok’s, were huge, encasing Mathyas’ easily as they shook.
“I wouldn’t either,” Miraak chuckled, a warm, milky sound. “I didn’t believe him when he said he had friends. ” Vahlok muttered what sounded like a curse in Atmoran, jabbing his elbow playfully into the other man’s thick arm. The silk of his shirt - a cool emerald green, with long sleeves and a pattern of dainty, slender branches or flowers imprinted almost invisibly on the fabric - shone nicely in the hard light. Expensive fabric. 

“So, supposedly-Vahlok’s-brother, what kind of work were you doing in Atmora?” Cassathra asked, sliding across stools to sit beside Mathyas and sip her drink. “Anything exciting?” Propping his elbows on the table one by one, Miraak started folding back the already creased cuff of his sleeves to roll them up his forearms.
“I’m an art historian,” he responded with a little grin. “I work with the Atmora Public Museum Association and a network of private clients, but the past year or so I was doing mostly courier jobs around the country. Moving paintings, artifacts, helping create exhibits and galleries. And I do some painting,” he added with a shrug. “Nothing good enough for museums, though.” It was that network of private clients that explained the shirt and the shiny watch, then. And probably the rings.
“Art history?” Someone echoed from down the table, and Mathyas glanced to where Raydrin and Jórunn were leaning in to the conversation. He shared a brief look with his cousin who shrugged, and then gestured to his phone with a silent question on his lips: where is she? As Jórunn prodded the newcomer with another question, Mathyas merely shook his head. She hadn’t texted, but she was definitely coming. And if she wasn’t, then he’d find a good excuse to get home early and sleep long.

He watched the conversation unfold more than he listened to it, battling a sudden wave of exhaustion that he thought he defeated at 3 P.M. Miraak focused mainly in ancient and medieval art and sculpture, though he’d worked on multiple architectural restoration projects as well. Everyone had the same wide-eyed look when he explained that courier jobs were fully paid and first-class travel by any mode of transportation, with Vahlok grinning widely. He beamed as his brother went on about his job, about their homeland, filled with a glowing fraternal pride Mathyas had never seen from him. In Miraak’s presence, it made sense now that Vahlok was the younger of the two, though he wondered by how many years. With his brother’s calm, rocklike presence at his side, he looked almost excited and boyish in comparison. He’d never been a very serious person as long as they’d known him, but now his aura had shifted into a wide-eyed kid listening with only the reverence one could have for an older sibling.

“How far apart are you guys?” Raydrin asked finally once there was a lull to do so, gesturing between them with his drink.
“Four years,” Vahlok responded, grinning. “Four and a half , if you want.” That was almost surprising. Then Miraak was, what...twenty-seven or twenty-eight?
“Sorry I’m late! Divines, it’s cold out there.” They turned as one to greet Tharya as she approached their table with her tote and glasses on one arm, an empty travel mug in the other. Wet frost dampened her golden hair and her face was flushed red from the cold.
“No coat?” Vahlok called with a frown.
“Forgot it at my desk,” she groaned, shuddering once as she tucked her travel cup away in her bag and started making the rounds for hugs, starting with Cassathra on Mathyas’s side of the table. “I guess hot cocktails don’t exist, do they? I could go for one right now.” Adjusting her bag over her shoulder she extended both arms to Mathyas and he leaned into them with a smile, squeezing her torso gently to him. “Tired?” she murmured against his ear, rubbing his shoulder kindly.
“Long day,” he replied, patting her back. Her green sweater with its square neckline and close fit was nowhere near thick enough to keep the cold out, and especially not covered in a thin layer of clinging frost. She squeezed the back of his arm reassuringly as she stepped around him to hug Vahlok, who pressed each of his cheeks to hers one at a time in the traditional Atmoran greeting.
“You sure you don’t want a coat? We have ours in the car,” he offered, gesturing between himself and his brother, who Tharya eyed with unconcealed surprise. Mathyas watched with a glimmer of disappointment as she circled behind the seat he wanted to save for her, the one Vahlok had taken.
“Oh, do you?” She paused to consider it, rubbing the melting frozen rain off her sleeves. “Is that okay? Or, no-”
“No, no, let me go get it now,” Vahlok persisted, standing.
“No, I’ll just sit here,” she laughed, pulling the empty stool between the pair out from under the table. “You’ll both be my personal space heaters.” Leaning down to dangle her bag on the hook below the tabletop she convinced Vahlok to sit back down and stay inside before turning to Miraak with a smile.

“You must be the mystical older brother, right?” she snickered, extending her hand to him.
“And now personal space heater,” Miraak replied with a grin, taking her hand in his own. Gods, his fingers circled around her wrist like a too-large bracelet. “But yes, I’m Vahlok’s brother. Miraak. That makes you...Tharya?” A smile sparked in her light brown eyes as her name rolled off his lips. “I’ve heard overtures.”
“Hopefully nothing embarrassing,” she laughed, shaking his hand lightly. “Are you a cheek-kisser, too? Vahlok lectured us on plenty of Atmoran customs when we first met.”
“I can be.” Down the table Raydrin’s eyebrows shot up and his head swiveled around to look directly at Mathyas, who merely glanced to his cousin as Tharya put one arm around the stranger for a half-hug and repeated the same motion of not-quite kissing his cheeks.
“Divines, you are warm,” she laughed, shivering a little as she pulled away. His hand on her back had been barely touching her, hovering an inch or so above her sweater, but why did that little gesture make Raydrin mouth at him? It didn’t matter.

They weren’t dating. They never had been, and even if they were, it wouldn’t matter. Miraak had already been de facto absorbed into the group for tonight, even if they never saw him again. A hug, not even a hug, meant nothing. And he was not a jealous person, no, Mathyas was not. He knew it sounded ridiculous, but most of his disappointment came from the others looking at him whenever Tharya interacted with someone else. He didn’t care and, if they didn’t gape at him like that, expecting some kind of overblown reaction, he never would’ve thought twice about it. It wasn’t his policy to be overbearing, especially for someone he still couldn’t rally himself enough to confess his feelings to. 

He was content with their close friendship, no matter what the others said. And if friends didn’t usually cuddle on the couch to watch movies alone or go on weekend brunches together without telling the others, did it matter? He truly was content with what they had, the grey area they occupied. Viewing another man - and a total stranger to all of them to boot - as a threat was high school level. He wished Raydrin would stop peeking at him like he was supposed to blow up or something. Miraak was attractive, it wasn’t subjective, and obviously he knew it after rolling up his cuffs and leaving the first button or two of that shirt undone. But Tharya knew she was being flirted with, if that dusting of color in her neck was anything to go by. She wasn’t as oblivious as the others sometimes thought she was.

That was how it began. They met Miraak on one of their usual Fredas night meetups, and he sat with them the whole time and talked and drank. For a while he was mostly quiet, content to listen in on Tharya’s conversation with Mathyas and Vahlok as the three of them went back and forth about their weeks, about any developments in workplace drama, about some of the more outlandish news stories happening elsewhere in the world. The chill left Tharya’s face and neck and left her with a dewy glow that eased the tension between his shoulders, and he went with her to grab drinks for the four of them. It felt good to chat alone at the bar, to be able to talk with her in the way he knew he only could when they were alone - easy, unguarded. She rubbed his arm while he complained about his coworkers and they made plans for Sundas brunch as usual. As they each carried a pair of drinks back, she slowed her gait and nodded back towards their table.

“So, what do you think of him?” she wondered. “He’s been pretty quiet so far.”
“He gave us the basics before you showed up,” Mathyas murmured, pausing to let a Dunmer couple stomp by him and call out for the bartender. “I’m sure if you ask him he’ll open up again.”
“Mhm. New target acquired,” she said with a nod, and led him back to the table. The group fractured off into smaller conversations slowly, and it started with Tharya pointing out one of the intricate silver rings on Miraak’s right hand. Vahlok and Mathyas talked for a while after that, but after a bit Mathyas migrated towards Cassathra’s end of the table, where most of the noise was coming from, and Vahlok found his phone. They ordered some food, big shareplates for the whole table, and chattered away for another hour or two while the bar reached its peak hours. More than once Mathyas saw Tharya glance at her empty cup and then up at the bar, but she stood firmly at one drink. He gave her a reassuring smile when he could.

Surprisingly, Cassathra was first to stand up from the table and stretch out, grab her coat and announce her departure. Raydrin and Jórunn went not long after, arm-in-arm and bundled snugly together. That left only the four of them - rather, it left him and Vahlok to scroll or finish a drink while Tharya and Miraak talked, laughed until they were red in the face, gasped over each other’s stories. He didn’t think they had even stopped talking when the food came out, but he lost track of their conversation a long time ago. The restaurant regulars were next to start filtering towards the door, though the bar regulars remained rooted firmly to their leather-cushioned stools. After a while Vahlok looked up from his phone with a long yawn, glancing through bleary eyes down at the time.

“Good gods,” he blurted, “it’s eleven?”
“ Eleven? ” Tharya echoed, and she and Miraak looked down at his glittery wristwatch in unison. “Divines. I guess it is.”
“We should probably head out,” Vahlok sighed, easing himself with a stiff groan off his stool and stretching his arms behind his back. “You ready? You still have unpacking to do,” he added, nodding to Miraak, who groaned softly as he stood.
“I won’t be doing it at midnight,” he said with a yawn to mirror his brother’s.
“Unpacking?” Mathyas hummed, shrugging his coat back on as he got up. “Don’t forget your bag.” With a snap of her fingers Tharya bent to retrieve her tote from the hooks below. “Did you move here permanently, then?”
“For the next few years, I think,” Miraak responded, making a vague gesture with one hand. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Atmora in the last six years, and I lived in Cyrodiil for a short while before that.”
“Oh, did you?” Tharya murmured, hefting her bag over her shoulder. “I went to school in Cyrodiil. Cheydinhal.”
“Truly? Which-” As they trailed off again, Vahlok rolled his eyes teasingly and made a gesture for the door. The four of them made their way out into the bitter night once more, and Mathyas grimaced into his collar as the wind whipped up and dashed through the parking lot with a jagged edge of ice to it. The frozen rain had mostly stopped, it seemed, but arctic wind was even less welcome than some precipitation.

“Phew!” Tharya cried from behind, strapping her arms around her torso as she scurried out the door Miraak held for her. He trailed after her, squinting as the wind tugged at his hair and clothes, but smiling. “Gods, it’s free-zing! I’m not gonna make it!”
“Why are you going all the way down there?” Vahlok called, laughing. “Don’t tell me you parked that far away?”
“I had to! It was so busy!” she called. “Fine, I’ll say a proper goodbye!” She skipped back towards them, careful of the icy spots of asphalt, and hurriedly embraced Vahlok as he reached his car. No, that wasn’t his car - his car was grey, this one was dark, navy blue. Mathyas let her huddle into his open jacket for a long hug, trying to rub some heat into her back as her teeth chattered against his ear. “See you Sundas?” she said, dancing on her feet to keep her body heat.
“Of course. I can pick you up.”
“Sounds perfect.” She shuffled towards Miraak finally, who stooped to hug her properly and kiss both her cheeks a little more deliberately than the casual, barely-there greeting from earlier. Mathyas watched as he rubbed her arms vigorously with a laugh and a comment about leaving an extra coat in her car. She left him slower this time, complaining about the loss of warmth. “Everyone text when you get home!” Tharya called as she walked backwards down the emptied white lines, waving one hand at the three of them.
“You too!” Vahlok hollered back. “And for Aesa’s sake put a jacket on!”

It started like that. Harmlessly. They absorbed Miraak into their group with ease; he made no fuss and had no glaring personality issues, at least that they could see, he was quiet, calm, reliable. A questionable driver, though. They never once saw him wear jeans, though in the week after the initial meeting Mathyas received an unexpected picture from Tharya of the two of them together in the dimly lit hot yoga room at the gym she and Vahlok went to, and it seemed he didn’t often like to wear shirts when he could avoid it. Cassathra saw the photo some days after as Mathyas showed her something different on his phone, saw the caption that said “LOOK WHO I FOUND!”, and handed the phone back with an expectant look on her face.

“Mathyas, he was flirting with her the entire time last Fredas,” she protested when Mathyas groaned. “I know you think we’re all being annoying, but we just want you guys to be happy.”
“We’re fine,” he bit back.
“To be happy together. To anyone else, you already look like you’re dating.”
“I’m not going to let someone I barely know make me insecure,” he argued, “Tharya and I have been close for years.”
“Sometimes you should be jealous,” Cassathra muttered, leaning into the kitchen counter. “It’s only worked this far because there’s been no one else. For her, for you. That’s the only reason you’ve been able to not have a label. He might be someone else.”

And he knew it was true. But he wasn’t a jealous type, nor a hovering type. He wasn’t going to let himself be blinded by the mere possibility of Tharya and Miraak being friendly with one another. She kept going to brunch with him. She dozed off on his shoulder on the couch, she stroked his hair when he had headaches, she was the first person he called when he woke up in cold sweats. And she always answered, because they shared insomnia like they shared so many other things.

So Miraak kept coming out with them, eventually becoming a steady part of their routines, eventually relaxing out of his position as newcomer and into a more comfortable stance of regularity. And if he laid his arm over the back of her chair once in a while, or leaned close to her ear to whisper something the rest of them weren’t meant to hear, or occasionally tapped her thigh to get her attention, did it matter? If their hugs seemed to linger a little longer, did it matter? When he and Vahlok started showing up with hot drive-thru coffee and tea, did it matter if there was a third one for her? And that time Mathyas shared a cab home across the city with the two of them and Vahlok in the passenger seat, did it matter that she dozed off on his arm as the streetlights streaked by overhead? 

It only started to matter the first time she canceled plans. Sitting on her sofa in her small but cozy apartment, he turned his keys over in his hand as she flitted around, in and out of the bedroom, the bathroom, wearing flowy dark pants and her pajama t-shirt and trying to find the correct shoes.
“I’m sorry, you know I’m always around for an impromptu takeout night but I just- I made some plans,” she said between rooms, combing her fingers through her hair. It looked especially shiny and soft. Did she have it done?
“It’s not a problem, really,” he assured, standing as she passed him by. And it wasn’t a problem. Plans on a Middas night? “I would probably just complain all night, anyway.”
“That kind of week so far?” she called, poking her head out from the bathroom with a sympathetic frown. “We can definitely call a bit later, if you’re still up. I don’t expect to be out all night.”
“I hope they wouldn’t keep you all night for a work dinner,” he chuckled, dropping his keys into his pocket. She ducked into her bedroom and he heard her fumble around in the dark for a few minutes before emerging in the completed outfit, with a soft-knit sweater that wrapped and tied snugly around her waist, a low neckline affording a perfect void for some necklace. And the right shoes, of course, sleek black heeled boots that he didn’t remember seeing before.

“Gods, can you get this for me?” she groaned, and as she drew closer he took in her slight, dewy makeup - probably Lilika’s work, if he had to guess. Her lips were a pretty, shiny blush color, the gloss twinkling against the light as she spoke. He took the proffered necklace from her fingers, examining it for a second as she turned around.
“Is this new?” he murmured, placing the delicate gold chain around her neck and fiddling with the clasp.
“Gift,” she hummed in response as it clicked into place. From the center link of the chain hung a four-pointed star, slender, elegant, sharp. “How do I look?” Tharya took a few steps back and made a dramatic twirl with a laugh, putting her hands on her hips. He took her in slowly, thoughtfully, as he always did when she invited him to. She looked...
“Perfect,” he replied finally, shaking his head. “Too good for a work dinner, if I’m being honest.” As he said that, her face fell a bit, and her lips no longer seemed as bright.
“Oh,” she said, brows scrunching, “oh, it’s not a-”

Knocking at the front door made her words trail off. Mathyas tried to look at her quizzically - who could possibly be knocking on her door on a Middas night? - but she waved him off with a smile that seemed almost...sad. Pitying. He stood vigilantly in the center of the living room while she answered the door, but the tension flooded out of him as he heard a familiar low, smooth voice from the entryway. He didn’t need to see the guest to know who it was.
“ Achté , the necklace looks just as perfect on you as I thought it would, prinsaessa ,” Miraak purred as he stepped into the apartment, rubbing the four-pointed star lovingly between his thumb and forefinger. A pillar of rich darks and flashes of gold on his wrist and hands and neck, wearing a long coat so deeply violet it looked almost black but matched his shirt, he noticed Mathyas only after the door closed behind him. “Ah, Mathyas,” he said as he straightened out, smiling as normally as he always did. But the smile didn’t quite convince him. There was a grimy question lurking behind it. “Am I too early?”
“No, you made perfect time,” the Dunmer replied quickly, lifting his phone with a shake. “I was just stopping by.” 

The necklace looks just as perfect on you as I thought it would. The boots, too? And, come to think of it, that new tall plant in a sleek vase by the window? No, he was being idiotic. Tharya made plenty of her own money, she certainly didn’t need to be someone’s sugar baby for some houseplants and shoes. Just the necklace was from him. It made sense. Mathyas had thought about buying her necklaces before; she had the elegant, slender throat for them, especially since she cut her hair short years ago, and gold suited her underlying Cyrodiilic tan perfectly. If nothing else Miraak had chosen well, but Mathyas had never entertained the thought he didn’t have good taste in fashion. He was the only one among them who dressed consistently, even in a sweater and pants he made it look expensive. Probably because they were. 

“Like I said, let’s call later tonight,” Tharya hummed, sorting through her closet for a jacket to wear. She only owned one fancy trench coat, a thick tan one that didn’t quite match her outfit unless she buttoned it closed. “Or tomorrow night. I wanna hear all about it,” she assured him with a smile, shrugging the coat on. Some part of him wondered if she really did. If he called her, if he complained about his week, would she tell him about the date? He didn’t know if he wanted to hear about it. At all. She flicked off the lights and suddenly the three of them were in the hall, he and Miraak trailing behind as Tharya led them down towards the elevator, which they rode in relative silence. The Atmoran’s cologne smelled expensive too. Rich, heady, but not overpowering. Mathyas thought he recognized the scent from a colleague at the firm. Ironically, he hated that scent.

“Where’s dinner?” Mathyas asked finally, peering up at Miraak and then at Tharya holding the other man’s arm with both hands.
“Remember where we had my birthday a few years ago? Divines, I forget the name, but it’s at that place,” she replied with a wide smile. He remembered, and he remembered how much she had enjoyed it there. “Tanto, I think it’s called,” she hummed, squinting in thought. Tanto. A pretty restaurant across town with good fish and excellent house cocktails. Live music most nights, if he recalled correctly. Gentle jazz that he hadn’t been able to ask her to dance to two years ago. The elevator reached the lobby.
“Get a good dance in if our bass player is there,” he replied with a wispy laugh. That bass player from two years ago had been a character for their table, for sure, a nice and engaging Breton who was barely as tall as his instrument but played it like a master. Together the three of them trekked through the lobby, the echo of their steps the loudest thing in there, and into the cold night.

Between them Miraak huffed suddenly, holding one hand out in front of him with a growing grin, peering up into the dark sky. Snow floated down in fat flakes on all sides, the world’s noise dampened by the wintry white.
“I was wondering when it would snow this far south,” he chuckled. “Your seasons aren’t quite the same.” Tharya shuffled a few steps forward, examining the soft dusting of white covering the parking lot with a pleased smile. Theirs looked to be the first footsteps out there.
“Hopefully we’ll have snow for Saturalia,” she mused, and when Mathyas looked up at Miraak, who remained silent, he was watching her tiptoe through the snow and take in the serenity of a quiet, whitening world around them with a simmering warmth in his golden eyes. “Ready?” She turned to them just then, standing in the golden light pouring out of the glass doors behind, making her lips shine, and for a moment, a fleeting second, Mathyas felt a strange...kinship with the Atmoran, knowing they were looking upon the same beauty, enraptured by the same soul, in love with the same person. But her eyes flicked uncertainly between the two, unsure of where to settle. It didn’t matter. Mathyas figured, after tonight, she would know. She probably already did. He just didn’t want her pity.

“Always, prinsaessa, ” Miraak replied in an affectionate sigh, stepping out from under the protective threshold and reaching to take her hand in his own. “Remind me when Saturalia is? We celebrate differently at home...” Their voices trailed off as they blazed a trail together through the untouched parking lot towards his car, leaving Mathyas alone in the rectangle of light from the door. But he didn’t stay there long. He waited long enough for them to duck into the car and for it to come alive, and waited long enough to wave as he watched those oblong Atmoran license plates with the blue circle and the simplified mountains inside it disappear on the road.

“He’s in love with you,” Miraak said morosely after a few minutes of warm silence in the car, reaching for her hand to pull it across the center console and drape over his thigh. When he glanced over she was staring at it, tracing errant circles with one short nail against the fabric of his pant leg. “I know you know.” He’d always known, from that first night at the bar almost two months ago. The way the others looked to Mathyas when Miraak kissed her cheeks or let her examine his rings or she hit his arm laughing. He’d always known that Mathyas Dutheri was in love, but he also knew Mathyas Dutheri had never acted on it. Vahlok had told him weeks ago when Miraak had first laid out the idea for this evening, this date. Vahlok who had unsuccessfully tried to play matchmaker that night at the bar, knowing Miraak would flirt with her, hoping maybe it would put his friend in action, but not knowing how easily they would grow on one another.

“I do know,” Tharya murmured, her eyes sad for him, her oldest friend. “I do know, and I...regret leading him on for so long.”
“I don’t think it was your fault, prinsaessa ,” Miraak replied, shaking his head while he focused on the snow falling against his windshield. “It was comfortable. You had feelings for each other - I think,” he added, glancing at her. “But you were comfortable where you were, and there was nothing there to make you rethink that comfort. I regret being the bastard who ruined it.”
“Don’t,” she urged, squeezing his thigh tightly. “Please, don’t. Come on.” She heaved a sigh looking across the seat to him, watching the streetlights above cast quick, bright boxes of light over his face before leaving them in darkness for a few seconds and repeating. “I feel terrible about it, but I don’t think I’m going to lose him over this. I’d just really like to enjoy dinner and music and a dance with you tonight,” she said with a growing smile. “I want to enjoy being dressed up and the fact that it’s snowing. Because I- I think I have feelings you ,” she added softly, watching his grip on the steering wheel clench abruptly before relaxing. With a faltering laugh Miraak heaved a dense exhale, staring at her for a fleeting second before smiling at the road.

“Thank Aesa,” he responded, reaching for her hand to lift it to his lips and kiss each finger delicately. “Because I thought it was just me.”

There was snow on Saturalia. 

It was the first time they all gathered in Vahlok’s apartment with Miraak there, now that he was fully unpacked and properly furnished. Even though not all of them technically celebrated Saturalia, everyone had work off, and it was a good excuse to cook and decorate and be together. Gathered in the spacious living room with a crackling fireplace video on loop on the TV, Cassathra and Vahlok were hanging lights together - more accurately, Cassathra was handing the lights up to Vahlok - and Raydrin and Jorunn were rearranging food on the living room table, while Mathyas refilled ice in the kitchen. The apartment was nice, perfectly sized for two people, mostly open and had a balcony large enough for some seats.

“Gas station cherries!” Tharya cried as she tumbled through the door, hefting a two-pound bag of deep red cherries triumphantly in her hands. “I feel bad for the woman working on Saturalia, but she did really save us with these.” Miraak herded her forward so he could stomp his boots on the mat, grimacing as road salt slush melted straight off.
“ Now we can make real Atmoran drinks,” Vahlok called back with a wide grin. 

“ One per person,” Miraak warned, aiming a finger at his little brother. “These are strong .” With everyone accounted for the decorating rushed to a finish, and within a few minutes they were all sitting clustered in the living room on the neat sectional and extra chairs with the crackle of the artificial fireplace behind them. Mathyas sat on the opposite side of the room from where Tharya sat tucked against Miraak’s side, his arm put snugly around her back and hand wrapped around her thigh. He didn’t mean to sit so far, truthfully. Being childish about it would only make things worse. But maybe some secret, deep part of him wanted to have them in his sights, if for no other reason than intrusive curiosity. They made it easy to be intrusively curious because they weren’t being cautious or pretending about anything, and he didn’t want them to be. Raydrin thought it was callous of them to be so open about their fledgling relationship when it seemed they both knew Mathyas's feelings, but Mathyas disagreed. If they couldn’t be open about it with their friends, what did that say about their friends?

So he ate and drank and laughed at everyone else’s toasts, watched the fireplace, helped bring out the main courses and relished in the chatter while they sat around eating a plethora of different foods from Vahlok’s mismatched plate sets. He exchanged small gifts with everyone else, he hugged them in thanks, he smiled when Cassathra sat down close to his side and put her cheek on his shoulder as the night wore on. He was excused from cleaning up because she fell asleep, and sat in the empty living room while the kitchen came alive with clatter and voices and soft winter music, laying his head back against the couch to relax.

“Don’t think I’m ignoring you dodging the mistletoe you put up,” Miraak’s voice floated to his ears suddenly, accompanied by a small yelp as he snuck up and sprung his arms around Tharya to pull her back into him. “You Nords like to think we invented all these traditions, but we don’t hang dead plants in our doorframes and expect people to kiss us when they walk under them.”
“There are others here who could get use out of mistletoe, you know,” Tharya snickered, twisting around to hold his shoulders.
“I know a trail of breadcrumbs when I see one, prinsaessa ,” the Atmoran replied, fishing a slightly crumpled sprig from his pocket with the tape still attached - had he taken the one from the door? The pair was just barely on the edge of his sight, standing near the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony. With a huff Miraak reached up and pressed the tape down onto the glass, making a gesture to the mistletoe.
“That’s not how it works,” Tharya laughed, clinging to his arms as she leaned back in his embrace. “It has to be on a doorway-”
“There aren’t enough doorways. Unless you’d like to have a first kiss in the bathroom, of course.” After a long pause, she spoke again.
“Well, it would be more correct-”
“For Aesa’s sake.”

A first kiss. It made sense. Tharya enjoyed going slowly, savoring things, and Mathyas could barely remember the last time she’d been in a relationship. A real one. She was one of those people who had to learn to enjoy being alone the hard way, and she’d been good at it for so many years, trying to ignore the ache for partnership, for the intimacy of even the barest kiss. And, quite simply, with all the bustle around Saturalia, he doubted they had seen much of each other since Tanto last week. But Miraak would treat her kindly, worship her every footstep, treat her the way she deserved. He watched as Miraak took the sprig off the glass and practically carried her in one arm towards the bathroom, a simple wooden door connected to the opposite side of the living room. He reached the top of the doorway with ease, replacing the tape before leaning one arm above her head against the frame with an expectant raise of his eyebrow.

“Tell me, civil engineer, is that up to code?” Overcome with laughter Tharya put her hands against his chest, and he waited with a broad grin for her to stop giggling, one hand kneading her hip.
“I believe so,” she sighed finally, hands sliding up his neck to caress his jaw, thumb tracing over his lips, admiring his mouth for a moment before shifting onto her tiptoes to reach it. 

The kiss was easy, tentative on both sides at first, but it grew loving, relieved. Miraak had to hunch to reach her, pressing her close to him with an arm supporting her back. After a few seconds Mathyas merely closed his eyes, feeling lighter than he had in ages, feeling more free than before. It hurt. He couldn’t deny it hurt. It would hurt, maybe for a while. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be as close to Miraak as the others could be because of it. But he couldn’t hate them. He couldn’t linger. He exhaled a long sigh, and suddenly Cassathra was shifting against his arm, echoing his sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered without opening her eyes or moving further. His eyes felt hot. His throat tight. He’d seen too much of the kiss to wipe it from his mind. How quickly everything had changed. How suddenly. Two months felt like two seconds. Two seconds became four years. And then suddenly, he was holding a long, nostalgic, handwritten letter between his fingers, in Tharya’s familiar font, and there was a neatly printed wedding invite enclosed.

He sat back in his chair and sighed into the empty room of his Blacklight office. He supposed it was time to return to Skyrim. 

Chapter Text

"Our safest route is through here," she said, tracing one finger along the edge of the mountains and then tapping a bold black ink line. "We rejoin the road here and follow it down to Falkreath. Depending on how the weather holds-" she glanced up into the night sky before shrugging, "-should take us four days on horseback. How does that sound?"

With a light shrug Miraak nodded, peering at the map before looking at her.
"I have followed you thus far, I will follow you forever," he replied simply. The light of the fireplace played delicately across his face, caught in a rare moment of relaxation and off guard for once. He looked so...young wasn't the right word. Refreshed, maybe. It wasn't a common sight on him, to shed those thousands of years and thousands of layers. "What?"

Chuckling, Tharya folded her map back up and leaned over to tuck it back into her pack. She was glad he could relax, even in the middle of the woods, on a continent he'd never been on, in a world he didn't know. She was glad every day he stayed with her after leaving Apocrypha.
"What is it?" he asked again, reaching to tap her hand. She turned her palm over to take his fingers, rubbing his knuckles slowly before lifting them to kiss.
"Nothing," she hummed, snuggling into his palm against her cheek. "You're so pretty." He scoffed once, a dry and cutting sound.
"Not anymore, I don't think," he replied, gesturing vaguely to himself. "I've been stitched together too many times to be anything more than a-" His words were cut short as she put a hand over his mouth and his eyes widened just a notch, the firelight dancing against surprised golden irises. She moved closer atop the spread bedroll until she was right beside him, and then slowly took her hand away to cradle his jaw between her palms, pulling him down a little to her height. "A sort of skinwalker. Not human enough and yet not monstrous enough to be...anything," he finished slowly, pupils growing gradually deeper as she stroked his jaw and chin, tracing her index finger against his lower lip delicately.


She'd admired his face a thousand times before, a million, but each time it was new and open and exploratory. Each time she touched the ridges of his cheeks as if finding them for the first time and traced the edge of his brows, the scar that mirrored hers, the line of his nose and the curves of his ears. She didn't stare as openly as he did at her, as unashamed, but she took her chances when he was preoccupied with a sketch or examining his surroundings, stayed up by moonlight while he slept. She liked to watch his expressions change, even though they were so often miniscule or muted. She liked to memorize him until she could construct his visage perfectly in her head, every scar and strand of hair accounted for.
"I'm sorry you feel like that," she whispered, stroking his cheeks slowly. "You aren't anything less than human. I promise you you aren't. And I think you're gorgeous no matter what." Leaning into the small gap between them she drew him forward to kiss him slowly, feeling his hands settle tiredly around her waist. "I love your skin and your pretty hair," she murmured, kissing him once for both. "I love your eyes more than anything, and I'm jealous of your eyebrows." Another pair of kisses, and this time the very edges of his lips twitched into a ghost of a grin. "I love your nose, and I love your lips." Another pair of kisses, lingering sweetly on his mouth before she pulled away. "I love your beard, too." With a grin she scrubbed the back of her knuckles along the long stubble lining his broad jaw. "I love your arms and your back and how strong you are-" one kiss, "-but I love that you let me take care of you and protect you, because your body deserves it too. Your body deserves to be loved." Rubbing both hands up his sides she delivered the second. "You deserve to be loved. And not only because you're beautiful."

She found his lips again and settled there happily, content to kiss him while the fire crackled and she rubbed his arms and shoulders and neck to drain the ache and tension of a long day traveling. His mouth was familiar beyond her own home, relieving, warm. He seemed a little dumbfounded, at a rare loss for words, not even a snippy retort. Just happy to let her kiss him until his lips went numb or the world burned, whichever he would admit to first.
"Also because you're my husband," she hummed, nipping at his lower lip before pressing her hands gently into his chest. "And because I said so."
"So it must be true," he replied with a chuckle, leaning his forehead against hers with a soft groan as her hands rubbed into his chest. "I will try my utmost to believe you."

Sitting over his waist she freed one of his hands from her side to hold it up between her own - his left hand, the dominant one, the swordbearing - and rub his wrist and palm, examining his rings lovingly in the firelight. They were most often protected by his gloves from the wear and tear of the world, but even so they were strong and looked as bright as the night they had exchanged them. He watched her in a state between relaxation and utter focus, watched her fingers caress his and watched her thumbs rub his palm. Lacing their fingers together she let their joined hands fall against her chest, closing her eyes as he melted around her, limbs and torso soft and malleable and leaning his head into her shoulder like it was too heavy to hold. He became wax warmed by the fire, seeking her as his only mould.

"I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen," she murmured against his ear. His shoulders deflated at those words, caving around her heavily like bent reeds. "I'm glad to remind you every day." Without a reply she held him like that for long minutes, feeling him seep into the empty spaces between them, feeling him pool and settle until he was shaped in her arms.

When at last his wax figure had cooled enough to sit up, he squeezed her hand in his own and looked at her through wet, frightened, adoring eyes, shaking his head.

"Kiss me," he murmured, free hand kneading the flesh of her hips slowly, to expend nervous energy he was so excellent at hiding. "When you kiss me I can almost believe it all."

Chapter Text

She stared into the fireplace across the room instead of trying to sleep for hours, it felt like. They'd been lucky enough to score a room with two beds and a hearth as it was, but now the mattress and warmth she had been so looking forward to were...lackluster. Her exhaustion from the day of traveling seemed to vanish the moment she touched the pillow. Why? How? Impossible to know.

Sudden movement made her sit up in the dark, and, squinting, Tharya watched as Miraak raised himself from the too-small bed to sigh and stretch. She didn't think he slept better in the beds. They used to alternate who took the mattress and who took the floor, but more than once in those earlier days she had given up to let him rest on something with a frame. Those days he always seemed so tired. He still did. Standing after a moment, she watched his silhouette twist and turn before stepping towards the small hearth and sitting on the floor in front of it with a yawn. Pulling his knees up he draped his forearms across them and laced his fingers together where they hung, staring into the flames in utter silence.

She waited a few minutes before prying her blankets off and tiptoeing across the room to join him, sitting quietly on the cool wooden floor and stretching her legs out towards the fire. Miraak didn't say anything as she sat and leaned into his arm, her eyes heavy all over again. Only once she left bed, of course. But he adjusted his posture so she could better reach his shoulder, and leaned down to press his lips to her hair for a long, quiet moment.

"I had hoped you were asleep," he whispered, voice a little hoarse from the dry air and hours of quiet. "You were so tired earlier."
"Couldn't," she sighed against his bicep. "I don't know why." He nudged his nose against her hair before straightening out again, locking eyes with the fire. The press of his lips against her scalp lingered pleasantly, like a slight burn.

This would only be their third kiss. She had no idea why she was counting but the first two were so prominent in her mind - one atop Castle Volkihar, the second at last week's sunset in far western Whiterun. They hadn't quite reached the point of kissing each other so casually yet, but as the days wore on she found herself wanting to. It was so easy to reach up to his collar and pull him down and touch his lips. When he looked at her with that melty gaze she wanted to lean in and kiss him. She wanted to kiss him before they went to sleep and when they walked together on the road.

"Can I kiss you?" she murmured, raising her head from his arm to look at him.
"I was hoping you would offer," the First Dragonborn grinned slowly, adjusting his arm to lay around her back. "Come here, dii fil." Balancing on her knees they moved around together so she could sit between his accommodating legs, something that made her flush at first before pulling herself in. Just a kiss. She truly wanted nothing more. Sitting on his lap even seemed like too much. Sitting here was...new, but not uncomfortable. Face to face with him felt good, familiar. She caressed his jaw and stroked his beard slowly with her thumbs, watching him lean into her palms and sigh happily as she traced his features. She'd known it since Apocrypha, but he was beautiful. Someday she figured she would have the courage to say it aloud rather than think it.

His lips were as smooth and warm as she remembered, with the gentle scratch of his stubble against her chin as she kissed him delicately, savoring his taste and heat and the little sound of lips meeting and moving that she loved more than she cared to admit. He moved with her, following her leading dance which was slow and loving and careful. With an air of caution she felt his big hands wrap around her waist, at first so light she could barely feel his palms. But then they closed in, warm and weighty, and his thumbs pressed little circles against her stomach. As the fire crackled she exhaled softly and drew away from his lips, as gradually as possible, savoring the connection of their skin and bodies however slight it was. It would take a lot for her to learn that kind of safety with him, bodily safety, but already she felt more confident in it. If she knew anything about Apocrypha it would take him a long time too. Perhaps much, much longer than her. He had every right to take his time.

"Just one?" Miraak whispered with a faint grin, eyes opening just enough to see her through his lashes. "Kiss me one hundred times if your little heart desires, dii fil." He nudged the ridge of his nose against hers, tilting his head so their foreheads slotted together.
"I only asked for one," she snickered, sliding her hands down to frame his neck, his broad shoulders. "I want you to be comfortable."
"Then let me ask for another," he murmured, brushing his mouth against hers as he spoke. "For as many until we want to stop." She held his golden gaze for a long moment, sharing his breath, the thin sliver of air between them, before nudging forward to give in. How could she refuse? There was a hopeless attraction she'd never felt towards anyone in her life before - after their months together, she felt nowhere was safer than this moment with him, nowhere kinder. His kiss was deep, grateful. The solidity of his shoulders made a good hold, the little waves and curls at the back of his short hair easy to tease her fingers around. The way he pulled her waist in, brought her torso snug against his so she could feel the intense heat of his Atmoran blood and the beating of his heart against hers, made her seek his tongue in the warm haven of his mouth.

Miraak slipped his fingers deftly through her hair, gold and fine as it dragged over his knuckles. She tilted away just enough to release a pent up sigh as he rubbed her scalp in slow, lazy motions, grinning at the release of bliss and faint blush on her face. He knew it would be a slow process, this reacquainting with each other after months at odds. Once, a long time ago, he wouldn't have the patience for it. Now he wanted nothing more than to nurture this, this connection, this mark they bore for each other. He wanted it to be slow and memorable and he wanted it to flourish in whichever winding way it would. When he kissed her again it was promising, her lips delicate and cool, her hands slipping around his shoulders to lay on his chest cautiously. He found her lower lip and grazed his teeth over the soft inner skin to feel her smile again.

"Let me return your generosity," he hummed playfully, squeezing her hip in his other hand. Gradually she relinquished her hold, leaning into his chest and shoulders to let him explore, to let him in. It was more than he deserved from her - all of it was. He didn't deserve to ever be this close to her again, nor to be so glad to occupy her lips, to feel her body. It was a dread that he felt acutely every passing second of every day they were together. What she had suffered on his behalf could never be erased, but in his greed she was all he wanted. Her lips, the hotness of her mouth and the feel of her tongue against his, the comfort of her body so close, so trusting of him once more. As she could've been before if he wasn't so...so cold. So awful. He let go of her lips with a tired groan from the bottom of his chest, kissed her once more for the relief of it and once because he wanted to. Gods, he had no idea how long it had been. Her mouth was pink and glistening and ever so slightly parted as she took him in, seeing something he did not believe was there.

"You don't need to ask anymore, you know," he breathed, kneading her waist between his hands lovingly. "Kiss me as much as you want to. However often, I promise you it will not be often enough." She smiled at him with a little flush, stroking the back of his neck on her fingertips.
"The same goes for you," she snickered. After a moment of looking at him she leaned into his shoulder to hug him tightly, snuggling into the base of his neck with a content sigh. He sat very still for a long minute, arms on his lap. "Sorry, I-"
"No," he said quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her back. "Don't be. I like this," he whispered, laying his cheek against her hair.

Smiling as she watched the fire, Tharya trailed her short nails up and down his spine, feeling his arms move and slide around her torso. He hugged her so...intimately. So closely. So thoughtfully, as if her weight in his arms was some sort of prophecy fulfilled. As if she was all he had.
"Do you want to stay here for a bit?" she offered, tracing the letters of her name against his shoulder. He nodded once, the rub of his beard against her neck making her laugh. "Then let's stay."

Chapter Text

"I hope you know I'm devoted to you," she whispered, holding his jaw tenderly between her palms, rubbing her thumbs against his cheeks. Miraak looked at her quizzically, thick eyebrows pressing together in what smelled like shock.
"Of course, Tharya," he whispered, her name so gentle and lyrical and perfect on his lips. He used her name so rarely, rarely enough that hearing it spoken now, directly to her, made her heart float. "Why would I think otherwise?"
"I don't express it like you do," she sighed, rubbing her fingers against his long stubble, touching her thumb to the corner of his mouth. "I just want to make sure I'm giving to you, too. I worry that it isn't so obvious."
"You know I only stand here today because of you," he replied, shaking his head.
"But that can't be all. I saved you five years ago. What since then?"
"I do not think you realize the levels of agony you pulled me from, elskavin," he breathed, squeezing her hips tightly in both hands. "I have been alive for thousands upon thousands of years, and the barest fractions of my life have been spent outside Oblivion. For nearly five thousand years I remained a Daedric slave. I have only walked Nirn for thirty-three years, and twenty-eight of them predated modern history. Think of that for a moment." 

She didn't need to but she did anyway, pausing to let the truth of his life's condition sink in. She thought of it more often than he would ever know. It occupied her first thoughts in the morning and was the last thing she remembered before falling asleep at night. As always it left a growing discomfort and the pain of sympathy.

"I worry," she repeated, tracing his lower lip gently with her forefinger. "You do so much, so visibly. So often."
"I do not do it for anyone else but you and I. There is no one else that matters to me more than you and I. It has been that way since I walked Ancient Solstheim, when you were a scroll in the Cathedral." He chuckled faintly at that and she allowed herself a smile, trying to imagine what it had been like five thousand years ago when she only existed as a piece of sealed paper to him. They were connected even then, in ways neither of them could understand as they walked the mortal plane. This close she could see the dimmest of glimmers in his lifeless eyes, the distant, faraway calling of adoration. She supposed he was right - he didn't make a show of kissing her or embracing her to snub the others. He did it for them. For the five thousand years they waited to meet each other. Miraak sighed softly at the unconvinced look on her face before raising both hands to cradle her cheeks gently between his warm palms.

"I have never been safer or happier, nor more loved in my long existence. You think it is not obvious enough? You saved my life, not just once. You kept saving my life. You showed me mercy and gentleness when I deserved none from you, you protected me when I could not admit I needed protection. You comforted me. It is only through your love that I am able to be proud of myself, for the first time in five thousand years of living," he whispered, "you built a home that did not need to include me, yet it does. Without your presence in this world it would be impossible for me to live. When we met, we both expected- yearned for death. Now I can barely be out of your arms lest I grow restless. And you do it all each and every day," he added when she opened her mouth to make the same argument - but that was so long ago, what about now? What about here in the present? "Please believe me," he murmured worriedly, leaning in to press his forehead to hers and nuzzle their noses together. "It has never been clearer to me that I am loved."

Exhaling after a long silence she nodded finally, draping her arms around the back of his neck to pull him closer. He leaned into her arms gratefully, squeezing her torso to his for reassurance.

"I do believe you," she mumbled against his hair, stroking his back and threading her fingers into his coffee-dark hair with another slow nod. "I do. I just wanted to make sure you...didn't feel neglected."
"I never could," he hummed, "I appreciate your worry. But at your side-" pulling away, he lifted one of her hands between his own to kiss the silver and opal rings decorating her two fingers, "as your husband, I never could."

Chapter Text

"Is that dress from Miraak?"

She turned to see her sister approach with an extra glass of champagne, examining the darkly patterned green velvet with enthusiastic nods of approval.
"Actually, it's a jumpsuit," Tharya snickered, spreading her feet to let the wide, flowy legs separate a little for effect.
"No way!" Lilika laughed, handing the extra champagne over to her. Her family knew she didn't drink anymore, but at holiday parties like this it was easier to hold a glass of something for appearances than explain the battlefield of sobriety to strangers.

"It looks great," Bhijirio chimed in from her side, smiling as he scooted closer. He'd been keeping her company most of the night which she was grateful for, but still she felt guilty for holding him away from everyone. She enjoyed Saturalia and loved to celebrate with her family and their friends, but there were so many expectations for this year she had in the months leading up that had been so quickly subverted. It made the party a little less bright with all the looks and moments of pity from everyone else, even Balgruuf. For long years before meeting Miraak she remembered the distinct loneliness that came at these parties, not for lack of people to share it with, but...lack of her own person. Almost selfishly, her own attention. Briefly she glanced down at the silver and opal rings on her fingers. Their first Saturalia married, and he couldn't be here.

Looking up again she focused back on the party, the room, the people, the outfits. She didn't blame him at all. There was a big leap between couldn't and wouldn't and they'd talked long and hard about it. Not everything in life was controllable. They shed their shared tears over it, but in the end there would be countless more years and Saturalias and winters to share. She knew that, but it somehow didn't make this one any less bitter.

Her parents and siblings created a loose ring of conversation around her, all chatting and laughing warmly, exchanging easily. There was no use marinating in her own pity, but that distinct loneliness made it a weighty thing to pull herself out of.
"Some air?" Bhiji offered, tapping her back lightly once he noticed her faraway look.
"I'm all set," she replied quietly, smiling at him. "Getting tired."
"It's snowing, anyway," Lofrek snorted.
"Is it?!" Lilika asked excitedly, looking over Jorstus' shoulder out the tall windows of the Dragonsreach event hall. The roads were covered in a thick dusting of white untouched by any car tracks or even plows - had they been expecting this weather?
"For the next couple days. Storm from up north," her twin replied with the sagely nod of a man who kept strict tabs on his weather app. "So you can thank Miraak for the present, but we really don't want the below-freezing temps for Saturalia." She allowed herself a laugh, rattling the champagne glass a bit.
"Speak for yourself," Tharya replied. "I love snow." Leaning back a bit she peered out the dark windows - the fat white flakes were just barely visible in the dark winter night.

"Did you talk with him today?" Jorstus asked suddenly, tilting around Lilika to look at her.
"A little, while I was making breakfast," she said with a nod, "though I don't know what time it was there. He says hi to everyone and he's sorry he couldn't come, but it sounds like he got everyone presents in Atmora."
"Good gods," Fjurkin chortled, shaking his head, "he doesn't need to spend any money on us at all."
"I'm glad his mom is doing okay now," Lilika put in, "he looked so stressed when we brought him to the airport last week. I felt bad we couldn't do anything." Tharya peered at her glass for a long moment before taking a shallow sip of her champagne to swallow the burn. She nodded, feeling her phone tilt in the deep pocket of her pant leg. It would be nice to call him again, but it was probably ungodly early in the morning there by now.
"I'm glad he's with her for Saturalia, honestly," she said at long last with a faint shrug. "I'd rather they be together than alone separately."
"Do Atmorans even do Saturalia?" Lofrek muttered. "I thought it was just a commercial holiday for them."

She let the conversation fade out of her ears slowly; she knew the others felt his absence too, but all it seemed they wanted to talk about was him and Atmora and Saturalia and him being gone. After ten days of dealing with it herself, she felt it more acutely every passing hour. But he was where he needed to be at home with his mother. It would still be a fun holiday with her family, with all their usual food and decorations and chatter, and she would still be surrounded by love and warmth and all the things that made it truly enjoyable, something to look forward to throughout the whole year. She knew that - this year, she was almost relying on it. With a sigh she swirled the champagne again and contemplated another sip, but stopped herself. She very rarely indulged in a social drink, but drinking just for the hell of making herself feel better would lead nowhere good.

A pair of icy damp hands slid around her hips all of a sudden, squeezing her from behind. She yelped at the unexpected invasion of space, gripping her champagne glass in one hand with all intentions to bludgeon whoever was touching her at random. Swiveling harshly in the other person's hold she prepared to yell, and then her voice faded where it began.

Smiling down at her with ice clinging to his hair and beard, snow melting onto the shoulders of his coat and creases of his scarf, her husband had never looked more perfect. His breath still steamed like it would outside and his cheeks were frigid as she reached up to hold them, but...it was him, with his snowy halo and golden eyes.
"I suppose you remember me?" Miraak chuckled, leaning into her palms and tilting his head to kiss her wrist. "Come here, princess." Uncaring of his snowy exterior she leapt into his embrace, her champagne whisked away by some unseen hand as Miraak squeezed her firmly against his torso. It was almost impossible to believe it was him, but, holding his shoulders, inhaling his scent and letting the cold seep into her jumpsuit and bare skin, they all made it as real as she could've wanted.

"Gods, it feels good to hold you," she whispered, leaning away to caress his slowly warming face between her palms. "What are you doing here? I thought your mom...I thought you weren't coming home for a while."
"I talked with Móna. We had our little party early since she was feeling better, and I booked a flight," he replied with a grin, "she wanted me to come, I promise."
"That makes me feel a little better," she laughed. Nothing else in the world seemed to exist outside of his smiling face and his arms around her; not her family, not the party, not even the hall.
"I may go back in a few weeks, but first I'm here with you," he hummed. "And, if you want, you could come since the holidays will be over?"
"I'd love to," she sighed, smiling up at him. Leaning onto her toes she found his cold lips and kissed some warmth back into them, still enraptured by the thought he'd come back all this way and at such short notice and in the middle of an encroaching snowstorm, no less. Finally his cheeks and neck were beginning to warm up as they parted, and Tharya glanced sidelong to a handful of lingering figures at the corner of her vision.

"My favorite sister!" Vahlok cried, opening his arms for a big hug. "Please, don't let us interrupt your personal movie scene. We'll be good extras." There were two more people with him who could only be Atmoran based on their height and features alone, and as one of them shrugged off their coat and the other removed their hat she tossed her head back to laugh.
"What are all of you doing here? Don't you have things to do back home?" she asked as she swept Dukaan and Zahkriisos into a hug too, squeezing them both to her.
"We came to see you, of course," Dukaan said with a flourish.
"Miraak said he was coming south for a bit," Zahkriisos clarified with a gentle roll of his eyes. "Vahlok wanted to join, and then asked Dukaan and I to come. It is good to see you, though."
"We haven't been together since your wedding, and that was centuries ago," Vahlok chuckled. "Consider us icing on the cake." He made a wide gesture to his older brother as Miraak bent to kiss her hand, lingering on her rings with a tender exhale.

"Thank you," she murmured, pulling him into a delicate, swaying hug.
"Anything for my wife," Miraak snickered, rubbing her back with both hands.
"No, I mean it. You had every reason to stay in Atmora. Thank you," she repeated, squeezing his shoulders as he straightened out again, his gaze liquid and warm.
"Anything for my wife," he repeated gently, reaching up to stroke her hair towards her ear.

"So can we hug the rest of you or what?" Vahlok prompted after a moment, turning his attention to the rest of her family waiting in quiet shock behind her.
"Gods, of course!" Fjurkin replied, reaching out to pat Miraak's back gratefully. "And we're so, so glad to see you, son. Truly."
"A Saturalia miracle," Lofrek snorted. The two groups dissolved into one easily, reacquainting themselves with hugs and handshakes and laughter. Miraak shrugged out of his damp coat and scarf finally, draping them over a nearby banquet chair bordering the room. She held both arms around his waist to share warmth as their two families mingled easily, the pair of them watching in content silence.

"Where are those three staying?" she asked finally, looking up at him with a curious eyebrow raised.
"I got them a hotel for a bit," Miraak replied, rubbing her hip in one hand. "Why?"
"Thank the gods. I thought you'd say they were with us," she exhaled.
"Gods, no. I'm not so thoughtless, elskavin."
"Vahlok could stay, if he wants," she amended with a little shrug. "We have the nice pullout couch."
"Maybe," he hummed. "I'll ask him in a few days. I need at least a day with you to myself," he chortled, palm flattening to the small of her back. "At least one night to make it up."
"There's nothing to make up," she promised through dewy eyes. "Really, this is more than I ever could've asked for."

The party kept going seamlessly around them, though nothing felt quite the same now that he was here; it felt more than surreal. For almost two weeks now she'd woken up alone and went to bed alone, made herself content with short calls and texts at inopportune hours throughout the day. Selfishly she was elated to have him back, knowing it saved her holiday from being a lackluster one, but in truth she'd come to terms with his absence. He sacrificed a lot to be out of Atmora nine or ten months out of the year and traveling back and forth otherwise, and he did it for her. She'd never known such a love. Infrequent stretches of time alone were hardly a price for his endless devotion and the two rings on her left hand.

She sipped happily through her champagne until a little ring of foam sat at the bottom, mingling out of her family's circle to chat with Balgruuf and Farengar and show Miraak off to them as a surprise. Balgruuf made a long and cheery toast to the group, and a bit later disappeared upstairs to bed. After that some people began to file out one by one or in small cohorts, but nothing significant. She took a newly freed chair by the large windows hoping to catch the cold draft to cool off from the heat of the hall. After a while of talking with his brother Miraak sat beside her, laying his arm across her chair to sit in a comfortable quiet and people watch.

A sudden weight appeared atop her head and she felt Miraak exhale against her scalp - or yawn? It was difficult to tell. Transferring her champagne to the opposite hand, she reached out to lay her palm against his thigh.
"Tired?" she cooed.
"Cjerta," he murmured.
"You must have been up for almost twenty-four hours, at this point," she hummed, patting his leg. "Let's get going, then. That way you can bring your things home and go to bed." He was quiet for a moment before sitting up straight, scooping her hand up to stand.
"I won't even pretend I can survive another hour," he snorted. "I'll speak with my brother."
"I'll speak with my brother," she countered, bending her hand to rub his chin. "Front lobby whenever you're ready, handsome."

It was easy to round up Lofrek and Bhiji, who were beginning to look bleary already, and hug her goodbyes to her family - they'd see each other plenty over the next few days.
"Tell Miraak we have some gifts for him," Anari whispered as she squeezed Tharya. "We'll still host, so just come over Saturalia and remind me then." They gathered their coats in the lobby where the Atmorans were standing in a loose handful by the door, luggage and all and chatting in their native tongue.

"Ready?" Tharya prompted as she shrugged her coat on, grabbing hold of Miraak's suitcase for him.
"Balgruuf offered us a ride in the armored car," Zahkriisos snickered as he gestured outside, "you go ahead. It should be here any minute."
"Are you sure? Call when you reach the hotel," Miraak said with a frown. "Do you have the address?"
"We do. I'll text you," Dukaan nodded, gesturing to Tharya. "You go to sleep, zeymah. You've been up longer than any of us."
"We'll talk tomorrow," Tharya promised to the three of them, squeezing Miraak's hand as Lofrek and Bhijirio started towards the door. "Thank you so much for the surprise!"

It was a short walk to her car, the suitcase wheels leaving shallow tracks in the gathering snow. The air was thin and cold, edging bitter, but watching the snow fall through the beams of the streetlights, lingering in the darkness before melding into the white below made for an ethereal spectacle. She used the sleeve of her coat to brush it off her windshield as the others loaded into the car, Miraak's suitcase in the trunk.
"Gods, turn the heat on before we all freeze solid," Lofrek complained as she slid in behind the wheel, rubbing her hands together to preserve some warmth.
"You could've turned the car on," Tharya tutted in response. It was slow going pulling out of the parking lot - luckily the snow was light, and not yet deep enough it blocked their path, but the pavement was already icy and the snow stuck in curved sheets to the wheels. Once on the road it began to melt away and the heat kicked in finally, warming her hands against the wheel and filling the car.

In the silence as they drove through the city's deserted main roads and side streets lit by holiday lights, she glanced over before freeing one hand to lay it gently over Miraak's thigh. She was glad the drive wasn't too long so he wouldn't have to be squeezed into her car uncomfortably, but it looked as if it barely mattered to him in the moment. He was already drifting off, leaning his chin against his hand and eyes closed as they passed under streetlights. With a low sigh he cracked one eye open to look down at her hand, draping his over it for a gentle squeeze. His rings were cool against her wrist, fingertips tracing small patterns against the back of her hand.
"Close your eyes," she murmured, "I'll wake you up when we get home." When she checked the rear view mirror Lofrek was asleep against his window, and Bhiji was watching the world pass outside the frosted glass.

The apartment was cool when they got back, filing in together with coats and Miraak's bags in tow.
"Sorry we couldn't all carry you in, Gloomy," Bhiji chuckled, reaching out to pat the Atmoran's shoulder. "We considered it. I told Lofrek to grab your legs."
"Next time I will pretend to be asleep so you may try," Miraak snorted, half-embracing the Khajiit as he shuffled out of the doorway.
"Glad to have you home."
"Yeah, it's been quiet," Lofrek added as he toed off his boots. "I'll make some pancakes tomorrow?"
"Sounds perfect," Tharya hummed. "Off to bed. Thank you guys for coming to Balgruuf's party, too." She hugged her brother and Bhijirio as Miraak trudged off to the shower, carrying his suitcase with him.

In her bedroom she undressed slowly, hearing the water kick on in the adjacent bathroom as Miraak did the same. It was still a strange thing to think of him home, just on the other side of the wall, getting ready for bed. It had been a long almost two weeks of sleeping alone; some people preferred to sleep separately from their partners, but she and Miraak had fallen too hard into the habit of sleeping together so it was next to impossible to be apart. There was nothing better than feeling him slide into bed and wrap around her, nothing better than being able to fall asleep to the slow rhythm of his heart or the scent of his hair. And tonight, she could. She grabbed her journal before hurrying under the covers, propping up a pillow to sit against as she settled in to wait.

Sitting against the headboard with a journal leaned against her knees, Tharya looked up as he kneed the door shut behind him with a long sigh, dropping his clothes into the hamper.
"Is that new?" he asked, nodding to the candle on her bedside table - it smelled like lavender and something bolder he couldn't quite place, maybe some tea.
"You know me, I buy candles when I'm sad," she replied with a grin, tucking her pen and book away before opening her arms.
"At least you use them," he snickered, "there are worse things to buy." With a groan he knelt at the foot of the bed and laid forward, snuggling into her stomach and tucking his arms around her back. Hands freed, she threaded her fingers through his damp hair to massage his scalp in slow circles. "I am sorry to make you sad, elskavin."
"Don't be, seriously," Tharya chided, tapping the back of his neck. "Your mom really needed you. I'm not holding any grudges. And you're here now anyway, so please, don't feel bad." She rubbed her palms into his shoulders and down his back, feeling his torso deflate with a long exhale under the pressure. "Just sleep for as long as you can and we'll deal with everything tomorrow, okay?" Slowly he nodded against her stomach, tilting his head to lift the edge of her shirt on his fingertips and kiss the bare sliver of her belly.

"I brought you presents," he hummed, tracing errant lines against the plush of her hip and adjusting his shoulders.
"Let me guess. Something cute, something sexy, a new notebook, something your mom made for me, and something expensive from Morokei."
"And a little more." Looking up with a little pout he knuckled her side. "You know me too well, it's difficult to surprise you."
"You get me too much," she laughed gently, holding his cheeks. "I still can't believe your mom made me that sweater. I love it, but I truly am happy if I just have you and them." With a faint grin he relaxed again, rubbing his thumb in long, slow circles into her side as he yawned.

"I love you very much," he murmured against her skin. "I'm glad to be home with you."
"I love you too," she whispered back, and watched him fall asleep in short minutes to her hands in his hair and down his spine. Out the window, the snow was falling steadier now, coating the world in thick, soundless white.

Chapter Text

"Ready to head back?"

I look at my father-in-law as he swings up into his saddle, scraping caked snow on the bottom of his boots against each stirrup. When he looks back I nod in silence, adjusting my hood to keep the fur lining out of my eyes.

We are not far out of the city. Even so it is not how I envisioned my day, though I will not complain. Fjurkin seemed insistent I join him, and Tharya kindly encouraged me to go, so without sustained protest I obliged them both. For years past since cleansing myself in the Solitude harbor I have been content to let my birthday pass unknown to everyone except Tharya and, now, Bhijirio. In the years before our more permanent settling in Whiterun it has only been the two of us, celebrating quietly, away from the world for a day. I have never desired nor asked for anything more.

After an hour of light snow and cold if feeble wind, the jut of Whiterun's main city pierces the horizon. Fjurkin lets me fold in my silence. Not all of the family are able to do so, but he seems more willing to travel wordlessly. My lack of sleep the night before settles in my limbs, makes me less alert than I often like to be, but I do not try to fight back against it - in this increasingly familiar Hold, it is possible to be more at ease than I have been on this continent since I stepped foot out of Oblivion. Either way, in the middle of winter, very few people are risking the elements to travel.
"You ride well," Fjurkin says suddenly, peering at me with a little nod.
"I did not always," I respond, flexing my fingers to relieve the stiff cold in my knuckles from holding the reins. Five thousand years in Apocrypha makes one forget the lessons of being on horseback rather easily.
"Did Tharya teach you?" He sounds amused, but I nod. "Of course." Fjurkin laughs. "You ride like she does, which means you ride like me." I eye his posture briefly, but I am not cavalry-trained like any of this family, and most horses and most riders lack distinction to me.

A shout of wind shuffles my hood back enough that it slips down, but I make no move to adjust it. The cold feels good, fresh, a welcome response to the rest of the warm months on this southern continent. Of course their winters are quite tame, and this cold is not nearly as biting or fatal as the chill of Atmora, but nonetheless it is more familiar than the blazing season they call summer. By the time we rejoin the main road the snow is falling more steadily, flakes swollen and drifting, and the sky is billowed grey. A storm, perhaps tonight. The wind has a certain laziness to it. Certainly a storm.

"I appreciate you coming out with me, son," Fjurkin hums as we cross the narrow wooden bridge above the slow-moving White River. It is only wide enough for a single carriage to pass at a time, but Tharya has introduced plans to expand it to the Jarl, another of her revitalization endeavors. Along with the walls and restoration of the western watchtower, her constant building is in league with the boy king Torygg's widespread renovations of Skyrim's many forts and abandoned outposts. Most have been bandit camps or rogue mage hideouts longer than they ever held commissioned soldiers, but one by one he is taking them back, rebuilding. "I hope I didn't throw a horseshoe in any plans for the day?"
"No, none," I respond, shaking my head at him. "If I remained home it would only be to paint and grow lazy." Fjurkin laughs grandly at that - he does that often at things I say. His sense of humor is easy to sate, but he is all the happier for it, I believe. In that way he reminds me somewhat of Morokei.
"Have you been painting much?"
"A little." I pretend I do not see his side glance.
"Anything interesting?"

"I have been working on an artistic map," I tell him after a moment. "Trying to remember what I can of Atmora. It is more difficult than I anticipated without any reference materials, but I believe it comes along nicely." I hold my breath for a short moment, watching the snow. "If you would like to see it, I can show you when we return." The house is in view now, blissfully.
"Of course!" Fjurkin nods enthusiastically. "That sounds impressive. Will you hang it? Frame it?"
"Elskavin has insisted on carving a frame," I say, and a cool smile pulls my lips free. "I have not considered hanging it."
"No?" He's pressing gently for information, which I have grown not to mind. The family needs to from time to time to make sure I am still human for them. I shake my head slowly, which seems to be enough for him.
"I am too nostalgic. It is better to hang art more lovely." It is what I believe to be true. Each day I ache and wish for Atmora, for my father and brother and my friends, the people who relied upon me and upheld me. My heart will forever weep for my homeland. For its beauty and revel. But I already bemoan its loss and my nostalgia quite enough to Tharya - she does not deserve such a burden from such an ungrateful bastard. There is no reason for me to make the others uncomfortable with my mourning, since it will never lessen, it is best for me to keep it bundled inside and close to my heart where few venture.

Fjurkin and I dismount to lead both horses to the stable which elskavin has hastily constructed before the earlier snowstorms, promising a more permanent structure come summer. We relieve the animals of their saddles and reins and bridles and I make sure to rub Flindbrir's sides and neck as compensation for his long hours standing in the snow. He is an excellent and well-tempered beast, though like me, often sees the world suspiciously. Perhaps he knows his circumstances of living are as strange and unrealistic as mine.

Together we kick through the snow to the house, from which grey-tinted smoke blows and the promising warmth of the indoors calls. Fjurkin opens the door and passes it to me as I duck in behind him - I know the door is tall enough for me, but habit bends my shoulders and neck - and suddenly I am met with an onslaught of faces.

"Happy birthday!"

A shock skitters through my limbs and for a long moment I feel ice has encased my boots and frozen me to the threshold. It is all so sudden. So loud. Fjurkin claps my back and laughs and speaks, but I am still absorbing the attack of noise and, worst of all, the attention. The entire family stares back at me expectantly. I do not like being caught unaware.

"Get your boots off, first, big guy." Tharya is laughing too though it sounds somewhat less genuine than the others; she pilots my body expertly, moving me under the guise of my own feet away from the door and to the row of thick wooden pegs carved with small symbols, two to each symbol. A pair for every member of the household: her, myself, Lofrek, Bhijirio, and Sofie. Under her direction my limbs regain some autonomy but I am grateful for her hand on my back and the easy chatter of her family, their solid eyes off of me for the time being. "Sorry if it scared you." Scared? No. But there is no word I can think of to describe this feeling. Pinned, perhaps. "Is it too much?"
"No," I tell her quickly, slowly shrugging out of my heavy robe and letting it hang as snow soaks and dampens the fabric. "Unexpected."
"Miraak." She hums my name in the way that I have always loved. There is a certain knowingness to it now. I try to occupy myself with my gloves - their dampness makes them stick to my palms, difficult to remove - but she touches my face, angling, gently forcing me to meet her eyes. Briefly I can see my reflection in them. "I thought it would be too much at once, but they wanted to surprise you."
"I am surprised," I chuckle.
"I know you don't like being the center of attention." Apologetically she kisses me, but she is correct. I am much better at giving attention than receiving it, especially from so many people. As if I can hide behind her I abandon my gloves to the floor and embrace her slowly, glancing at the others gathered around the new table.

"I am not ungrateful," I whisper against her hair, turning just slightly away from the family.
"I know you aren't." Her hands hold my back warmly, reassuringly. As long as she knows. I am desperate to not appear ungrateful. These people would not deserve such a response. "Overwhelmed?" After a long, silent deliberation, I nod. Perhaps that is the word for it. The word for the itch to turn right around and return to the silent, grey outdoors. "I'll sit with you. Just try to relax a bit. No one will stay late with the snow coming." She wiggles back in my grip to hold my cold face, wiping frost melt and errant snowflakes from my beard, and for a moment that is all I need for my birthday. All I cared to envision. "I'm sorry, big guy," she murmurs, touching her nose against mine.
"Please, do not be," I whisper back, holding her waist to warm my hands. "You cannot know how deeply I appreciate this."
"Even if it's overwhelming?"
"Even so. It will not be so the entire time," I promise. "I have spent all day in the quiet and cold. It is only a small shock to return to such clamor - it will pass."

Is my belief in those words genuine? It is difficult to say. But with her close by the world feels reined in once more. It is a strange feeling, one I had to practice growing accustomed to, but she alone makes everything feel solid. She alone has the ability to tame Nirn for me. The family chats and eats happily without us but nevertheless she leads me back through the storm. If nothing else I am glad to have her in my hold - that is all I have ever envisioned or desired for this day, the ninth of Morning Star each year. To have her. Even if we were homeless or starving or freezing or ill, rich or royal or fighting or traveling, it is all I would ever ask to have on this day. Her weight on my lap is comforting, anchoring, and she speaks largely enough for the both of us. Anari smiles at me a few times, but perhaps she spots the distance in my eyes when I look at her, and for a long while I am left somewhat alone. A wash of guilt runs through me. Perhaps I underestimated this family at first glance. They are all kind, compassionate and thoughtful people with strong hearts and strong bonds. Perhaps they too already knew it would be too much. But their excitement to celebrate me is pure and loving. And perhaps they knew all along I would sit here quietly, and perhaps they were content with the knowledge they could make their love abundantly clear and let me seep in in my own time. It is abhorrently selfish of me to make such hidden demands of them.

Food is passed around, as is drink, but Tharya avoids the wine thus I do; she pours me something steaming and spiced but without alcohol. I do not think it is malicious to surprise me like this even knowing it may be too much for me to handle at first. I think their lack of prodding around the table and the lack of eyes makes that clear. I think they truly only wanted to have fun, and to make their acceptance of me known. I am an idiot. In this Era I have always been the first to admit such to myself, even when outwardly I must maintain the opposite. I am an idiot for doubting them so harshly. There is food passed around, but no set meal, which a small part of me is thankful for. I have grown to dislike eating in front of others, though I do not understand entirely why. Age has made me finicky and hard to please, I suppose. What Tharya eats I take a few hidden bites of; the food is warm and heavy and sends little tingles through my mouth dry with winter wind. Whatever it is, it's quite good.

"So, how old does this make you, now?" Ramia asks from where she sits by Jorstus' side, holding his hand on her lap and tracing his fingers with manicured nails. Ramia is not all she tells the others she is, but I have never spoken my observations of her aloud. Her secrets are her own.
"First give us the real age," Lilika giggles, holding up a finger. "Then the fake one."
"Well," I begin. Calculating my real age always requires a moment of arithmetic. "Four thousand, nine hundred...and thirty-eight." I look at Fjurkin and Anari as I say it - they asked me not long ago before Tharya and I were married how old I was. They erupt in disbelieving sounds and laughter, and I find myself grinning faintly. It is ridiculous to think of that large number as my age. I thought I would live to a hundred seventy-five like most Atmorans and sweep away peacefully to Sovngarde.
"And what do you tell people when they ask?" I was almost thirty when I entered Apocrypha, and it has been almost five years since I left. For now, I am-
"Thirty-four." That amuses me almost as much as it amuses them.
"And you are?" Jorstus squints, aiming a finger at his sister.
"Thirty-one," she replies prettily, making a show of flipping her hair over her hand.
"And only forty-nine hundred years between you! Young love," Fjurkin barks out in laughter. Sometimes I forget there are only three short years between us, but I rarely think of myself as thirty-four. It changes my perspective when Tharya says I am not much older than her. It feels different to think of us as peers in age. Good, but different, after so long defining myself in my millennia upon millennia of living through most of written history.

The chatter weans when Anari stands and gestures for Ionnja to help her, and together the two women duck into the adjacent living room. In the low conversation surrounding us Tharya leans into my shoulder, dragging her nails through my hair and adjusting her legs between mine.
"Thirty-four and not a speck of silver," she giggles, rubbing the back of my neck comfortingly. My father boasted silver hair quite early in his life, but I do not carry Morokei's blood - even so, elskavin and I will age much differently than those around us between being mages and Dragonborn. It will be many, many years before she can dote over any touch of silver.

"I'm sure you would enjoy that very much, wouldn't you?" I murmur back, raising an eyebrow down at her; sitting on my lap she is closer to eye level, but not quite there. Her hip fills my hand easily. In front of her gathered family there is a muteness to our touch, but I cannot live and breathe without it. She traces her nails along the back of my neck, smiling at me as surely as the sun. It is amazing how burdenless I feel around her sometimes. No one I have ever known takes care of me like this. It has always been a strange thing, to receive someone, to receive their help and love and support, to be taken care of, but she does it so naturally, so easily, it leaves little room for questioning. Sometimes she almost makes me believe I am just thirty-four.

"You don't have to open them all now." Anari and Ionnja place a little gathering of cloth-wrapped things in front of me, none too large but numerous nonetheless. The last thing Ionnja brings from the living room is a delicate glass vase filled with dragon's tongue flowers, some of the few who survive year-round. She leaves it at the foot of the table so it obstructs no view.
"But if you do open at least one, do this one," Lilika whispers from my right, pointing to a small box perhaps no bigger than my palm. Tharya continues to rub my neck which I am grateful for since I must let go of her to hold the little box and work at its small knotted wrapping, and I am once again aware of every eye trained on me, expecting. I do not do well at receiving presents. I much prefer to give them. Giving them is for me the only part which brings me fulfillment. Receiving them invokes in me a strange need to reject everything or offer something in return.

The box is smooth stained wood and opens a little stiffly, but inside is cushioned by a small bolt of cloth, part of which is pressed through the center of the ring to keep it upright. Tharya grabs my wrist as I take it to hold it up to everyone else, who marvel appreciatively at the glimmering silver and the strange reddish-orange gem in the middle. 
"Garnet," Ionnja says with a wide smile and a little gesture. "Your birthstone!" In Atmora we sought after birthstones as well. Unluckily I remember mine - aquamarine. But the others do not know I cannot remember my original birthday.
"It is very pretty," I say, twisting the ring in the light. The stone is highly unique. I have only ever seen pure red garnets on this continent. Part of me winces at how expensive it must have been. I know I am hard to care for, but I would never ask for people of such normal means to invest so much money in me.

"Fralia was trying to get rid of it," Lofrek says suddenly as if he can read my worries. "Apparently there was some problem with the color for its intended owner, or the cut, or something. There were some inclusions."
"But Eorlund agreed to shape it and set it for a fraction of the septims their original buyer promised." Fjurkin winks.
"So? Does it fit?" Lilika asks. I hadn't thought of that. I am too accustomed to everything no longer fitting.
"It should," Tharya says, "if you all took my measurements correctly. Did you do it for his pinky? I swear to the gods..." Of course she was part of the planning.
"If it is to be a little finger ring I will still wear it," I chuckle, which makes the others grin and beam. I let Tharya take the ring and let her pull my hand away, wrapping her fingers around my palm. Our wedding rings rest on my thumb and forefinger, strange placement to be sure, but hers are just as unorthodox. The sizing on them is uncanny, but we are happy to wear them however we can. Gently she slides the garnet ring over my middle finger. It fits down to the base. Embarrassingly she flaunts my hand to the others, who ooh and ahh and give theatrical applause.

"Thank you very much," I tell the others with a little customary bow of my head. "I am glad to carry a token of this family with me forever." They all smile back at me, and though their attention is focused on nothing else, this time I do not feel so squeamish under their gaze.

Chapter Text

"Are you alright today?" Peering at her curiously Miraak turned to lean against his elbow on the railing, turning to face her. "You look too focused to be on a relaxing sunset walk," he chuckled, reaching out to stroke her arm delicately. "I hope I didn't force you into coming out."
"Hm? Oh, no," Tharya replied, straightening out to look at him. "No, you didn't," she assured against his questioning frown. "I'm okay. Just thinking." She couldn't see his eyes behind the dark frames of his sunglasses, but she could guess at the way his gaze lost some of its warmth. "Just thinking" on the fourth date was never a good sign, but to her surprise he smiled again, still rubbing her arm lightly.
"Anything I can help with?"

She watched as he pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, baring his whole face to her. His eyes hadn't lost any warmth. On the contrary, they invited her to speak, they radiated...safety. Feeling the sudden lump in her throat she looked back at the White River tunneling below the pedestrian bridge, watching the water for a long time. What would he think? Someone as beautiful as him would have no problem finding someone else. Wordlessly she reached for his hand - it shouldn't have been so comforting to hold it knowing she probably never would again after telling him.
"Well, um...I should've told you probably when you asked me out," she said with a dry laugh.
"I'm listening," he hummed, rubbing her knuckles lovingly.
"I don't know. I feel guilty," she whispered, looking back to the river and blinking rapidly. "Like I've been leading you on." In her peripheral he shifted a bit, but didn't let go of her hand; no, he held it just as firmly, not letting her withdraw into herself.
"If you'd like to call things off, I am not going to be upset with you," he said gently. "I'd like it if we could still be friendly, but I'm not going to force anything on you."

Gods. Did he want that? Was that what he wanted to do, cut ties? She supposed part of her had considered the fact. If he did he want it, he was good at hiding it. She wished he wouldn't, so at least she could've seen it coming rather than being blindsided.

"I don't," she whispered, looking up at him through wet eyes. "If you-"
"That's the last thing I want," he interrupted. "Whatever you'd like to tell me, just know that's not what I want. I think I enjoy being with you much more than I should." With another smile his hand slid up to rub her back soothingly, and the ache in her throat jumped. He always said those things, romantic and kind and he always looked like he was telling the truth. It was so hard to try and distance herself from those words. What did he mean?

"Well," she repeated, "it's okay if you want to leave after this. I'm- ace," she whispered, unable to leave his gaze. "I'm not really sure where I fall. I don't really want sex with people I don't have a strong bond with. But sometimes I just...don't want it anyway. And other times I don't feel close enough to someone to do it with them." She swallowed, wiping quickly beneath her eyes. "I'm not really sure what your expectations are, but I should've told you way earlier. It's okay." She gestured silently to the rest of the bridge. "I won't be upset if you want to split, either. I've had the best time with you." She tried to smile up at him, because it was true. He was singular. Unique. No one had ever treated her like he did or understood, showed interest and enthusiasm and everything he'd given. She would remember these past few weeks of him with utter fondness, no matter what came after.

Blinking through her tears she found herself pressed against his shirt, tucked neatly into his arms; the Atmoran folded his head and shoulders in around her, and for a moment she was a little too stunned to say anything. But he was probably just hugging her goodbye. He did give the best hugs.

"I'm sorry this makes you cry, sunflower," he murmured, rubbing the back of her head gently, slipping his fingers through her hair. "I hope I haven't done anything to make myself unapproachable."
"What? No," she whispered back, fingers curling into his shirt as she squeezed her eyes shut. "It was my own fault. I was lying to you."
"Hardly." He held her for a long time before straightening out to cradle her reddened face between his palms, wiping her tears lightly with each thumb. "Can I be honest?" Swallowing thickly and not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. "Thank you for telling me. It changes nothing." She stiffened in his grip before melting back into his torso, sniffling dangerously. Despite it all it still felt like the safest place she could reach.
"What do you mean?" she mumbled.
"I mean it changes nothing for me," he repeated, so lightly, so easily. "I'm glad you told me. I still want to be with you." She squeezed his torso tightly before letting go with a feeble sigh. "It will require some communication, but it doesn't need to happen now. When you feel more comfortable." He was still smiling. "And when you aren't crying, sunflower," he added with a chuckle, rubbing her cheek softly.

Silently she held his forearms, staring up at him for a long, breathless second. Had he really said all that? This was exactly what she had envisioned not happening. For someone like him-

"Really?" she whispered dumbly.
"Truly. You'll just have to promise me you'll tell me if you ever feel uncomfortable," he hummed, still holding her face.
"I will," she said with a faint nod. Was he real? "You, too. Please."
"Promise," he grinned. She closed her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her forehead, and laughed again as she seeped back into his arms, silently begging another hug.
"This conversation never goes that well for me," she whispered against his chest.
"I am sorry, sunflower."
"No, it's- everyone has their preferences. I'm not crazy," she chuckled weakly. "Sometimes people are mean, sometimes they aren't. Sometimes they'll say it doesn't matter and then...someday, it will."
"I will not be that way," he promised again, holding her tightly. "I have no way to make it obvious, but please believe me when I say it doesn't change anything."

Sighing into his shirt she turned her head to watch the river again, rubbing her eyes gently. Was it finally her turn?

"I believe you, big guy."

Chapter Text

The bedroom was dark when she came out of the bath wrapped in a too-large towel, wet hair sticking to her neck as she tiptoed into the room. There was a candle lit by the bed and a small magelight hovering over the First Dragonborn, bathing his face and chest in slim, orange shadows that warped and bent around him.

"You do not have to be quiet for me, little one. I am not asleep," he chuckled, closing the sketchbook on his lap around his pencil and sliding off the edge of the bed. As he did he hooked his fingers into the silk shift she'd laid on the comforter before going for a bath, bringing it with him as he circled the bed.
"Just in case you were," she hummed, holding the towel with one hand as he stooped to kiss her, slipping one arm around the damp fabric to hold her snugly against his torso. She rarely bathed so late into the night, but from what he'd gathered she had been working from sunup first at the house, and then passing the day away in the city into dusk. The aches and fatigues of the day were evident in the withering sigh that broke against his chin as he squeezed the back of her neck, rubbing it tenderly between his fingers.
"Come," he murmured, bringing her forward a few shuffling steps towards the bed, before kneeling.

Wearily she stepped one foot after another into the shift pooled on the floor and shrugged off the towel as he pulled it up, holding it in one hand and his shoulder in the other to steady herself. On days she felt the weight of everything turn her bones liquid and joints stiff, he felt most rocklike, most secure. As he fixed the straps over the ropelike scars on her shoulders he was standing again, holding her close and meeting her eyes.
"You look exhausted, elskavin," he murmured sadly, combing the tangles of her wet hair with his fingers.
"Mhm," she hummed, holding his waist. "It was a long day. My feet are killing me," she winced, shifting her weight from her toes to her heels. They hurt trying to keep this position on her tiptoes to reach him comfortably, with a painful stretch through the arches. Miraak hummed after a moment before squeezing her into arm and lifting her up, taking a few long steps back and turning until he could place her back down on his side of the bed, warm and covers already rumpled from him getting up to greet her.

"Give them," he said, sitting on his knees in front of her and taking each ankle in one hand to pull them into his lap. The magelight flickered and went out, making her jolt a little, but with a faint laugh she relit her own - greenish, pale, vibrant, just enough to light this corner of the room.

She was quiet for a long time as he pressed and manuveured his thumbs into the sole of one foot, something he'd done a thousand times before on nights exactly like this. It hurt at first, but as he continued and eventually moved to her other foot the relief was more tangible than the discomfort.
"You don't have to do this, you know," she hummed with a faintly embarrassed smile, running one hand through his hair and along his scalp, rubbing it gently in just the way that made his spine melt and relax.
"I won't if you don't like it," he replied, leaning his cheek against her knee to let her untangle his hair and looking up. His voice was soft and reverent but smooth, silken, bottomless.
"It feels nice," she promised, letting him kiss her knee and shin, nudging the edge of the linen shift with his nose. "But I want you to be comfortable. I want to make sure I treat you this divinely."

Closing his eyes he smiled absently against her skin, and leaned between her legs with a withering groan that made her flush. His hand cradling her ankle moved up her calf to trace it gently before digging his fingers in, pressing slow, tight circles into the muscle there.
"I am comfortable on my knees for you, mea deusa," he breathed against her skin, an admission, a confession, but not hesitant in the slightest. "My reward is your love, your hands in my hair, and the knowledge that it is I alone you kiss and hold in your bed night after night." Using both hands she found his jaw and tilted his face up so she could meet his eyes, for once glazed with life, a slow-moving, dormant lust for simplicity and tenderness. When he looked at her like that, she wondered how she had ever survived so long in the world without his gaze. It made her strangely protective of him; that look was vulnerable, somehow, and required protecting. Perhaps he knew she alone could give it. He settled easily into her palms and let her stroke his face as he massaged her shin and calf, eyes fluttering closed once more.

"In this mortal realm," he murmured against her wrist, "I am under your power, well and fully your priest, your worshipper." Slivers of gold pooled under the veil of his dark lashes to look at her, to watch the candlelight on her face. "Mea deusa."

Chapter Text

"I remember the first time I came back here," she whispered against the slow, gentle beat of his chest, his warm skin and soft hair and bumpy scar below her cheek. Neither of them were asleep. Twenty minutes ago he'd woken up to an empty bed and coaxed her back from the drafty windowsill to at least lay with him, to be warm again, to be relaxed. And she was. She thought she was. But as she watched the column of his throat pass under her fingertips, watched them stroke and trace his neck and jaw, she saw the shaking. She began to feel the tension in her forehead and shoulders and hips, so tight, so testing. Anxious. Ready. For what?

Miraak wasn't asleep, but he had been close. Closer than her, at least. He was sweet to worry over her lack of rest, but she hadn't guessed how difficult it would be. When she looked at the stone walls of their room she saw Alduin's massive jaw cutting through, melting stone and snapping foundations. When she watched the canopy of their bed she saw it broken by a section of the ceiling that hurtled through and crushed her, pinned her in Helgen Keep forever. In a way, she had never left this place.

"It was foggy," she murmured, letting Miraak adjust, rearrange himself with a quiet, tired sound as he turned his head so his chin touched her hairline. The scratch of his beard felt nice. "Thick, grey fog in the evening. There was thunder and lightning, but no rain. It was humid, though. No rain." The First Dragonborn bent and proffered a leg to slide between hers, and with a withering sigh she sidled closer to him. Usually he felt so solid, but now she felt utterly protective of him. Like the phantom of Helgen would snatch him up, bury him in the dragonfire that, if you looked closely enough, still scarred some of the road's paving stones, and still charred bits of the perimeter wall. She held him close. "Kharjo was with me."

She remembered her old friend commenting on how the lightning made his fur stand rigidly, and how the ghostly outlines of Helgen's destruction looming in the fog made him eager to move on. She'd returned before the bandits had claimed the place. When it was still just a useless, ruined town. The site of history. The site of legend. But still just a burnt speck on the map of the entire world, a nothing, a nowhere. Just as she had been a nobody.

She could feel the uneasy sway and rickety creaking of the cart that had wheeled her, Lokir, Ralof, and Ulfric Stormcloak himself through those gates. She could feel the lurch of the descent from the tough foothills surrounding the Throat of the World; Helgen was nestled in a shallow cradle near the edge of the flatlands of Whiterun Hold. That night in the dense fog, wandering aimlessly, the ground had felt all too solid beneath her boots.

"Everything was so...quiet," she whispered, afraid of the dragon lurking on the cusp of her words. She curled one palm around the twin necklaces lying safely against Miraak's chest. "And nothing had moved. Every house that had collapsed, every roof, wall, tower, everything that had fallen was exactly where he left it." She shuddered weakly, and finally closed her eyes. But the images only came stronger. "Even the carts in the keep's courtyard. Even the block," she added morosely, remembering the burnt stump of wood, barely displaced from where it had been that morning. And, remarkably, though broken, the basket too. It still held a head. Decayed and skull shattered open. There was a crisped corpse not far from it, lacking substance from the neck up. "Yamvir."

She remembered the only one of them who had died to the headsman that day. If only he had waited for a few more moments.

"You will not remain here long," Miraak promised softly, his voice so close and thick and rocky from being woken up. She felt sorry for him. He couldn't have known how impossible it would be for her to relax in this place. She hadn't known either. As she opened her eyes again she saw those hazy, marching outlines of destroyed wooden buildings and melted stone walls that she and Kharjo had explored grimly that night, listening to the thunder roll in. Lit only by the brief, assaulting flashes of lightning. She had seen those very same images as they came into Helgen just a few hours ago. They would never leave. She would never leave.

She left the ghosts to linger there just past the darkness and remained quiet; Miraak fell asleep quickly, still holding her, still warm and solid and dedicated. She listened to the fireplace crackle and felt the heat of Helgen burning on her back. Long into the night she laid there unmoving and watched the hulking, jagged shadow of Alduin take form just outside her reach. He had taken Helgen once.

So she kept her vigil and watched him into the morning hours, when light began to creep in and his figure receded inch by inch. The burning heat at her back died slowly. By the time Miraak stirred again she was tense and aching and vigilant, always vigilant, intent on waiting for the World-Eater's slumber to push the Wheel slowly, gradually, tipping it all the way around and back to her once more.

Back to Helgen.

Chapter Text

The room is cool as he shuts the door slowly behind him, perhaps too cool for her tastes. As the days grow warmer she leaves the windows open to let the night air rinse the house of its heat, to make sure he is comfortable as they approach wretched summer on the southern continent. Still, it is not quite warm enough at night to sleep without the covers, or without him to warm her.

By the small, flameless corner hearth Runa sleeps soundly on her back, paws tilted in the air and breath nothing but a gentle whistle. The sheer curtains dance as the breeze takes them, billowing thin air in through the open windows. On his toes he makes his way in the dark towards the desk, pausing to undress. It feels good to rid himself of clothes after such a long day; the cold night air rolls graciously over his warm skin, the heat of hours trapped close to his veins. But the night whisks it away, leaving him comfortable as he drapes his shirt and pants over the back of the chair - opening and fumbling around in the wardrobe would make too much noise - and knuckles the small of his back to stretch.

She stirs on the bed only once, moving quietly in her sleep as the wind picks up. They've switched from heavier winter bedding to a lighter summer quilt, but it's still too cold in the nighttime to sleep alone. Easing his way to the window by her side of the bed, he finds the latch with the edge of his palm and pushes it closed. The sound of the wind dulls before the wind itself dies down, and again she stirs. Tentative fingers brush his thigh as he steps back, and Miraak pauses.

"Coming to bed?" she murmurs, her voice so soft and weighed by sleep that he can't help his chuckle.
"Did I wake you, elskavin?" he asks, finding the edge of the bed and lowering himself to his elbows over her blanketed form, caressing fully the side of her face.
"No," she yawns, snuggling below her covers, below him. "I haven't fallen asleep yet."
"You could have come to me," he hummed, "I would have come up earlier." Dipping his head he seeks her forehead and cheek, the plush side of her neck. Her skin is warm and smooth to kiss, her body heavy with sleep as she traces her fingertips against his chest. How long ago did she come up? He hopes she hasn't been waiting for him.

"Rest, little one," he rumbles, kissing the edge of her pulse, the curve of her ear, the corner of her mouth. She turns over to snuggle against him as he lies on his side next to her, opening his arms to hug her close, blankets and all. One hand finds her hair again, stroking it lovingly, and the other rests against the back of her neck to rub away the tension of sudden movement, to warm her. She makes a little sound against his slow heartbeat, something that is supposed to be a word but is too tired to come out as one. The only part of her poking from the blankets is her hands, which she folds against his chest to sap his heat and feel his skin. He digs his fingers against her scalp from the nape of her neck upwards; she sighs pleasantly, and falls still.

It only takes a few minutes to rectify her lack of sleep. Soon she is boneless and quiet against him, occasionally making a soft exhale when he rubs her head just so, or finds a new knot in her neck to unravel. His bicep is her pillow, smooth and relaxed under her cheek. Her brows lift, her eyes seal shut. She is rarely so carefree when awake. At long last he drops his arm to pull the quilted mass of her body closer, to let her bathe in Atmoran warmth, to let her sleep without fear of interruption. And gradually, as his fingers grow tired, and his hand falls still against her head, he lets his eyes close on the image of her gentle face half tucked into his shoulder, and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

As they exited through the glittering glass doors into the night she took in a long, grateful breath for the fresh, cool air. Another spring gala well done to celebrate the year gone and the year ahead - at least that was what Balgruuf said every year in his speech, right after thanking all the civil servants and families in attendance. The spring gala was on par with the Saturalia one in terms of budget and decor, making it a nice long evening of an open bar and good music. Like a prom, Vahlok once said, but for adults, and adults who worked in Dragonsreach. 

"Hold on, big guy," she murmured, reaching for Miraak's arm before he could drift ahead. With a hum he turned, letting her lean into his elbow as she reached down to fiddle with the ankle strap of her shoe. He watched for a moment before shuffling closer, putting a stabilizing arm around her waist.

"Feet hurt?" he murmured, rubbing her hip as she tried to undo the small buckle holding the strap in. "I thought they were comfortable shoes?"

"Any heeled shoe is uncomfortable if you stand it in long enough," she chuckled. "I'll just go barefoot."

"In the parking lot?" he gaped, shaking his head and shoving one hand in his pocket to find the keys. "You stay here then. I can bring the car up." 

"No, you don't have to," she said, waving him off.

"I don't want you to step on anything," he replied with a frown. "There could be glass or trash. Or puddles." 

"I've stepped on worse," she shrugged. "You don't have to walk all that way alone."

"Better me than you." With a little smile he squeezed her side in one hand, leaning down to find her lips and kiss her once. "Do you want a piggyback ride? I could carry you across."

"I never asked for princess treatment," she said pointedly, smiling against his mouth as he chuckled and held her warmly, bathed in the square of golden light cast through the glass doors. "I don't mind a grimy walk across the parking lot." 

"What sort of husband would I be if I didn't treat my prinsaessa?" Pressing a gentle kiss against both of her cheeks he pulled back to shrug off his suit jacket and settle it around her shoulders. "Stay here. Give me just a moment."  

Fingers slipping down her arm he paused to bend and kiss her hand before walking off under the large canopy connected to the building's main entrance, swinging his keys in one hand. The wind was picking up slowly as the night wore on - what time was it? Huddling into the warmth of his jacket she searched for her phone. Nearly eleven. It would be good to go home, to shower, finally get in bed...and tomorrow was Loredas. The weekend, at long last.  

With a yawn she laid her cheek against the jacket's lapel, inhaling his cologne and bodily warmth, a well-made mixture of wildflowers, spring air, and expensive wood. It was something she used to be surprised by; he seemed the type for more dark and heady scents, but chose lighter, airy ones, pleasant and reminiscent of springtime. Though the springtime of the far north, the cool, crisp springtime of Atmora. It was a somewhat demure scent, diluted by the edge of his homeland's frost. But comforting all the same.  

After a minute or two headlights swung around and the car appeared, windshield fogged from the onset of cold night. Creaking into park, the door opened and Miraak circled the front, gesturing her forward.

"You are falling asleep where you stand, prinsaessa," he cooed, welcoming her into a snug embrace as he opened the passenger side with one hand.

"Long day," she murmured against his shirt, wrapping herself deeper in his scent and arms and skin. 

"I know. You were up with the sun, as always," he chuckled, rubbing her back. "Come on." He held her hand as she stepped into the passenger seat, pulling the door behind her. With a huff he circled around to the driver's side and slid in.

"Here," she murmured, shifting his jacket off to hand it back only for him to push it back into her arms. 

"Keep it. Close your eyes," he hummed, leaning over the center console to stroke her hair for a moment. "The seat warmer will kick in soon."  

With a faint giggle she craned up to kiss him tenderly, enjoying the feel of his lips cool from the air outside and smooth against hers, the familiar heat of his mouth. 

"Thank you, my love," she murmured, stroking the underside of his jaw gently on her fingertips. He hummed back, content to enjoy her little kisses as payment, though truthfully he didn't need them to be. His payment was in the act itself - it was all he needed to treat her well. Princess treatment meant nothing. Goddess treatment suited his tastes much better.  

A sudden honk from behind made them both jump a little, high beams flashing in the rear view. With a snort Miraak traced his fingers along the edge of her thigh before reaching for the wheel.

"Don't they know I'm busy?" With a sleepy grin Tharya pulled his hand onto her lap and let him squeeze it around her leg, palm big and warm and soothing as they pulled around and out of the parking lot, back onto the road.  

She stroked the back of his hand for a few minutes, squinting at other cars going past and making sure his mental directions were right - more than infrequently he was too confident in going the utterly wrong ways - before leaning down to finally undo her shoes. They came off slowly. Even though the cushioned heels had lasted long, eventually the unusual strain on her arches and toes had gotten uncomfortable. Taking them off felt like a world of relief on her ankles. Groaning softly she rubbed her toes and tried to do the same to her heels, left with a tingling sensation of being strapped up and angled even though they were free now.  "Here," Miraak murmured, patting his right knee as she sat up again, pushing her heels to the side.

"No, you're already driving," she yawned back, settling into the crook between the seat and door. "Don't worry about me." He glanced at her only once before reaching for her knee and hauling it up, over the center console so her foot sat in his lap. Wordlessly he made a motion for the other leg. 

"Just don't kick me any higher than there," he chuckled, letting her adjust and snuggle her feet together against his thighs. "Close your eyes, prinsaessa. We'll be home soon."  

In long, gentle motions he began to stroke her ankles, rubbing them with one hand while the other drove - his palm encased one foot easily with room to spare, which made it feel all the better. His hands were warm and cushioned and precise, rubbing away the peculiar aches of high heels and tending any irritated skin. He traced soft lines up to her knees and back down, drawing tension out of her lower body, easing the strain. She fought for a few long minutes to keep her eyes open, forcing herself to watch the road and the signs going by. A few times he glanced over at her, waiting, waiting, waiting. And eventually she did give in, leaning her cheek against the headrest and tilting her legs into his touch with a long, teary yawn.  

"Good girl," he chuckled, smiling at the road and squeezing her calf once. "A quick shower when we get home, and you can sleep all night long." She mumbled something half-hearted in response, shifted her heels, and then fell quiet. Once or twice he looked over to make sure she was comfortable, wrapped in his coat and a little tangled with the seatbelt, but she slept soundly, and that was all that mattered to him. And when they got home he carried her happily to the door, held her and washed off her light makeup in the shower, let her snuggle close and fall asleep once more in his arms, in the cocoon of their own bed. 

Chapter Text

"Hi. Can you come get us? He's getting insufferable."

Standing from her desk Tharya chuckled, closing her laptop with one hand and toeing off her slippers.
"That was quicker than I thought," she replied, glancing at the clock on her phone.
"It's been a long week," Zahkriisos groaned, voice crackling through the speaker, "we drank fast, and now we're all tired." In the background she heard the din and chatter of the bar swell, and then the swing of a door as Zahkriisos went outside. It was blissfully quieter, though there were still some voices. Closest to him were the recognizable ones: Dukaan, Vahlok, and Miraak. "You should know you're all he talks about past his third drink."
"Ha! So I've been told," she laughed, gathering her bag and flicking off lights as she went towards the door, bending down to pull on some sandals. It was chilly out tonight, but she didn't feel like getting fully dressed. Besides, she'd be in the car for most of it.
"It's so annoying," Zahkriisos groaned, but there was no malice to it. After realizing what he said he fumbled through his next words, which only made her laugh as she slipped out of the apartment and locked the door. "Not that you're annoying. I mean, Miraak is. It's better when you're here since he'll just drool over you- but you're not annoying. We love having you out."
"I know, I know," Tharya soothed, closing and locking the door behind her.
"It's not even really annoying. He's just whiny."
"It's okay, Zahk. I'm on my way, okay? I'll send my Waze."
"Okay. Drive safe. I'll try to keep Vahlok out of the street."

As she found the elevator she put the address into her phone, waiting as it calculated the route. A fifteen minute drive from the apartment - and on the way back she'd have to make a stop to drop off Vahlok, Dukaan, and Zahkriisos together, since they all lived in the same building. As she exited the elevator, heading through the lobby and extracting her keys, a text message popped up.

Sorry again. You're not annoying. Love you

Tharya laughed as she wound through the parking lot. Zahkriisos was rarely so apologetic - he could be coarse at times, but it was often shallow, and once you got used to it you could see beyond the sometimes scraping remarks. But he was an overthinker when he was drunk, and an overexplainer. Just as Miraak became clingy beyond belief, and Vahlok got reckless, and Dukaan got weepy. Usually she went out with them every week or so and they didn't have more than a drink or two at most, but just as Zahkriisos had said, it'd been a long, long week. Tiring. She had worked late almost every day since Morndas, and didn't have the battery to go out after a meeting-filled Fredas. But she didn't mind being their chauffeur - it was easy work, and better than the alternatives.

The small parking lot was mostly full, but, even with Miraak's Atmoran-sized car she was able to back into a space and text Zahkriisos back before hopping out.

It's no worries!!!! I'm here :) I'll walk around the front 🚶‍♀️

She didn't have to look far for them. Lingering in a loose circle of four they all stood, their heights alone enough of a beacon. The patio seating was populated but not full - inside looked close to bursting. Just as she rounded the corner, another text came, from her mostly aptly named contact.

Zahk said youre driving ?

She didn't bother responding to Big Pookie since the moment he put his phone away he saw her, lit up, and held his arms out.
"No way!" Vahlok cried first, spinning around to see who his brother was celebrating. "It's my favorite sister!" He raced forward to sweep her up in a hug, shaking her left and right excitedly. "I thought you were coming out with us tonight!"
"Gods, relax, she's not going to drop gold if you shake her like that," Zahkriisos grumbled, grabbing Vahlok's arm.
"I'll come out next week, promise," she said with a grin, patting the Atmoran as he allowed himself to be pulled back. "Hi, Dukaan."
"Thank you so much for driving us," he blubbered. "You're the best. You're so kind, you know that?" She let him squeeze her hand before Miraak shooed the Roscrean off, putting his arms delicately around her waist as she stretched up for a hug.

"You look so cute in your little leggings and sandals," he cooed, pushing his lips into an exaggerated pout. "Gods, you're so pretty. I missed you. Hi, beautiful." He made sure to kiss her plenty of times, holding her snugly against the heat of his body. He was normally, but especially tipsy he became so gentle with her, it never failed to make her laugh. Sometimes it was ridiculous, but most times it was cozy and endearing. Dukaan still held onto her hand as Miraak snuggled into her neck, squeezing her sides. "I missed you, princess." She obliged him for another kiss, light and chaste. "I can't believe I left you at home all alone! I'm awful," he groaned, kissing her again, "I'm your awful husband." Another kiss. "You're so pretty." Another kiss. Her arm was beginning to get sore. "And so comfortable," he hummed, squeezing her again. "Did you have a good day? You look so good today."
"I did," she giggled, rubbing his broad back with her free hand. "Ready to go home?"
"Yeah," he murmured, nodding into her neck, but making no move to let go. "You smell so nice. I love you."
"I love you too, big guy," she hummed. "Ready?"
"Yeah," he repeated, kissing the side of her neck sweetly, sighing into her skin. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"I didn't see you at all today," he pouted again, and she tried to adjust her shoulder so her arm wasn't so stiff out to the side. "I'm sorry. I should wake up earlier."
"It's okay, honey," she laughed, patting his waist. "You woke up to say goodbye to me this morning. Should we get going?"
"Yeah," he sighed, and didn't move. Behind her, Vahlok burst into gleeful laughter. "You're so beautiful."

"Okay, Althëasson! Can you stop moaning about it? Some of us want to go home," Zahkriisos droned, kicking the back of Miraak's leg lightly. "Plus, she's cold. Let's go."
"You're cold?"
"No, I'm okay."
"You are cold," he said, disappointed, and rubbed her sides gently. "I'm sorry, I don't have a jacket. I'm not cold tonight."
"Neither am I," she promised, and Vahlok snorted and choked on his laughter. It was chilly, but nothing unbearable. "You're nice and warm, handsome. Let's go, okay?"

Leading Miraak on one hand and Dukaan with the other she herded them all around the side of the single-storey brick building, down the one-way sidestreet and to the little parking lot tucked behind. Miraak kissed the back of her hand and each of her fingers as he walked, giggling as she stroked his beard. She only ever heard him giggle when he was tipsy, or very, very tired. In this case, it seemed to be both.
"You're so beautiful," he sighed as they crossed the parking lot, kissing her wedding rings delicately. "You're my beautiful wife." On her opposite side Dukaan looked a little teary-eyed.
"You're my beautiful husband," she replied, looking up at Miraak. For some reason that made him laugh quite loudly. "Okay, pile in." Clicking the keys made the car lights flash and doors unlock, and she walked with Dukaan and Miraak to the passenger side before letting go of them both. "You can take turns holding my hand, but I need at least one to drive," she said apologetically. "All set? Make sure you put your seatbelt on." Zahkriisos, Dukaan, and Vahlok all squeezed together in the backseat while Miraak took the front, and once everyone seemed to be secured she circled around and climbed behind the wheel.

"We should get married again," Miraak said the moment she turned the ignition, smiling dreamily at her from the passenger seat.
"Yeah? Put your seatbelt on, big guy." He did so as she pulled forward, and reached over to stroke her hair behind her ear as she pulled out of the parking lot. "You want to get married again? We can renew our vows."
"Do you want to? I want to."
"Miraak, don't distract her while she's driving," Dukaan mumbled. "She's being very kind for all of us. I think we should all say thank you."
"Please have another wedding!" Vahlok cried, slapping his knees. "That would be so awesome. And so fun! Could we get the same DJ?"
"Are you planning it?" Tharya laughed, glancing at him in the rear view mirror.
"I will! We'll get the same DJ! Do you guys want the same venue? Or maybe we could have it on the beach? Wow, wouldn't that be pretty," he trailed off, leaning against Zahkriisos' shoulder. "We should have it on the beach. Dad would like that."
"You should do it in the forest again," Zahkriisos added. "In the spring this time, since you were married in the winter."
"I'll marry you again," Miraak crooned, pulling one of her hands over the center console to rest on his thigh. "Little pookie?"
"Big pookie," she acknowledged, rubbing his thigh warmly.
"Gross," Vahlok said, and Zahkriisos smacked his arm.

They fell into easy chatter as she drove, and Miraak stroked the length of her arm over the center console and gazed at her while utterly ignoring whatever the other three were talking about in the back. She glanced at him occasionally just to watch him smile, and every time he reached to touch her cheek or lean over and kiss her temple Zahkriisos grabbed his shoulder and put him back, and gave him a lecture on road safety. She didn't mind. It was harmless, and if he was truly distracting her, he would hear it from her. Vahlok drumming the back of her seat was worse. Dukaan seemed most tipsy out of all of them - he was silent for a while, scrolling through his phone, before weeping over their wedding pictures from last year and showing them to everyone else. When she pulled up to their apartment building they insisted on letting her drop them off, but she insisted harder on parking and seeing them to their apartments. The five of them crowded into the elevator, and went up.

"Oh, gods, Dukaan," Zahkriisos murmured, taking the other man's phone and turning it off. "I've already seen all the wedding pictures. I was there, remember? We all were." Miraak had grown quiet, but held her in front of him where they stood, nuzzled warmly to her back and chin on her hair. The first floor they came to was Vahlok's - he hugged his brother and the others, one foot in the threshold to keep the doors open, and then bent to embrace her tightly.
"Thanks for the ride, sister," he grinned, clicking his tongue. "Let's get together this weekend! We can do brunch? Lunch? Dinner? I'm free except for Loredas in the morning."
"We'll text," she promised, and Vahlok waved to them all before jogging off down the hallway. Two floors up, Dukaan and Zahkriisos stepped off.

"Thank you again for coming to get us," Zahkriisos said, muffling a yawn behind his fist. "Sorry to make you cart us around. I hope we didn't annoy you."
"Sorry for crying in your car," Dukaan mumbled.
"Well, it's his car, so I don't mind," she laughed, gesturing to Miraak. "Get to bed, you guys. And maybe we can get together on Loredas." Zahkriisos gave her a little wave before turning around, and the doors shut on the pair of them. With a yawn of her own she reached to press the button to return them to the lobby.

"Do you want to?" Miraak murmured now that it was only them, turning her carefully in his arms. Before she could reply he leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time, savoring her lips. He was getting tired.
"Want to what?" she whispered back, rubbing his chest lovingly. He groaned as he kissed her again, and then again, arms tightening around her waist.
"Get married again."
"Well, I don't think we can get married again," she chuckled against his lips. His big hands caressed her back and hips, moving lethargically to hold her. "Unless you want to divorce me and remarry me."
"Divorce?" he echoed frightfully, looking shocked. "No, I can't divorce my beautiful wife. Why would I divorce you? Do you want to divorce me?"
"No, not at all," she soothed.
"Good. Because I don't want to divorce you," he said with another pout, warm fingers slipping below the hem of her tank top. "Are you cold, princess? You could divorce me if you're cold."
"It's a little chilly," she allowed between his kisses, letting his hand slide below her shirt to stroke her back.
"I don't want you to divorce me, little one," he mumbled against her lips, eyes half-open as he traced patterns against the small of her spine.
"I won't. You're warm for me," she promised with a giggle, threading her fingers into his hair. "You're my big, warm pookie."
"Can I kiss you some more?"
"I think the elevator is about to stop."

Glumly he pulled away, but kept his hand below her shirt on her hip as they made their way back through the lobby. The night was darker now, colder, but they were a short ride from home. Soon they could be tucked away in bed together - and, thank the gods, tomorrow was the weekend. She was looking forward to sleeping in.

He was quiet on the drive home, pulling her hand onto his thigh again, rubbing and kissing her arm. Getting tired. He would sleep like a boulder, for sure. By the time she pulled in to their apartment building, got to the elevator, and walked to their door, he seemed half asleep already.

"Go, get ready for bed," she hummed, shouldering his heavy arm off gently.
"Will you come?"
"I'll be there in a second. Just going to lock up."
"I love you."
"I love you too," she laughed, and he parted from her reluctantly. The bedroom light came on a moment later, illuminating Runa slinking from the shadows behind the sofa in the living room. Tharya slid out of her sandals and shuddered before tiptoeing into the kitchen to find the cat treats and hand one down. Runa purred lowly as she took it, rubbing into Tharya's legs before following her towards the bedroom. She changed quietly and fluffed the pillows, rearranged the covers, and turned on the dim headboard light before going into the bathroom.

Wordlessly Miraak enveloped her again, groaning as she squeezed him back.
"You do get so touchy when you're tipsy," she giggled, and he grunted.
"I'm sorry. I don't have to be."
"No, I like it. I don't mind," she soothed. "I promise I won't divorce you for it." With a grin he wound his arms around her legs and lifted her onto the sink counter, slotting easily between her knees and bending for a kiss. In the comfort of their own apartment, she didn't mind obliging him for all the kisses he could possibly ask for.
"I like touching you," he murmured, rubbing her thighs and hips, pulling her to the edge of the counter to be closer, warmer. "I like your body. You're so pretty." Hands found their way below her tank top again, caressing her belly and sides, rubbing up and down her back. "Let's get married again."
"Renew our vows," she corrected gently. "Do you want to?"
"Mh-hm." If she doubted it at all, he kissed her to confirm his hum, and kissed her again. "Can we do it every year?"
"I think so," she whispered, stroking his biceps. "I don't think they put restrictions on it, but I don't know."
"Mmh. We should do it every year." Another kiss, lingering and lazy. "That way you can sit on my lap again while we eat our cake."
"That's what you remember?" she snorted in disbelief, and he sunk in around her, holding her snugly in his arms.
"That's what I remember," he grinned, snuggling into her neck, kissing her shoulder and jaw and ear. "My beautiful, perfect wife feeding me cake."

She couldn't help the laugh that left her even as he lifted her off the counter again, lips loving her neck as he found his way blindly through the door into the bedroom. She held him for long minutes as they laid down, wrapped close to his chest and enjoying the endless contact of his mouth on hers, his sweet, unassuming declarations of silent love. Maybe she would have to skip their Fredas nights out more often, if it ended with him oozing affection and so malleable, so lovey. She didn't mind his tipsy clinginess, not in the slightest. It seemed the perfect cap to a long, dreary week.

"Then let's do it," she whispered finally, "let's look into it tomorrow. Okay?"
"Okay." He scooted down to nuzzle into her chest, squeezing his arms around her sides with a dwindling groan. "I love you, prinsaessa. You are the most beautiful wife in the world."
"Thank you," she hummed after a moment, rubbing his scalp slowly. "I love you too, big guy. Get some rest. I'll be expecting double the amount of kisses tomorrow."

Chapter Text

She watched him trudge up one last time from the river, watering can full and sloshing with water taken from the White River that cut through the ravine by the house. He looked less out of place somehow, in only his loose linen trousers and with a hand touching his hair, combing it away from his forehead. It had been warm today, but the evening was cool. The breeze brought in mountain air that pushed out the dense heat, rustling the grass, the trees, sending a gentle mist of water against her ankles from the can she held. He looked...natural. Beautiful. At least to her.

Sometimes, she worried.

As he approached he caught her looking and smiled, a small, maybe tiny smile, but just as lovely as anything fuller. It was really only a shifting of his face - he'd perfected a way to smile without really smiling. His eyes crinkled, eyebrows relaxed, and his lips moved a tiny bit, but it was not a smile as other people thought of it. Still, it warmed her heart to see that look on him. He had needed to relearn how to smile, and even if he didn't do it conventially, he still did it. That was what mattered. The watering can grew light in her hands and she set it down, reaching out for the one he brought. He stooped to kiss her as he delivered it, watching her tiptoe barefoot around the garden and crouch beside plants to shower them in the White River's captured currents.

"That should be good enough," she said as he reached for the empty one, and he set it back down. "Thank you, my love."
"Of course," he murmured, standing at the low fence and crossing his arms loosely over his chest, watching. She continued watering their little vegetable garden until the can grew light and emptied out, and she stepped over damp soil back onto the grass to set it down. "I am convinced you could coax a flower from a stone with your skill, my wife," he chuckled, reaching to gather her hands and kiss them lovingly, pressing each knuckle with tender attention. The breeze cropped up again, not too cold, rustling the forest at the edge of the field and dancing through the grass. The scents of summer swam through the air around them; flowers and fresh, healthy grass, warm bark and well-trod forest paths. It tucked his waves of coffee-dark hair back from his face, bathing him in vibrant evening light to rival his eyes. Smiling, she freed her hands to caress the sides of his face, stroking his beard lightly.

He said nothing, merely closed his eyes and let the breeze take his thoughts, nuzzling into her stroking fingers and delicate touch. Not many people treated him so gently, she knew. But she also knew he enjoyed it when she did, and that was all she could control. Herself. The way she held him. He was a fragile person. No one else believed it, but he was. She thought he knew it, so he hid it. But it didn't change the truth. It didn't change that she wouldn't let him break, so she handled him gently, careful not to disturb his fragile pieces.

"Is this enough?" she asked quietly, stepping close so he could slip his arms around her, palms splaying warmly to her back.
"What do you mean?" he asked after a second, eyes half-opening to look at her from the cradle of her palm.
"This." She gestured to the shifting world around them. "Me. The house. The world. Whiterun. Everything you have. Everything you eat, or need. Is it enough for the First Dragonborn to be hauling watering cans back and forth every night in the spring and summer?" He eased upright again, fingers falling around her wrists to pull her hands towards the center of his chest. His face was thoughtful, but not upset.
"What makes you worry?"
"Your world," she replied, frowning a bit. "Your previous life. Everything and everyone you had. Your luxury and comfort. Your power. I can't give you even a shred of that. Well, I could; but not for a lifetime."

He gathered her hands in one of his, holding them against his heart, and used his free hand to touch her chin. He hadn't done that in a long time, that specific touch that directed her gaze, the bend of his forefinger below and the pad of his thumb against her lower lip. After a moment it spread into his palm, caressing her face and neck warmly.

"I no longer require such things," he said after a while. "The rebel Priest Miraak Morokson does not exist anymore. His corpse in Apocrypha begot Miraak Althëasson. He is only Dragonborn." Somehow that title seemed to absorb that of Dragon Priest and all the trailing, splendid titles he bore along with it, though in...differing capacities. It included even the title of the rings on his left hand, and the dainty amulet of Mara around his neck that glittered now in the setting sun. "You have done and built extraordinary things for me, elskavin. I cannot be blind to them, not as I am now. Not as who I am now."

He looked up at the house in the dying light, examining it and its environs, and then looked at her. Examined her, as he stroked her face and throat. There was a strange emotion on his face, something as a mix of tenderness and intrigue, love and acceptance.
"Nothing you do will ever be less than enough." He bent to kiss her again, lips cool and dry from the breeze. His kiss felt like that look on his face: contemplative, yet sincere. "If Bormahu decreed I had to live my long, long life again, and if he promised me that by the end of it I would be carrying watering cans for you again every night in the spring and summer, and watching you tend the earth, and build our home, and love your family, and love yourself, and defend your world, I would live it again. I would agree - if Bormahu asked it of me, I would not wait. I would do it all again, erase my name, forget my face, and waste a hundred lifetimes if only I could return to you, elskavin."

Even though he held her, he spoke to her as a man. She didn't know how she knew - she simply did. And not for the first time she marveled at the man in front of her. Marveled that he was just a man. As unreal and resplendent as he felt. He was just a man. In her silence he stroked her cheek again on the backs of his fingers and smiled. A true smile that stretched his lips and creased his cheeks.

"I wouldn't let that happen," she whispered finally, draping her hands on his chest, feeling the nuzzle of his brilliant soul against hers.
"I know," he replied, head tilting. "That is why I would do it."

Chapter Text

The Thalmor had cut his beard. 

It was a foolish thing to mourn, and a stupid thing to grow angry over, but he found himself burdened with the emotions nonetheless, sitting quietly in his windowless cell deep in the belly of their keep. Atmora was dead, and its traditions long forgotten, though he saw glimmers of some in the modern Nords. Whispers in things they did or said, though they did not know why they did or said them. Only that it was tradition, and therefore worth preserving. A dangerous sentiment to have sometimes, but not often so for something as trivial as a beard. 

He'd worn one since he'd been able to grow one. It was a given for Atmoran men - a beard, or at least some kind of facial hair, and long hair. Long hair had been subverted by his generation; he and Vahlok wore it short, which irked Ahzidal to the ends of the earth. It happened every few generations that someone would bring something new, a trend, a style, and sometimes it stuck and sometimes it didn't. But he had planned on growing his hair out again, once he reached his sixties and seventies, the midpoint of his life. Perhaps once he'd sprouted some silver hair. He didn't want his beard to be as long, but Dukaan wore long hair and a short beard, and it was less frowned upon than both short. Uncommon, but not disdained. Briefly he wondered what Tharya would think if he grew his hair as long as it once had been, to his chest. It would be curly, thick, difficult to maintain in a war camp with few amenities. But his beard was gone. It would be shameful to grow his hair long with no beard. 

The traditions didn't matter anymore, he knew. No one was alive to follow them. But still he stubbornly clung to them - that part of him that was so proud of his Atmoran blood screamed at him for the loss of his beard. The part of him that braided Tharya's short hair in ancient ways and styles and bloomed over seeing her wear his culture - her history - so beautifully. But the Thalmor, with their chipped knife and rough hands, had cut his beard, taken it slice by slice. Messily, too. They did not give him the honor of removing it carefully, as was custom to vanquished foes - but why would they? They only knew that a beard meant something to Atmorans. Not what it meant, not why. So they took it sloppily, and left his jaw and cheeks knicked in many places where the grime stung and coated his skin. It felt very naked, to be without a beard. His face felt exposed and fresh, and he felt younger, but that did not mean better. He felt younger in the ways he had before he could grow the beard in the first place, when he was naïve and stupid and becoming power hungry and brutal, becoming a true Dovah Sonaak. 

Perhaps the Thalmor knew this. By their inferences, cutting his beard would be a blow to his ego, to his tradition, or at the very least to his self-image. It was none of those things and all of them and so, so much more. And so much less. He could not afford to mourn something that could grow back in their captivity - it would end him. But, at the same time, he'd worn the same beard for nearly five thousand years. It was the beard his father had touched before he left for Bromjunaar, the beard Vahlok had touched as he held his brother's cheek and listened to his dying breaths. It was the beard Tharya stroked and oiled for him from time to time, knowing the importance of its upkeep to Atmorans, understanding, at least in some fashion, its sanctity to his identity. The one that made her laugh joyfully when he rubbed his bristled cheek to her neck. Now it was gone. It would grow again, but it would not be the same. 

The Thalmor could only make it worse if they decided to cut his hair. 

To be fully shaved would make his resolve tremble, though he loathed the fact. It was foolish and stupid, and he needed to steel himself against whatever torture they inflicted upon him until Tharya came. It would shame him for her to see him without the beard, but he didn't want to think of the morbid dishonor of returning to her beardless and with his hair cut away. In a way he might prefer to return beardless - that way she would be able to see his full face for once, and also view him as he might have looked five long millennia ago. She'd once expressed wonder in seeing how his face had changed, and he found himself wondering as well, sometimes. That curiosity would be enough for him to shoulder the ignominy. But he had to watch his tongue - to even plant the idea in the Thalmor's head about cutting his hair would make them certain to do it. He would bear the dishonor of losing his beard quietly, in his cell, where no one saw him but his torturers. He would be dragonbone. He would be unbreakable. He'd suffered much worse at the hands of Hermaeus Mora for far longer - and it scared him, a bit, to be able to so easily slip back into that space of calm dread where nothing seemed to hurt, where nothing seemed to affect him. 

But at the same time, Hermaeus Mora had never cut his beard.

Chapter Text

"You are cold, ahtlahzey?"  

She jolted a bit where she sat huddled to the base of a tree, ruana pulled tight around her and boots leaning against the rocks surrounding the campfire. It was beginning to dwindle, but she dreaded having to leave her perch for more wood. She wasn't warm but she wasn't shivering anymore - she'd forced her body to relax, to invite the cold. Let it seep in. And she hadn't heard him leave the tent.  

"Can't sleep?" she asked instead of replying. Gods, he was shirtless. She didn't even admire his body - she admired the fact he could be shirtless in such a cold snap. He didn't even shiver. This was probably refreshing, for him. By what little she knew of Atmora and what few things he spoke of, it would have to get much colder than this for him to bundle up. But, as the initial envy for his Atmoran biology passed, she did admire him. His thick arms and chest furred with dark hair, his broad, round shoulders and smooth back, all of him dense with muscle and cushioning. His softened stomach that creased lightly as he bent down to flick an errant stick into the fire, sending sparks towards her boots. He was huge. And warm. All that hair and muscle certainly had to amount to something.  

"Not if you intend to remain out here with your teeth chattering for the night," he retorted, crossing his arms and standing by the fire. His big body was made for this weather. She understood now why he sweated so easily and complained about even the pleasant temperatures of mid-spring. 

"Sorry," she replied, jaw cramping from the tension the cold brought. "I was just about to go for more firewood." He looked at her curiously, his golden eyes shining brightly in the firelight, before scoffing.

"I will go," he said matter-of-factly. Surprising. He...infrequently offered to do camp chores. She didn't always mind - she knew how to do everything, and did it correctly, and quickly. He had no idea how to do any of it, and she just didn't have the time to teach him. But sometimes it was exhausting. 

"Half-dressed?" she snorted.

"The chill is refreshing. I need to go out anyway," he said, dismissing her with one hand. A disguised way of saying he had to piss. She envied that, too. It wasn't as easy for women.  

Without another word he stomped into his boots and then sauntered into the dark forest around them, only lighting a magelight once she'd absolutely lost his silhouette between the trees. She worried about him alone in the woods in only half his clothes, and watched intently as his magelight peeked in and out at a distance, holding still at first, and then moving. The worry abated as she kept track of him - he'd probably bring back shitty firewood anyway, and once he went back into the tent she would stand up and get some better kindling. She listened to branches break and the forest groan softly in the encroaching winter wind, moaning into her ruana as she tried to huddle closer to herself. Unfortunately she had yet to regain all the weight she'd lost during the war, and her time at Fort Snowhawk had...left her body worse for wear, especially in cold weather. She couldn't handle it as well anymore. It bit at her, seeped into her very bones. Locked her joints. Clouded her mind. It wasn't good. But he didn't need to know.  

Briefly she thought of the occasions they'd touched, the moments she'd been close to his body. He was so warm. She remembered that burning heat he threw off most of all, so intense it felt as if he constantly ran a low fever. The gods had pulled some cruel prank, sticking him with her, a half-Nord who had lost her resilience to the cold and an Atmoran who walked shirtless into it and called it refreshing. Whenever they crossed through a town next she would have to buy some fur padding for her boots and maybe a thick hood and scarf, a cloak to put over her ruana. Perhaps a blanket to put in her bedroll. She could only spend so many nights enduring the cold before she feared it would devour her entirely.   His magelight swiveled and grew stronger as he returned, eventually showing his torso as he trudged through the trees, and then vanishing as he returned into the thin ring of firelight. The wood he brought didn't seem too shoddy or wet, which surprised her. Still, it wasn't enough. She'd have to get more.  

"Your lips are blue." She looked up at him, raising one eyebrow.

"And?"

"I am not unintelligent enough in the ways of survival to know you are frigid, ahtlahzey." He crossed his arms again, head tilted. "I have seen every stage of frostbite and hypothermia. I have known Atmorans larger than myself who died in the frost. It is not a pleasant gamble."

"Good thing for you Tamriel's pretty warm then, huh?" she retorted. He scowled. The truth was she had no furs and no cloak. What did he want her to do about it? They were flat broke right now - most of her wealth was saved in Whiterun, and what she had brought on the road initially was meant to be replenished. Well, the roads had been dry of bandits lately, and the inns bereft of Jarl's bounties. Most of her coin went into food, and most of her food went into him. Most of her resources went into him. He still had problems. He was constantly fatigued and hungry, and had been deathly sick at least twice so far. He needed things that allowed for his size - custom boots and clothes. A bigger tent. Weapons. A backpack. She tried to put a roof over his head when she could, sleeping in too-small inn beds occasionally, eating warm inn food. Expensive. He had no money of his own, so she provided all she could from her own shallow pocket. He had awful dreams, and so she tried to make him herbal tea that would help relax his mind at night, but sometimes the herbs were not to be found, and she had to buy them. She had to buy potions, too. Anything she couldn't procure herself was bought or bartered for, leaving them at an increasing disadvantage with winter creeping in.  

Miraak made a click sound in the back of his mouth before scoffing, muttering and turning away. She watched him go back into the tent and waited until the flap settled to stack some of the sticks onto the fire and revive the flame. It worked for some time, soothing the numbness in her toes. But then it began to snow.  

Snow.  

She watched it fall slowly - she liked snow, it was pretty. She liked the way it seemed to dampen the world of noise. But at the same time, watching it fall now made her grimace. It began to gather on her ruana, melting into the wool, chilling her arms and chest until her muscles shivered uncontrollably. Finally, she gave up. Pushing herself off the tree's uncomfortable roots she brushed herself off and moaned in pain as the stiffness in her knees thawed and cracked. Gods, she hurt everywhere. Her back from sitting against the tree, her knees and hips from being huddled so close and shivering so often. Her shoulders from being tight. Her chest from being cold. The fire was dying again. Chewing her lip to dispel the misty tears threatening her eyes, she hobbled into the tent.  

It was just barely tall enough for her to stand in, which meant Miraak had to stoop far. He laid with his back to her in his bedroll - a bedroll made specifically for his height, requisitioned with her money - and a small candle flickering to throw enough light to show the edge of her own unrolled bedroll. Shivering, she sat on the soft woven mat they placed as a makeshift floor and pulled off her boots, bending and rubbing her toes to wake them up. Circulation was slow. She put her boots close to the candle and then untied her bedroll, spreading it and dusting it off. The thing was as cold as she was. She had hoped leaving it rolled would preserve some heat. There was nothing for it, now.  

She tucked her legs into her bedroll to warm them while undoing her ruana to shake it out gently, before wrapping it snugly around her shoulders once more. She would sleep in her clothes and hope that did something to combat the frost, though it wouldn't be the most comfortable-  

"Dii fil." His voice was gravelly, thick, but she could see him sit up in the low candlelight. He wasn't asleep? Tentatively she searched for that bond they held, and felt for his end of it. No, he hadn't been asleep, not fully, since he'd gone out for firewood and came back. "Sleep with me."  

She froze, staring at him in what little light they had as he rubbed his face.

"W-what?"

"Share- share my bedroll," he corrected quickly, frowning at himself. "You are too cold." She hugged her ruana tighter around her arms. Share his bedroll? "You can share in my body heat." 

"I'll be okay," she replied after a long silence. The thought of sleeping with him- well, it wasn't awful. But part of her was somehow...frightened of it. Unused to such intimacy. So she did what she knew how to do: reject it. 

"You are freezing," he grunted, sounding annoyed. "Do you plan to let the frost still your heart? You need warmth."

"I'll be fine," she replied harshly, matching - or perhaps overwhelming - his tone. He stared at her for a long moment before scoffing in disbelief and muttering in a language she didn't know, and then laid back down with his shoulders to her. As soon as he did she regretted it. He would be so warm. She did need that warmth, no matter what she said. But she'd already rejected it.  

Scrubbing both hands through her hair she pulled briefly at her scalp before sliding into her bedroll, blowing out the small candle. She waited a long time for sleep to come. She forced her body to be still, to loosen, to disregard the shivering. Exhaustion set in. She couldn't fight it. She fell asleep.  

"Tharya, wake up."  

She didn't know how long she'd been out - the tent's sides were still dark, and the light beneath the flap showed no light. It wasn't dawn. Her whole body felt numb, boneless. Frozen in place. A spike of heat landed against her cheek, sharp and unforgivingly hot. She whimpered. "Dii fil?" That was his voice. Was it a dream? "You need to wake up." Hands shook her gently, making her body creak and groan in stiff protest, but she opened her eyes. Gods, but it was hard. Her lids felt frosted over.  

Her vision was blurry, but she could still see him easily in the dark, kneeling beside her. He winced as a howling wind cropped up against the tent, slamming into the sides. She'd have to get some fur covers...

"Sit up," he said softly, though there was no room for argument in his voice.

"Miraak, why-?"

"I cannot let you do this." For the first time she noticed the scent of his worry flooded the small tent, permeated every corner and crevice of it. Intense and thick. She fumbled for their bond and found that his end was strained and thin. "Come here." It was only as he lifted her that she realized what little strength she had, how stiff her body felt, how her joints ached and how her muscles trembled. He was taking off her ruana and leather cuirass and he started on her shirt, but she jerked alive.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, squeezing his wrists. Why did he want to undress her? She slunk back away from him, but gods, he was so warm. It was hard to be without that warmth.  

"You can roll your clothes to stuff them in the sides of the bedroll," he said after a long silence, perhaps realizing he'd overstepped. "As insulation. And they will be kept warm and dry for you to dress in the morning. Dii fil, you are freezing. I cannot let you sleep by yourself when I can...I can take care of you," he admitted slowly, and she let him ease his wrists from her grasp. "I am worried for you." That was the core of it. As he spoke those words his scent changed, softened, to something more like...more like resignation, but sweeter, somehow. Nicer. Kinder. He didn't often smell like that. "It will mean nothing. Any Atmoran would share heat with a stranger if it meant their survival. I am only offering what I know will help you." That didn't smell exactly pure - he wasn't telling the full truth, but she appreciated his effort to detach it from the truth. They'd already kissed before, and there was undoubtedly something more to their relationship than what had been tested since the dragonmarks. The dragonmarks. She shuddered at their memory, but didn't speak of it. By the twist in his face he seemed to already know what she was thinking of.   Wordlessly he took her hands, gathered both of them in one of his. Gods, he was warm. The heat of his body radiated strongly when she was this close - she'd be an idiot to deny herself that. 

"I don't have to take everything off, do I?" She hated how small she sounded.

"No, however much or little you like. But you will be too warm if you wear all of it." She snorted softly. Being too warm sounded impossible to her right about now. The chill had begun to seep back in now that she was awake, making her shiver again, uncontrollably. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, and her neck ached from the strain. He reached out to take her hip, rubbing it slowly, carefully, as her breath snagged in her throat. His fingers tilted below the hem of her shirt, brushing her waist. His skin was like fire. "Contact between skin is very helpful against hypothermia." She opened her mouth to argue that she didn't have hypothermia. The words never came.  

Quietly she went about removing her shirt and folding it, and then folding the other things he'd removed, as well as slipping off her armguards, belts, and thick trousers. Her one piece of winter planning were thinner, skin-tight pants she wore beneath, made of snug wool. Miraak sat in silence, in only his smallclothes, which she envied him again for. The cold didn't seem to touch him. When she allowed herself back into his arms he was still as hot as before, pulling her close into his torso. Her knees curled against his sides, sapping his warmth up slowly at first, and then putting her arms around him for more. The heat of his bedroll had lessened without him in it but it barely registered to her when he himself threw such intense heat. She knew he was warm, but...  

Outside the wind screamed suddenly, bolstering and flinging itself against the tent like a horde of angry wolves trying to batter it down. It went straight through her, striking at her bones, clawing through her muscles. She didn't think it was possible to be any colder than she was, but that wind peeled her skin back and snapped at her very core. Without realizing she dug her blunt nails deeply into the meat of Miraak's shoulder, squeezing his ribs with her legs. Beginning to second guess.  

"Just a moment, little one," he promised, his voice almost gruff. But it was just a moment - barely a minute after he'd gathered and rolled her clothes he guided her with him back into his bedroll, and leaned over her to pack her clothes in against the side. She flushed against the sight of his chest so close, feeling one of his big thighs slip between hers as he supported himself. Strangely, she didn't mind being pressed so close to him. It was a terrifying realization but something she guessed shouldn't have been terrifying. It was just Miraak. She knew him. Or so she liked to think. His words from before dwindled in the back of her mind: it will mean nothing. Any Atmoran would share heat with a stranger if it meant their survival. He hadn't meant those words, she smelled it - it was something, and it would mean something to him, but what she didn't know - but the fact that he'd said them anyway was comforting in a roundabout way. He cared enough to notice her discomfort. To try and relieve it.  

Finally he settled, nudging her a little closer so he could lay one arm over her side and against her back. Quietly she tucked her head against his chest, arms folded to her sternum. To her surprise, he began rubbing her back in slow, massaging strokes, all the way up to the base of her neck to relieve the tension clustered there. It forced an exhale against his heart that expelled with it parts of her aches and pains and pieces of her troubles. He put his other arm under her cheek so she could use his bicep for a pillow, and rubbed her scalp with that hand. 

"You should not have to suffer the cold again as long as you have me, dii fil," he whispered in the darkness. Snuggled to his chest she could feel his deep voice vibrate through his ribs as he spoke. "And if you do, well...you need only ask."  

He oozed heat like red hot metal about to be put into a cooling bucket; like the roar of an overfed campfire coaxed by an evening wind. She tried to keep her eyes open to feel the way his hands worked, to enjoy the sensation of him stroking her hair and her back, and enjoy the cushion of his arm below her cheek. She wanted to be awake to experience him. But that warmth and that gentle touch were slowly dragging her eyelids shut, weighing her down. Her body began to relax; her muscles loosened, her joints thawed. Her trembling stopped. She felt as if she were melting past the bounds of the bedroll, through the container of his arms.  

"Miraak," she mumbled as her eyes fell closed again, fingers curling gently against his sternum, stroking the side of his chest on her fingertips.

"Geh."

"I trust you." This time she didn't fight to open her eyes. She was floating in a warm ray of sun, lying by the edge of a hearth. And the hearth held her so steadily, touched her so gently, breathed so easily. He was quiet for a long time.  

"Thank you, ahtlahzey," he whispered finally, and she felt his hand at her back slip away to find her chin, tilting her head up towards him. In the darkness he found her lips perfectly, kissing her so softly and so sweetly that she wouldn't had guessed he was the same arrogant, self-righteous bastard she'd taken from Apocrypha. The same sad, destroyed, despairing soul. "I hope you know that trust is sacred to me." He stroked her cheek gently and kissed her forehead before letting her relax again, returning his hand to drawing circles and shapes against her spine.  

"As are you," he added once she was asleep, closing his eyes. It made no difference in the darkness of the tent, but he didn't sleep. He didn't need to. She was safe. He intended to keep it that way, and to enjoy her so close, her marker of trust in his arms. For as long as he could.  

For years to come.

Chapter Text

His lips are soft against her belly, the weight of his body between her legs solid and comforting. She doesn't mind his kisses - they're lulling her to an early slumber, but she doesn't mind that either. He doesn't always come to bed so early. But she's used to the way he lays around her, sometimes at her back, sometimes against her belly, kisses her skin, breathes soft Atmoran prayers against her flesh. It makes her somewhat embarrassed to have such intent, meaningful attention centered on her, but she never stops him. It makes him calm, and at the very least it's time spent in each other's company.   

She tries not to overthink it. She is not always as romantic and loving as he is, and she doesn't spend an hour or two every so often curled around him and kissing him aimlessly while praying to her gods. She tries her best to reciprocate what he gives - his touch, his words, his constancy, but for some reason finds herself put off by the act of blatant worship. Idolatry of her self. It's impossible to tell what deters her. She worships him in the ways she can - keeping him safe, keeping him comfortable, adoring him physically, nurturing him emotionally, and loving him as strongly and as intensely as she can. But the way he overpowers her in these moments where he does nothing but kiss her body and stroke her skin makes her feel guilty to find her boundary of worship. Because it is not just love he kisses and touches her for. She knows how to feel the difference - and there is a difference from what he calls his worship. It is tender, relaxing, and he often speaks to her as he does it, and she speaks to him. It is equal. Communicative. This, he has no name for. This lingers. This is raw. Not vulnerable, but raw, exposed.    Unnatural.   

"I'm no goddess," she chuckles, trying to sound distant even though she has been honing in on every word he mumbles, lost Higher Atmoran that is too complex and too alien to make out most of the time, except for two words: mea deusa. My goddess. He does not call her this often, but its lesser use makes it all the more powerful when it appears. This is beyond adoration. 

"You are my goddess," he replies easily. It is not the first time he's said it, but something about this time feels wrong. Too much. She waits a bit before reaching down to find his chin, tilting his face up so she can look at him. He obliges fluidly, pulled and shaped by the touch of her hand. This is beyond devotion. 

"I'm just a woman," she hums, smiling at him a bit. "A human." Strangely, that makes him look disappointed. He shifts around so his chin balances on her stomach and then takes her hand, kissing it softly. Too softly. So softly it feels as if he's dying.  

"You are divine."   

It's not a compliment.  

"What do you mean?" she asks carefully, hoping he cannot sense her trepidation, but that look in his eyes is so far, his pupils so dilated, she doesn't think he could smell rotten fish if it fell on his lap. 

"Do you believe you are just a woman?"

"Well...mostly. Being Dragonborn complicates things," she chuckles, stroking his lips to get them to stop. "But at my center, I'm just a person."  

"I could not owe my existence to just a person." She doesn't know why but that sentence makes her blood turn cold and her heart drop through her toes. It is chilling, the way he says it. So offhandedly. Suddenly she feels scared of being discovered - scared of being a pretender in a goddess' body.

"You are salvation and strength. My goddess," he croons, smiling as he nuzzles into her hand. She lets him - her fingers open mechanically - but does not return that smile. "You are all I live for. All I am indebted to. And all I fight for."   

Indebted to. She knows he thinks of himself as an eternal debtor for her dragging him from Apocrypha. The idea never enthused her, but it seemed harmless enough to let live. It manifests in his devotion and adoration and she can't deny him the right to love her. She doesn't want to. But, as he watches her in the candlelight, she begins to realize he does not just believe himself a debtor. He himself is his debt. Everything he does passes through the filter of his debt, the screening, the sifting. She looks down at him and holds his dark gaze. Usually his eyes are lifeless, flat, but now they are...they are alive, but look empty. Exposed.   

His love is his debt to her.   

No - she dispels that thought before it can take hold. His love is his love. But she is unable to keep it from crawling back. His love...his worship....his worship is his debt to her. It strikes her before she can deny it entry. He was abandoned by his gods and she rose in their place. He worships her so that he may not be abandoned again, left for five thousand years of torture and assault and misery and the unattainable craving for death. Like a mindless pilgrim. Five thousand. She lets the awful reality of that number settle into her pores, not for the first time.   

Behind his eyes she begins to see the shattered pieces of his mind, usually kept so well hidden by what he has painstakingly reconstructed into a semblance of a person. She can't fathom the pain of five millennia. What makes her believe he can? He needs her to be divine. He needs her to be his goddess. He needs her to accept that she will never be his equal - only his superior. Perhaps his only in the world, but still one more than he would have if he was left in Apocrypha. She realizes grimly that he is so shattered in some places that he could not even attempt to rebuild, and so deeply, deeply broken in others that he does not even know he needs to rebuild. He is only repaired enough that he can function to his capacity - love, hate, change, sadness, friendship, loss, experience. That alone had been a task so lengthy and exhausting that, by the end of it, he had nothing left to give. The rest of him is scorched and salted. Beyond his own hope of repair. Beyond his own knowledge of what remains broken. He is like a skeleton with no nerves or musculature, wearing skin that somehow appears to fit.   

Once, her mother called him a fragile person. She hadn't disagreed, but had scoffed somewhat at the notion. His mind is incredibly reinforced in some places and weak in others, as is his soul, even his body. He'd shown incredible strength in their years together so far, but also an incredible understanding of his own weakness. She exhales a breath as she realizes that it all rests on the too-slender shoulders of one idea, one concept, one he will never be able to be rid of, no matter how little of it she saw, no matter how dormant it so often felt. It feels that way because it is deep, deep in his notion of himself. Deep within his own understanding of the world. So deep she cannot reach it, and so deep he may not even recognize its full existence.   

Mea deusa. My goddess. 

Chapter Text

He remembered the taste of her flesh.

Not just the taste, but the texture. It made his stomach flip upwards, remembering the slippery ribbons of skin that had strung through his teeth. He remembered the taste. It had been werewolf hide then, but he still considered it her skin. Slightly...metallic. Slightly salty. Not as clean and fresh and soft as her human skin, but still hers, no matter what. He remembered the way her paws had fallen against his horns, the same way her hands so often drifted to his head, to stroke his hair or caress him.

He remembered the wet. The red wet, blood wet, soaking, bubbling in his nostrils with each harsh breath. Hers.

He remembered the way he screamed inside of himself, desperate to keep the monster back, trying to break himself free before he could land such blows. But the monster did not care. It did not listen. It closed its jaws around her werewolf body and in that moment he wanted to die. In the moment its teeth - his teeth - touched her, he had wanted, more than anything in the world, to die finally.

Because in dreams like this, it was so much worse.

In dreams like this he was not a monster. He was a man. In dreams like this she was not a werewolf, just a woman, his wife, his goddess, and he hunted her. He ran with all four limbs in ways a human body could only move in dreams. He had only human teeth. But in dreams like this he was still fragmented somehow, a piece of himself screaming and begging not to do it. In dreams like this she seemed to move so slowly, tripping often, screaming more. She was not like that. She was smart and quick and she could outrun him if she wanted to. She was better at handling this terrain than he was. She was better at most things. Yet for some reason he moved so fast, and she moved so slow. He moved so precise, and she moved with such confusion, such lethargy. Such inaccuracy.

It enraged him because he did not want her to be weak. She was not weak like this. It enraged him, but excited him. Excited his beast. But in dreams like this, he was the beast. There was no difference. That piece of him pleaded for her to run faster, to move quicker, to disappear into the woods the way he knew she could. To lead him on some wild chase that would toss him off a cliff or down a mountainside. To scream less. Run more. Stop looking behind her. But she never did. She never did, and he caught up.

It was worst when he caught up in dreams like this. He saw himself lunge and tackle her down in a way that risked her body, shoving her in front of him, subject to his full weight and full speed. He never rammed into her like this if he could help it, and if he had to, he always twisted his foot at the last second before jumping. To cushion her. It was better for her to land on him than the opposite. He had broken her bones like that before, crushed her - not in dreams. In real life.

Accident, he screamed at himself. It was honest accident.

But the monster taunted. Was it?

When he caught up was worst. He had her. She writhed, but she was not as strong in dreams like this as he knew she was. It disturbed him deeply when she could not fight back. He wished it would stop. He willed his body to comply. It didn't. It was worst when he caught up because she was so helpless and he knew that she wasn't so feeble in real life, and he knew it was wrong, to see her give up, and he knew it unsettled him so deeply to see her stripped of her strength that he wished the monster would stop.

But it was worst when he caught up because his human teeth found her flesh. Not monster's teeth cutting werewolf hide. Human teeth, dull and pinching, chewing the soft, elastic skin of her belly that he adored and revered so deeply, such a sacred, beautiful part of her body, wasn't it bad enough he had attacked it in Oblivion? Was he damned to repeat his worst nightmare in dreams like this?

Wet red. Blood wet. All over his face and soaking his beard. His teeth shouldn't have the power for it. He would rather let them fall from his skull than turn them against her. In dreams like this he drew her legs onto his shoulders while he gorged her stomach in that awful mimic of love. In dreams like this he wept when she fell still.

In dreams like this he woke up crying.

Tears were hot from his eyes as he jolted and scrambled to sit up, swallowing his breath and making a pitiful moaning sound before he could stop it. He stood immediately from the bed, stumbling forward, reaching to find the wall of the unfamiliar room. And he wept. It came so easily, and he couldn't stop it.

"Miraak?"

Something glanced his knee and he fell slowly forward onto the rug at the end of the bed, kneeling first, then doubling over onto his elbows. He let his forehead rest on the floor, and wept, and trembled.

"Miraak!"

There was light behind him, soft and blue-green, and the wood creaked under her footsteps. She sat with a grunt of pain beside him, reaching to touch his shoulders.
"Miraak, are you-"

With a whimper he dodged her hands, dragging his face across the carpet and collapsing onto his side with his back to her. He pulled his limbs in close and tight, afraid to extend them. He strained his neck to lift his head, and then let it fall with a heavy thud on the floor. The pain rattled through his jaw. He told himself it felt good.

"Don't do that," she said, her voice alarmed but soft. "Don't hurt yourself, honey, please." He palmed his sides and squeezed his fingers into his skin to pull it in too. To shred it off. Nails raked across his ribs. The tears couldn't stop. He could feel her hands hovering, and flinched away from them again. "What's the matter, love? It's just me. I promise you're safe, Miraak. Nothing can hurt you," she said softly, her shadow short and slim behind him in the blue-green magelight.

Gods, it wasn't his own safety he feared for.

After a moment he felt one of her hands wedge below his to stop his nail from drawing red lines into his skin, and though he tried to shrink away from it, she held his wrist tightly.

"I'm sorry, big guy, but I can't let you hurt yourself," she whispered, her voice full of regret. "I want to give you space, but I can't let you hurt yourself either." But he wanted to. Before Apocrypha he'd never had these feelings, this concept of harming his own body as punishment. According to his very own beliefs the body was a sacred vessel. But that was very, very long ago, back when, in his arrogance, he thought he deserved no punishment. Back before his sacred vessel had been so utterly defiled and invaded. Made no longer his. He swallowed his pitiful sounds and wept silently into the rug save for his breath hitching and breaking and coming unevenly. Tharya did not move closer, but she did not let go of his hand. Eventually, he squeezed it back.

"I will never hurt you," he breathed into the darkness, watching her slender, malformed shadow on the opposite wall. The blue-green light was blurred by his tears and the sudden tension in his forehead. His chest jolted as he tried to inhale. "Again."
"Again?" she echoed gently. "You never hurt me before, Miraak." He whimpered into his shoulder. Never? Never once? Not for the dragonmarks? Not when he'd cursed at her on the road with Serana? Not when he'd kicked all her hard work in her face for weeks, months after she rescued him?

He curled in tighter. Not after he'd attacked her?

"What Hircine did to you wasn't your fault," she said after a moment, so firm and calm he could've believed it. "You had no control."
"He made that...that thing out of me," he whispered, fingers reaching around her hand. It was true. Hircine had spoken things, twisted things...pulled things from the darkness of his soul. He remembered the Prince of Oblivion marveling at how easy it was to find the brutality and twist it outwards. At how easy it was to seek evil in him.
"But it wasn't you. It took your body," she allowed, stroking his thumb with her own. "But it came from Hircine's mind. That's what he does. Twists you. Adds himself. Adds things that shouldn't be there," she explained, voice small. "Things not from you. It's what he does to all the creatures he makes." He could've laughed. So much for his sacred vessel. He was only the rag of Daedric Princes. "Can I come closer?"

He squeezed her hand tightly. "No," he whispered.

Tharya sat there for a long time, holding his hand at an awkward angle and watching his broad back tremble, muscles too tight, straining against his skin. He was sweating. She knew what he'd dreamt of, and wouldn't put him through the pain of asking. But at least he wasn't raking his nails over his ribs like before. She wanted to hold him, to cushion his head from the floor, but remained where she was. Even though she could tell he did want her close. His soul wept and reached for it. But he said no. She stayed put. He feared too greatly, and sometimes, the human won over the dragon.

Finally she decided to slip away and stand, watching his hand wilt and curl like a dead flower petal on his side as he reluctantly let go. She pulled her pillow off the bed and tossed it to the floor, then dragged off the covers. Stepping lightly she spread them out on the floor by the light of her globe, creating a large enough basis to add a thin quilt over the top. She puffed her pillow and set it down, and then got his from the bed.

"I'll be here," she whispered to him, reaching for his hand again. "Geh? You're safe. And I love you." Wearily he let her fingers thread between his, his hand heavy and dense and still trembling. But tired. "You've never hurt me, Miraak. You have never hurt me. Other people, other things have. But you never have. And I know you never will. And I'll never hurt you," she promised. "And I pray to the gods I never have. Zu lokaal hi."

She squeezed his fingers before drawing her hand away, risking a gentle touch on his side before drawing back completely. Quietly she adjusted her laid out blankets and sheets and then laid down on her side, facing his back. She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And on the edge of sleep, he finally moved. It was not sudden enough to draw her totally out of her drowsiness, but he moved nonetheless. Slowly, painfully, as if suffering some deep wound. He relaxed, melted to the floor, let his limbs go. She stirred, opening her eyes briefly, and settled again. When she opened them again, fully registering it all, he was dragging himself on his elbows across the floor to her, barely a centimeter at a time. Moving with incredible lethargy. Head bowed. Necklace dragging on the rug.

Without thinking she reached for his shoulders, guiding him to the nest of blankets, and sat up as he drew close. Groaning, morose and low, he delivered himself onto her lap, laying his head and chest across her thighs and settling at long last. Like a slug finding its drop of shade.
"Come here," she whispered, brushing his shoulders off, pulling his arms around her legs and waist. There was a hint of familiarity in the way his palms spread to caress her lower back, a ghost of Miraak Althëasson in the dry husk that laid on her lap. "Can I?" she asked softly. He nodded - she couldn't see it, but she felt his chin rub her thigh twice.

She put both her hands in his hair, combing through it slowly, rubbing his scalp on her fingertips. It coaxed soft noises from him, exhausted and little, breaths of air too young to be groans. Almost rhythmic, like a catch in his throat. They continued as she rubbed the back of his neck, pressing the throb of muscle overworked by tension out. They lengthened in sound as she went down his back, first in long, tight strokes along his spine. Then in softer motions on his shoulders, pressing them gently to relax them, and doing the same on his sides. She angled her fingertips to dig at his lower back, as far as she could reach. He groaned properly then, quiet and ashamed, into her hip.

"Rest," she whispered to him as she laid her hands on his shoulders again, rubbing them softly. He had nestled as far as he could into the seam of her thigh and pelvis, slotted against the lower swell of her belly. "Do you want to go back to the bed?" Carefully, his hands drifted up from where they laid limp behind her. He caressed her sides, soft, tender. Still healing in some places. The weight of them was, if nothing else, a comfort that he had regained some of his strength.
"No," he croaked, voice dry and hoarse. He didn't squeeze her but there was a little press on her waist, and he nudged forward a tiny bit. "You."

Without a word she laid back down, exhaling gratefully as she did. Her exhaustion was starting to creep back up. Still, she kept a hand in his hair, stroking it slowly but constantly, rubbing her thumb into his forehead sometimes. Her other one she draped on his shoulder. He drew in very, very slowly, dragging his legs around and bringing them onto the makeshift bed pile. His face tucked into her lap, equal parts skin and linen shift, made her fall still again. He held her legs ever so gently, barely touching them, but his face was pressed almost totally between her belly and thighs and hip.

Dry and faint, his mouth formed tiredly against her thigh in some hint of a kiss. Another notice that he was in there somewhere, buried. But it was him. It was all him, cycling once more through the infernal despair that seemed to shape his body. She closed her eyes and exhaled against the pillow, dragging her fingers through his dark hair. Feeling him move a bit every minute, his cheek touching her leg, then his nose, his hands by her ankles then on her calves, his legs apart and then laid one atop the other. After long minutes he settled. In the silence, his steady breath lulled her to sleep.

"I will never hurt you again," Miraak breathed as she grew quiet and heavy, watching the glass-paned door to the balcony over the edge of her thigh. She could sleep. He wanted her to. He would remain awake. Finally he worked up the courage to touch her again, caressing the back of her thigh in one palm, stroking it tenderly. Testing himself. He could.

He would not hurt her again, so he said. But every part of him wondered if they were not just pawns to Fate. Did he have control? No. He would need to have control. Over himself - as he stroked her thigh, he found that control, slowly - over everything. He would need to control everything.

He would harden himself once more, and try again.

Chapter Text

"Come on, come on! How long has it been since we danced together?" Vahlok crowed, tugging on Miraak's shoulders once again, trying to get him up on the table.
"I don't think this table can hold both of us," the Dragonborn replied in Atmoran, but along the length of it, Dukaan, Zahkriisos, and the majority of Tharya's family was waiting in anticipation, hooting for him to get up. "Not for this song." He shot a glance down the table to Dukaan who was plucking his lute in the same melody over and over again, egging him on, whistling the words.
"Come on, Althëasson! Don't tell me you've grown shy in your old age?" Zahkriisos leered, plucking a heel of bread from his plate and tossing it down the table at Miraak.

"Up you go," Tharya laughed, grabbing his other arm and hefting it up towards Vahlok. His brother grabbed it gratefully and gave Miraak a good yank.
"Up, up, you horker! Your wife wants to see you dance!"
"I cannot believe you," Miraak groaned at her, reluctantly getting up from the bench and stepping onto it.
"You're welcome," Tharya teased, reaching up to kiss him before he stood, smacking his butt as he stepped onto the table. Beside her, Jorstus spluttered and laughed into his drink.

Dukaan's plucking was steadily joined by Zahkriisos, who had taken the small drum from the Roscrean's feet and was beating it in a pattern that seemed to be everchanging. It was added to by Morokei's clapping, and Vahlok laughed as he tried to pilot Miraak into dancing, mirroring his movements. Quickly the rest of them swept what they could off the table out of harm's way.
"We are waiting, boys!" Morokei crowed. "I know I did not raise any icefoots!" As the melody restarted he, Dukaan, and Zahkriisos began singing - or humming, in Ahzidal's case - and Vahlok extended one hand for Miraak to grab. Exhaling a heavy sigh, but grinning, he took it, and they began.

It went slow at first, but only as slow as hot water on the edge of boiling. They moved in unison, swaying, palms still connected. Their voices joined the others, growing in anticipation, until the chorus came, upbeat and leading forward with rythmic clapping from all six of them that made Tharya jump. The clapping was timed with stomps that followed the same pattern, and Miraak and Vahlok danced away from each other in unison, clapping and stomping and smiling widely. Then, abruptly, all six of them shouted one word four times - hej, hej, hej, hej! - and then came the second chorus.

They all erupted into hoots and whoops of approval as both men dropped suddenly, doing some sort of dance Tharya had never seen before. Like a squat, except every time you popped up you kicked a leg out, and dropped down to bring it in, popping up again with the opposite leg. It made the table creak and groan, trembling under their combined weight, and the edge of Miraak's robe nicked Lofrek's chin as he snapped it back out of his way. Together they leapt up to their feet, stomped inwards, and met hands again.

Voices rose as the song continued, the dance the same each time but gaining little flourishes, twirls, swishing of robes - Vahlok even flipped backwards, which really rattled the table - before there came a part where all six Priests vocalized together, perfectly synchronized. Miraak and Dukaan sang the chorus together next, their voices deep and resonant. Dukaan, though, seemed to be mimicking Miraak's much lower voice rather than actually singing in his own register, and Morokei laughed joyously at the sight.

Miraak and Vahlok danced effortlessly together, singing almost at the top of their lungs and stomping harder, clapping louder. The song's pitch changed, building towards a great crescendo, and joining hands again they did the squat-kick dance one last time as they sang the chorus. It took much more coordination, Tharya thought, doing it so close together, so they didn't kick each other.

It ended all abruptly, cut off by bellowing laughter and hoots of approval as the other four Atmorans drummed the table loudly, calling out in their native tongue. Vahlok collapsed back to sit on the table and Miraak leaned forward onto his knees - Tharya watched as he tossed his head back, laughing just as loudly as all the others, breathless from the song and unburdened of every care he'd ever had. The rest of her family applauded and shouted for more, but she only watched him, his bright smile, listened for that rich, full, gorgeous laugh she so, so rarely heard. Even rarer than his singing voice. She'd gotten two surprises tonight.

Eventually he stood, hauling Vahlok to his feet as well. Together they took dramatic bows, holding skirts and robes out to the side, before Miraak slung one arm around his brother's neck and pulled him down to muss his hair. Vahlok cried out and smacked at his arm, but it was toothless. And it only perpetuated that beautiful laugh.

"How are your knees, you greybeard?" Vahlok teased as they parted, giving Miraak a playful shove as he strode back across the long banquet table to his seat beside Tharya.
"Stiff," Miraak replied, still smiling as he sat on the bench, straddling it to face her. "It will be you and I next, my wife," he added with a grin, pulling her between his knees to kiss her.
"Yes! Briinmah! We must teach you!" Vahlok said, slapping the table excitedly. "Dukaan, Zahkriisos, start again!"
"Let me digest first," she argued, strapped tightly in Miraak's hold.
"Bah! A little dance will be good for digestion," Morokei snickered, standing from his spot on the bench. "Though my knees are no longer up to that song. Dukaan, play us something else." Leaving no room for argument the senior priest gestured Zahkriisos up on the table with him, and Vahlok took over the drum.

"Can the table handle all you Atmorans on it?" Bhijirio wondered aloud, rapping his knuckles on the wood as it creaked.
"One more Atmoran on the table-"
"Is one less Atmoran in the hearth," Dukaan finished, strumming his lute as he and Vahlok snickered. Miraak laughed again, abrupt and unbothered, the sound filling Tharya's ear. She memorized that sound, memorized the feel of his chest and shoulders trembling against her as he laughed. He pulled her close as Dukaan and Vahlok decided their next song, still chuckling as he kissed her cheek.

"You and me next?" she asked, reaching back to stroke his beard.
"Oh, yes," he replied happily. "I would be a terrible Atmoran husband if I did not get my wife on a table with me."
"I'll keep that in mind for our next dinner in Dragonsreach," she said, raising one eyebrow. That laugh came again. Pure and deep. As the song started and Morokei and Zahkriisos took their positions, she settled back into his arms, stroking his jaw lovingly. With luck, that would be far from the last time she heard him laugh tonight.

Chapter Text

"What name is the reservation under?" Vahlok called back as he pulled the door to the restaurant open, leaning around the others to peer at Miraak.

"Mine, Althëasson," Miraak replied, waving for his little brother to go ahead and give it to the receptionist. They'd rented out the restaurant's entire back patio - it wasn't a huge space, but with Tharya's entire family and everyone from Atmora, nearly twenty people total, they would need the space. Besides, the restaurant had offered up a good discount after some needling. These Nord business owners didn't stand a chance against any good Atmoran haggling.

"Thank you for all of this," Tharya hummed, wrapping her hands around his arm as they waited quietly outside the door with the others. "I know it was a lot to put together."
"You are worth every moment of it," he replied, stooping to kiss her hair. They waited a few moments more as Vahlok spoke to the man at the front, and then reappeared in the doorway.
"Said they need a few more minutes to set up," he called, shrugging. "But they just opened, so we can wait in here if it's too hot outside."
"I'm going in before I melt," Fjurkin declared, and most of the others grumbled agreement. Tharya merely shrugged when Miraak looked at her - she didn't mind the sun. It felt good. The evening was cooling, albeit very, very slowly, but the breeze was promising. She could stand outside for a few minutes.

Althëa lingered at the door, turning back to look at her son before saying something to him in Atmoran. Tharya was elated to have her here; her mother-in-law rarely left Atmora, so chances to see her were limited to the usually biannual trips up north. Even then work sometimes kept her from joining Miraak when he traveled home. Shuffling down the ramp a bit Althëa laughed, her smile brightly reminiscent of her son's, and reached out to rub Tharya's bare shoulders.
"She says you should go inside so you don't burn your back," he snickered. "Your dress is pretty, but not good for the sun."
"Ha! Thank you, Monám, but I don't mind staying out here for a few minutes," Tharya replied, and Miraak translated it back. "We'll stand under the awning, how's that?"

They shuffled together under the thin shadow cast by the awning over the door, milling around for a few seconds as the others went inside. Tharya checked her phone out of habit, swiping away an old text from her brother a few hours ago. Miraak hummed as he peered around them, taking in the pedestrian street and the blooming trees lining the walkway.

"Come with me," he murmured suddenly, taking her hand and backtracking down the ramp. The restaurant was in a spacious pedestrian mall with fountains, greenery, and wooden benches lining the main brick boulevard. Even despite the heat many people were out for the evening, strolling or shopping or looking for somewhere to eat.
"I think there's a bathroom inside, if that's what you're looking for," Tharya said, raising an eyebrow as she went after him. Miraak tossed his head back to laugh, pulling her towards one of the fountains surrounded by a ring of well-kept grass and flowers.
"Stand there," he hummed, gesturing to it. She scoffed playfully but obliged, situating herself in front of the fountain. He backed away, crouched, and fished his phone out of his pocket. "Now imagine, if you will, you are going on the cover of Vogue."

That pulled a laugh from her, and he was quick to take the picture. Click.

"A little shoulder action for the fans at home?"
"For you?" she corrected, putting her hands on her hips.
"Yes, for me. I am the only fan at home," he grinned, stealing another. "Perhaps not the only. Maybe Runa will enjoy these." Click. "Cross your ankles- like that. And drop your left arm."
"Yes, chef." He made sure to take a few as she adjusted - she always looked best in the moments between, the tiniest, fleeting frames that would otherwise pass unnoticed.
"Mrs. Stormhand, what are your thoughts on Leonardo Di Caprio's latest under-twenty-five girlfriend?"
"He's got another?" she cackled, posture loosening a bit to allow the laugh. Click. Perfect. Sunlight shone across her dress in ways that could never be staged by some studio light and a blank background. Her summer Cyrod tan was full and golden, her hair short and shiny, her lips parted to allow that beautiful smile. No, she would never be a model - she was much, much too good for that. In her was something innately inexplicable, something so gorgeous it had no name. He tried to name it by putting those rings on her left hand, but even then, it eluded him. Beautiful was too simple a word.

"Thank you, paparazzi," she snickered as he stood, pocketing his phone and slipping into her arms, pushing his sunglasses up onto his hair.
"Til hamingju með afmælið, elskavin," he murmured back, pulling her snugly against his torso. "I hope you enjoy it." That smile brightened, if it was even possible, as she rocked on her heels and held his jaw in one hand, shoulder in the other.
"Thank you for doing everything," she hummed. "It was a lot, but you did it. I appreciate it all." She shifted onto her toes to kiss him gently, stroking the smooth edge of his cheek below her thumb.
"Thirty is a big number, you know," he chuckled against her lips. "Take it from me, I've been thirty for a year and a half."
"Then you're braver than I am." He smiled and let her kiss him again, relishing the radiance of her happiness, the easiness of her joy. That was all he wanted for today. If she was happy on her birthday, then so was he.

"Aaaand- there! Hold it, hold it!" Vahlok called, rushing down the ramp and fumbling with his phone to take a series of quick pictures at a flurry of angles, crowing about the perfect lighting and pose.
"Can we get one?" Anari asked suddenly, and Tharya laughed as her parents appeared with Morokei and Althëa not far behind. Her mother gestured between all four of them, smiling widely. "After all, we did put you two on Nirn."
"Come in, come in," Tharya agreed, gesturing her parents in and Miraak did the same, scooting close to let Morokei and Althëa in on his side. Vahlok took their picture gladly, snickering over the two families' incredible difference in heights - even Althëa, who was short for an Atmoran woman, stood an inch or two over Fjurkin.

"Can I get in on one?" Vahlok asked after, looking hopeful. "Maybe we could do one with all of us and then the three of us?"
"I'll take the picture," Jorstus offered, seemingly stepping out of thin air. Vahlok joined them hastily, squeezing in between Morokei and Althëa. Tharya snickered as her brother stood there, a pillar of calm, taking his sweet time in angling the phone and no doubt messing with the lighting and saturation, before taking a single, pristine photo. "All good?"
"One more," Vahlok said with a grin, and then squeezed in next to Tharya as the parents shuffled aside.
"Don't crush my sister," Jorstus quipped. "Gods, Thar. You look really small."

"Pictures!" Dukaan smiled as he and the others came down the ramp too, all flooding around Jorstus. "The five of us should get one, don't you think?"
"I think we should do a full family one," Lilika said excitedly. "Both sides combined! You guys in the middle!" She gestured to Tharya and Miraak, still standing glued together in front of the fountain.
"I like that idea," Fjurkin said. "Everyone in! We can make two rows. No, Ramia, you shouldn't have to kneel. Let's make room over here." Within a few moments the entire group of them had organized themselves in front of the fountain, all except Jorstus, still holding the phone.

Tharya exhaled as she put her arms around Miraak's waist, leaning happily into his side. Surrounded in every respect by their merged families. Wordlessly he collected one of her hands and pulled it up to kiss, pressing each fingertip to his lips with a little hum.

"Excuse me," Jorstus said, extending the phone to a pair of passing women, who stopped and looked startled at the large group of people looking expectantly back at them.

"Can you take our picture?"

Chapter Text

"Thank you so much, Padme."

"Of course. He only woke up a bit ago." The other woman paused at the tall engraved doors, looking at the Jedi with well-concealed curiosity. It was all very secretive, though her friend assured it was nothing nefarious. After a moment she gave a slight nod to her attendants, who fell back out of earshot for the illusion of privacy. "I don't mean to pry, but is there truly nothing more you can tell me about him?"

Wearily Tharya looked at the gleaming doors in front of her, impatient to have them closed behind her instead. She'd been waiting for this for a long time. A very, very long time.
"No, I'm sorry. But trust me when I say he's of no danger to you or anyone here," she replied finally, doing her best to smile at the other woman. "Soon I'll be able to introduce you properly. For now, thank you for showing him hospitality."

Padme considered the words for a moment before nodding slowly, accepting the non-answers for now. Someday she wouldn't, Tharya knew, but today they were safe. She pushed open the doors and held them long enough to watch Padme's attendants scurry away, and then Padme herself, before letting them shut.

The large room was dark save for the dusky sun-streaked sky outside; this half of the palace didn't receive the full brunt of the sunsets, which left it bathed in a thin golden glow. Sheer curtains leading to the balcony rippled in the growing night breeze. In front of those curtains stood a lone figure, tall and broad, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the fabric dance and crease.

"This planet is very beautiful," Miraak said after a long silence, exhaling slowly. He was dressed only in a pair of loose silken pants that pooled around his feet and fluttered against his thighs in the breeze. "Paradisal, even." She closed her eyes as the sound of his voice washed through her. His real voice, not garbled by communicators or recorded holograms. Him.
"I thought you would like it here," she replied. He scoffed gently.
"You thought right, as always, my star."

Wordlessly she stepped forward, taking in the grand quarters Padme had given him. Heavy tapestries hung on walls, and a small fire crackled in the hearth. There was a desk and bookcases, a sofa and chairs and table by the fire. The bed was large, unmade, draped with gauze around its canopy, raised on a dais. A curtained doorway led to a marble bath.

"And your friend?" he questioned as she took in the room, its painted ceiling resembling the night sky and fluted colored marble columns on the balcony wreathed with ivy. "She seems quite amenable for a woman of the Republic harboring a Sith Lord."
"A former Sith."
"Then you've spoken to the council-?" His voice filtered away as he turned at last, squeezing his hands together anxiously. She watched as his black and green eyes took her in slowly, appreciating the sight of her in the flesh - not through screens or holocalls. Her real body, her real face. Her real voice. All here before him after so long. "This is very cruel of you, my star." Mindlessly he eased forward, closing the space between them with a few steps.
"What is?" she hummed, holding his waist in one hand as he took in her dress, pale blue and decorated with gold embroidery, sitting low off her shoulders to expose the graceful length of her neck, her gold hair. Warily he reached for her hip, and found that she was solid under his hand no matter how ethereal she seemed.
"To look so beautiful after we have been apart for so long."

The touch of his lips sent goosebumps down the length of her spine; how long? His hands encircled her waist, warm and caressing, pulling her close. The kiss seemed to be both life and death, Dark and Light. Burning and cooling. Breath became an afterthought. They would never be so far for so long again - she was sure of it. It wasn't a question determined by whether the Jedi Council chose to accept a defective Sith or not. If they didn't, she would not let him go. If he left she would leave with him; if he chose to stay, to settle, to travel, she would be part of it.

"And the girl?" he whispered between occupying her lips, leaning down to kiss her cheek, the edge of her jaw, finding the soft side of her neck. "How long before she realizes such a famed Jedi Knight has a lover? A Sith lover?"
"Padme isn't entirely without blame herself," Tharya murmured, threading her fingers into his dark hair to hold him close. With a soft groan he paused, peering at her from the corner of his eye.
"No - the Skywalker boy?"
"Oh, yes." Together they held the silence for a moment of disbelief before laughing quietly into one another, embracing tightly.
"It seems we will have competition." With a smile she shifted onto her toes to kiss him again, stroking her fingertips through his short beard and tracing the edge of his jaw.
"I think we've had them beat for a while."

He grinned faintly against her lips, indulging in her kisses, in her taste, the feel of her body finally so close. Of her power mingling, seeping into his. Of their unity. She reached for the middle of her dress suddenly, finding a knotted fabric belt wound tightly at the waist as she kissed him. She began to unravel the knot and pull the belt aside, and he let his hands hover, feeling the fabric fall away so easily. It was a robe, not a dress, and beneath it only skin and lace.
"You may call me a former Sith," he breathed, hands sliding up her sides and hips as she laid her palms against his chest, touching the pendant there, "but no celibate Jedi could appreciate this pleasure, my star." Her back arched into his hands, lips sliding against his as he took each leg and lifted her into his grip. "Allow me to love you in the ways only a dark master can."

"Swim with me," she murmured back, draping her arms around his shoulders. "Watch the sunset. Dine with me. Bathe with me." Already his feet carried him towards the balcony, and together they pressed into the world of the curtains, sliding over skin and hair, dimming the sun, dousing all sound outside for a moment before breaking free. "I'm not expected back for days. And when I return, I'm speaking to the Council - and when I do that, you will be safe."

He paused to set her on the thick stone wall at balcony's edge, listening to the roll of gentle waves not far below. The red sun made a gleaming gem of the sea, brightening the world as they shared one more kiss.

"From the Light, perhaps, my star. But never from the Dark."

Chapter Text

With a weary groan Ralof eased himself onto the stone floor, making the measly candle set between them flicker dangerously. Tharya watched his shadow dance and bend on the ceiling before turning over to face him - his back was partially to her as he unstrapped his bedroll and laid it out parallel to hers.

"I wish they let us sleep upstairs," she mumbled, pulling the thin knit blanket their hosts had provided closer to her chin. It did little to insulate her against the frigid stone floor and equally cold basement air. The warmth of the farmhouse's hearth didn't quite reach them down here.
"Aye," Ralof chuckled after a moment, shaking his shirt out to loosen the fabric, and then rubbing it between his hands in a feeble attempt to warm it before putting it on. With a sigh he gazed at the rickety wooden stairs across the small room, lit only by the crack under the basement door. "I suppose they didn't want to step on us come morning."
"At least if they did I'd be warm," she groaned. "Down here, I'd shatter."

Snow would continue to fall into the morning, but the farmers upstairs had made it clear they wanted no soldiers in their house for more than a night. She and Ralof had barely managed to beg lodging out of them at all, and they were reluctant to share food. Such was the case across the countryside, it seemed. Too many folks frightened to be perceived as aiding and abetting, no matter their stance on the civil war. Too many folks living in fear even in Skyrim's remote reaches.

With cold fingers she lifted her hand to reach out and trace the clean bandages wrapped snugly around her companion's upper arm. Thank the gods they were keeping clean now. She had no more spare cloth to give him.
"I wish you would let me heal it," she murmured, stroking his shoulder gently. Her hands provided no warmth against his already cool skin, but even so the touch felt good. It created warmth, even if it wasn't enough.
"It'll be a good scar," Ralof said in that teasing, reassuring way he always did. That voice he seemed to use so often nowadays. He turned a bit, taking her hand in his own to examine it by the candlelight. "Gods, you used to be so tan. You're almost as pale as me now."
"You used to have a permanent sunburn. It's not summer anymore, you know." She squeezed his fingers once, letting him trace and touch the veins mapping the back of her palm. Her bedroll was starting to trap her body heat, but it would be a long wait for sleep to come. For the shivering to stop.
"Aye," he mumbled again, this time more distant, more wandering. Remembering the beautiful, breezy summer that had preceeded such a dreadful winter. Remembering a time they had thought the end of the war was in sight, just beyond the horizon.

With a sigh he pressed her hand firmly between his own before letting it go, pulling on his shirt once more. She watched curiously as he pushed the candle back a few inches so he could pull his bedroll close to hers, the edges touching, overlapping, and then slid under the fur.

"How many days did you say we are from the city?"
"Three. Two if we move fast, but-" he sacrificed one arm to the cold floor, taking her hand again and rubbing her wrist gently. "But we won't. Not with the snow." She rubbed her thumb against his, watching his pretty blue eyes gleam dimly in the candlelight. Like distant gems. Far-off oceans. "Maybe we can get some pity from the farmers if we help with some chores, wait it out."
"Ulfric won't like us being delayed."
"Ulfric doesn't like anything." He chuckled even though he knew her words held a true bitterness. Perhaps their leader didn't like anything. Perhaps he didn't even like them. With missions like these...it certainly seemed like it.

"Sleep first," Tharya murmured finally, and Ralof took one last look at her half-covered face, her six lines of warpaint and the scar below her eye, before she reached over to touch his eyelids closed. Committed each piece of her to his memory. Any night could be his last chance for it. When she took his hand again he squeezed it, memorized her fingers, her palm. Darkness settled, and thin smoke floated over his nose. "We'll figure it out later."

And, just like every night before, he prepared to lay awake, staring into the dark, unable to look away.
"Good night, Thar," he murmured, scared tonight would be the night she didn't reply. Blissfully, her voice came from the darkness.
"Sleep well, Ralof."

Chapter Text

Tharya allowed herself a smile as his eyes finally fluttered closed after a long battle to remain open. He always did that, tried to stay strong, and of course it never worked. She was beginning to think he did it to trick her into continuing. If he gave in too early, she would stop early.

So she continued stroking through his hair, dragging her fingers back across his scalp and pausing each time to massage the base of his skull, the nape of his neck. He was utterly motionless lying beside her, head turned on his pillow and one hand draped over his chest, the other lying beside his shoulder. She pushed through his hair again, this time lifting her fingers so the edge of her nails slid down the side of his head, and smiled again as his brow twitched, sluggishly knitting together. He always loved that soft scraping sensation.

"Your hair is so thick," she murmured to him, rubbing a strand of it, dark as the coffee that came from Hammerfell and silky smooth, between her fingertips. He took good care of it, probably better than she took care of hers; shampooed regularly and conditioned to perfection, scrunched and patted and left to air dry. The sight of him kneeling before their tall mirror and combing his hair only to pick out strands one by one to shake free and style loosely was a frequent one. With a hum she twisted a tiny little curl tucked at the nape of his neck and out of sight around her index finger. His hair was getting a bit long, and only then did it start to form curls. Usually it was just loose waves, little swoops to them, nothing big. Perfectly calm and collected as he always appeared to be. "Look at this little hidden one."

He hummed, tensing as he inhaled to stretch out a bit before letting go, sinking into the mattress anew.
"You may thank my mother," he muttered back, slipping the hand at his shoulder closer to her so he could trace the edge of her throat with one finger.
"Thank you, Althëa," she sang, leaning down to kiss the shell of his ear softly. "Thank you for your beautiful son."

He let the words wash over him for a long moment, relishing the surprise of his mother's name on his wife's lips. He didn't know if she had ever spoken it before. It sounded...it sounded pristine. Exquisitely so.

Wordlessly Miraak shifted onto his side and scooted as close as he could to her, his ear warm with the echo of her words. Here he could nuzzle into her neck and lay his arm heavily over her side, relax fully, sink into her embrace. As she began to stroke his hair again he pressed a delicate, tired kiss to the column of her throat, whispering in Atmoran.
"She would enjoy you," he added in Common, rubbing his nose against her neck.

Tharya let him melt close, let his shoulders cave towards her, let his legs press and lay across and between hers. He was so rarely quiet and vulnerable like this. So rarely this relaxed. It was wonderful to her to see that lack of tension on his face or feel the way his torso softened and bent, unguarded, willing to be reformed by the outside world. Or, at least, by her. She dug her hand in at the back of his head and scrunched her fingers there, massaging before pulling away, letting each strand slip between them one by one. And she giggled at the way he moaned into her clavicle. He was always noisy - she was used to it.

In fact as he drifted closer to sleep he became a little more vocal, an equation that had always baffled her. He let out soft, grateful little sounds when she dragged her nails or rubbed the back of his neck some more, losing his shields bit by bit. His body lay heavy as a boulder against hers, totally still. Each breath was slow, long. Eyes closed and lips just slightly parted against her skin, relinquishing his awareness, replacing it with the blissful daze of sleep. She kept stroking his hair until he was snoring gently against her sternum, utterly lost, completely at ease. It was so terribly rare for him. And she kept stroking his hair. He didn't move an inch, not even to twitch, which he so often did soon after falling asleep as his body scrambled to follow suit and shut down. His breath fanned warmly against her, creating a humid circle over her heart.

"Sleep well," she whispered with a tired smile. She would remain awake a few more minutes to see him firmly off to the lands of his dreams. For long minutes he didn't move, merely slept, and for long minutes she continued dragging her fingers through his thick coffee-dark hair. Then, at long last, the heaviness of her own eyes began to creep in. She lowered herself off her elbow to lie with him, her face almost touching his. Her body weighed into the mattress bit by bit, limb by limb. She kept stroking his hair, albeit slower, lighter. After much battling she let her eyes close for the night, letting the bedside candle run down, feeling him out in the darkness behind her eyelids. She stroked his hair until her arm ceased to obey her sleeping brain, and she fell into a deep slumber with her fingers still threaded through those coffee waves, tired as him.

Chapter Text

She doesn't really notice how his body has changed in their five years since Solstheim at first. To her, his body is just that. Her abundant familiarity with it means she's somewhat blind to gradual changes, and these ones happened slowly. But one morning when the house is empty and she sits in one of his rarely-worn long sleeves, cradling a hot mug in her cold hands, she watches him strain his tea and lean against the counter. For the first time in a while, she looks him over. Slowly.

He's gained some weight, which she is glad for. No amount of gain or loss could ever make her love him less, but she remembers the way he lost so much mass in those early months. First rotting in Tel Mithryn, and then in Windhelm. For a while on the road she'd never been able to feed him enough. His robes had hung off his shoulders, his belt had always wound tighter. He had never gotten bone-thin, but for a man of his size, that much loss was more than noticeable. She remembers his face losing some of its fullness, his cheeks looking less broad. He isn't like that now - indeed, he's changed even from what he was once he regained all that weight. She remembers he used to be a bit more slender in the torso, muscles more rigid and showing. There's more cushion to him now, even though his arms and chest look heavier than before with muscle. His stomach and sides are softer, his thighs a little fleshier. His shoulders seem broader, more rounded out. He is, quite simply, a massive boulder of a human being.

She thinks she prefers this bigger version of him with a little more softness. If for no other reason than it makes him incredibly comfortable to snuggle up to and lie on. All his strength lurks just below that little belly cushion. His thighs spread when he sits but they are rock hard when he moves. And she thinks maybe his chest is bigger, and she'll never complain about that. He seems to take up more space not just physically - something she remembers him being quite reluctant to do early on. He commands more of the air around him, looks more at ease in this strange world she's pulled him into. Perhaps it helps that they have a home now, a place to return to. And perhaps it helps she built things to fit his size, so that he doesn't always have to be careful, mindful, and delicate. She watches as he uses one, a large wooden spoon she carved herself to fit his much bigger hands, to stir a bare drop of honey into his tea. When he sees her looking over at him he straightens a little bit, and smiles.

He's a boulder but he's her boulder. His hair is a mess from just waking up, his smile gorgeous and hazy and still sleepy. When he looks away again she eases out of her seat and tiptoes into the kitchen. She steps on the creaky plank to let him know she's there - he doesn't enjoy being surprised from behind. It is rare to find him with his back to an open space, unguarded. Even so, he grunts a little when she puts her arms around his waist, standing on her tiptoes to snuggle into his back. He is softer. She's delighted by the way some excess pudge pushes between her fingers when she squeezes him tenderly. And yet, as he straightens out again, standing to his full height, she can feel the dense muscles of his back rolling below her cheek, and the looming mass of his endless shoulders above her head.

"Good morning, my wife," he rumbles, his voice a little hoarse from sleep, his accent thick and rocky. She kisses his back lovingly - his pretty brown skin is smooth and oh so warm against the morning's chill. "I see you started the ogling early today." He places one hand gently on hers barely laying atop one another on his stomach, stroking her forearm with his fingertips.
"I wasn't ogling," she scoffs, and whether or not he believes it, it's true. She simply wanted to appreciate his body, reaffirm his beauty to her eyes. His mortal flesh and immortal soul have born the brunt of five millennia of pain and dread unfathomable to her. She knows he has a complex and often unstable relationship with the skin he inhabits. It is his own, but he feels detached from it most times. He has pride in the ways his body has prevailed for so long, and yet mourns things lost, altered forever. He knows he has changed. He regrets it and champions it in ways that are his own, and not always clear to her. But, with a happy sigh and another little squeeze, she thinks she is glad to at least have the privilege to hold him like this in the mornings while he is still tired and bleary and leaning on the counter waiting for his tea to cool.

With a soft groan he leans down a little further, putting his elbows on the counter and stretching out a bit with a loud, dramatic yawn. She knows exactly what he's asking for without speaking and rubs her hands along his back in slow, light circles. After a moment she crooks her fingers to let her nails drag over his skin, not digging harshly but rather gliding - she doesn't know why he likes it so much but he does, and not for the first time she thinks he's like a bear trying to scratch its back against a tree trunk. He mumbles something in Atmoran when she zig-zags over his back, and then stands again to stretch his arms up. His fingers can touch the ceiling.

"I'm thinking of going back to bed," he says as he turns, quite matter-of-factly, like he's proposing a business partnership. One hand slides below the shirt she wears as a dress, rubbing her spine lovingly, and she shifts onto her tiptoes to kiss his warm lips. "Can I entice my wife to join me?" He nibbles softly on her lip to make her laugh, pressing her body close to his, close to the form and figure she so loves. The changed skin and limbs that hold her just the same as they always have. For a moment she steals his kisses just so she can enjoy the feel of him - of his stomach against hers, the solidity of his chest which she leans on, his cushy thigh slanted against hers so he doesn't have to stoop down to reach her. His big hands caress her waist and hips so easily. His skin is so warm under her hands, the hair on his torso soft and, truthfully, one of her favorite things about him; he sighs a little as she kisses him, stroking his beard, his hair.

"You're beautiful," she murmurs, stretching her arms over his shoulders. He looks a little surprised, searching her eyes for any clues or context. There are none. No precursors for love. No requirements for adoration. "I'd love to go back to bed with you, my husband."

Chapter Text

Amiyah wasn't wholly unfamiliar with the house of her aunt and uncle, living out of the city, in the eastern plains at the foot of the forest and the distant, jagged mountains above. Though she didn't quite remember it, she'd napped here many summer afternoons as an infant while the family enjoyed the golden field behind the house and the cold White River running beside it. She'd eaten here many times, sat on someone's lap and fed much to the delight of everyone around the table. Her uncle had been the man to guide her delivery into this world - though Amiyah herself didn't know that. She knew her uncle was a bit frightening to look at, but had never been anything but gentle and loving to her despite his size and appearance and his low voice. He was the best to snuggle; there was just so much of him to lay on, and he was always so warm. Sitting on his shoulders felt like sitting atop the Throat of the World. And he sang to her sometimes, her and her siblings, in words she didn't understand but were pretty nonetheless.

Armed with this knowledge she dared to tiptoe past the ajar door of her aunt and uncle's bedroom, clutching a loveworn stuffed horse that had been Maleda's once upon a time. The interior of the room was cast in a dull light from the smokeless blue fire dancing in the small corner hearth. Magic fire. She didn't quite understand it, but it filled the room with a perfectly balanced heat to ward off the winter cold. There were two windows, one on each side of the bed, and the left one was cracked open to allow an occasional slip of frigid air in. Her feet took her automatically to the left side of the room, but she paused. Everything was silent except, when she strained, for their breathing, soft and mismatched. They were tucked together in one strangely long lump under the covers. In the bluish haze she could see her uncle's long arm draped over the quilt and fur blankets, his rings glinting occasionally as the magic flames danced.

She squeezed the horse and shivered as a gust of wind screeched by and slithered through the small window opening. Why did they leave it open like that, even a bit? Why bother with the fire then? It didn't matter...she should just go back to her own pile of blankets and pillows shared with her sister downstairs. But the trek up had been so long and so frightfully dark. Winter nights gave no light to climb the endless staircase by. She could just as easily have woken her other uncle, whose room was downstairs, who usually checked on the three of them throughout the night anyway. Why come all the way up? Why tiptoe into this room? Braving the dark was one thing...

Sudden movement made her stand stiff where she was, squinting into the darkness as a strange, long figure lifted from the solidity of the bed and then slunk to the floor. Amiyah whimpered as cold air brushed along her face again, and a weird feeling of fur rubbed against her legs. It was the cat. Her mother hated the big cat, and Amiyah couldn't help her fear of it. Runa's teeth were nearly as long as her arm, and she was a sabre cat of all things, not a common house tabby. Was it really okay to keep her? Runa purred lowly, but she stood as tall as Amiyah was, if not a bit taller from paw to shoulder. Ramia had expressly forbidden the animal to be around Amiyah or Maleda when they were first born. That didn't make it comforting to have her here now, butting her head lightly into Amiyah's arm.

Swallowing, the girl clutched her horse and prepared to tiptoe backwards. She could go back downstairs. Wake her Uncle Bhijirio. Or Nazarion. Nazarion never complained about being woken up, but Amiyah could tell it annoyed him. But the stairs were too dark. She'd done it once to get up here on the promise of her aunt and uncle waiting for her, but could she do it again?

She jumped a bit as Runa slipped away and eased herself back up onto the bed, but didn't lay down again. No, instead she pressed her front paws onto the larger half of the lump, and kneaded the blankets for a moment before lowering her head to find her second master. Amiyah couldn't see what she was doing - probably licking him - but, sure enough, after a minute there was a twitch and rustling of covers, and a low, croaky voice mumbling something foreign. After ignoring her for a long moment extra Miraak finally gave in and untangled himself to sit up, looking groggy in the bluish firelight and doused equally in jagged shadows that, Amiyah thought, always seemed to bend differently around him. He mumbled something again in Atmoran to Runa, petting her kindly. Shivering again, Amiyah shuffled into a shaft of firelight.

"Mea deuse- aelskling, what do you need?" he whispered as she came closer to the bed, jolting a bit when he first noticed her. "You scared me, little sunbeam," he chuckled as she tried to find the edge of the mattress. "That is usually very hard to do." Soundlessly Runa laid over the end of the bed again, putting her chin on her paws and no doubt watching as Miraak eased out from below the covers. Amiyah didn't want him to - it was bad enough she'd woken him up, bad enough she'd come up here - but before she could protest she was being lifted into his arms, into his warmth, held steadily against his firm shoulder.

Miraak didn't expect her to answer. Children only ever came to their guardian's bedroom for one thing: to be comforted. Amiyah was just barely now a toddler. He'd delivered her as a newborn, held and swaddled her as a baby, and now picked her up easily as a toddler so she could enjoy his protection without having to ask for it. He didn't mind being pulled from bed for any of the young ones of this family, he never would, even when they were not young anymore, at least not young enough to want to be picked up.

"Are you alright, my darling?" he cooed against her hair, rocking slowly as he paced towards the fire. Tiny hands fought to find some part of his shoulder to hold, but she nodded, squeezing herself into the area around his neck and collarbone. Amiyah was still so small, barely up to his knee. It made him...protective, fiercely so. Just as he was with the others, but for her it was somewhat different. For one so tiny and vulnerable, he knew her protection fell to everyone equally - but perhaps most of all to him, so large and strong. He remembered her as an infant. He remembered being terrified to hold her then, even smaller, even weaker. Too small. Born prematurely, she was thin and slight then. She'd grown, but to an Atmoran, not by any significant standard. He'd overcome his fear with the sense of duty, the sense of protectorship. It was all that mattered to him now concerning the children of this family.

"Rest easy, sunbeam," he soothed, rubbing her little back with his hand as big as her torso. "I have you. How about a candle?" As he rocked he made an errant wave with one hand, and a little candle on the desk across the room flickered to life. "Are you scared?" Squeezing the stuffed horse in one arm and the back of his neck in the other, she chanced a little nod.
"Noises downstairs," she whispered into his skin, her voice thick with unshed tears.
"Oh, yes. It's only the house trying to talk to you, my darling," he murmured as he made his way back towards the bed, stopping to pick up the candle. "It gets lonely when we all go to sleep for the night. Sometimes, on winter nights like tonight-" He put the candle lightly on the bedside table and closed the window so it wouldn't be put out, and then eased himself back onto the mattress. Amiyah clung around his neck as he half laid down, sitting with his shoulders and head propped against the headboard. "It speaks with the wind, so as to not be quite so lonely. But houses don't talk like you and I, so it can sound frightening to us, can't it?"

As delicately as he could he pressed away the warm tears wetting her little cheeks, pulling the covers up to her feet and continuing to rub her back. She seemed content to stay on his chest, and he was content to let her.

"You know, your aunt can speak to the house very well, little sunbeam. I will ask her tomorrow to have a chat," he whispered, allowing himself to kiss her warm forehead. "That way you can sleep better next time. So long as you remember nothing in this little world will ever harm you when your aunt and I are here with your beloved mother and father. So there is nothing to fear, my darling," he promised. "Nothing at all."

She didn't reply save for a soft whine as she cried, but gradually her shivering stopped, her tears dammed. Gradually as he rubbed her back and hummed old Atmoran songs she would never understand she grew heavy and tired, and at last he placed her carefully in the cradle of sheets and warmth between him and Tharya to let her sleep soundly. He was certain Tharya was awake, at least enough to know Amiyah was there, and so leaned over to kiss her too, rubbing her shoulder lovingly.

"I'll speak to the house," Tharya mumbled against his chin as he found her cheek, reaching one blind hand to touch his arm as he leaned over her. She rolled over onto her side to put her hand around Amiyah's tiny one, stroking her arm slowly. She fell asleep easily not long after, slipped back into that kind slumber she'd only just woken from. Miraak turned to blow the candle out at last and put his cheek on his hand, pushed up on his elbow as he sat in total silence.

In the dim blue light he didn't sleep, didn't dare to close his eyes, but rather took in the scene offered to him. Amiyah, with her light brown skin and her father's eyes, could so much be the thing he wanted so dearly in this life. But the thing he had given up a very long time ago. Miraak was sure he could not be a worthy father, but it didn't ease the ache of being barred from children of his own any less. The only thing that did ease such an ache were moments like these, where his nieces and nephews found him, found Tharya for their protection, their support, his warmth, his strength. They could rely on him. The only thing that did ease the ache were moments like these, watching his wife sleep peacefully beside a child not of her own womb, but related nonetheless. Related enough that, for a time, as the world slept, as no one was there to question him, he could pretend the scene he looked upon was his wife he loved and worshipped so absolutely asleep beside their own legacy. Beside their own aelskling. It never helped and yet it helped much that Ramia and Jorstus' children could pass for such - they bore enough of their father to recognize their Sun-Sword blood. Tharya's blood, too. And yet enough of Ramia's Redguard ancestry he could trick himself into believing it was his skin they inherited.

Even when he put his head down to its pillow he didn't take his gaze away. How could he? It was too sweet a lie. Too harmless to effect anyone but himself. He knew it for a lie, and yet the pretending helped ease the ache all the same. It seemed counterintuitive, to employ the beautiful falsehood without it deepening the pain, but it didn't. It was too beautiful a lie to believe in wholly, he thought. His wife and the daughter that was not theirs.

He always knew he wanted a daughter.

Chapter Text

As Tharya approached the mirror in the corner of the room, cold, tired, and long past ready for bed, she nearly walked directly into the man stepping out of it, portal rippling and glowing to admit him into the bedroom.

For a long moment she and Miraak merely stood there, hands on their hips, staring at one another. Behind him the mirror portal settled again, looking as solid and silvery as if it had never changed.
"Well?"
"Well?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"What are you doing?"
"Standing in front of you. What are you doing, Dragonborn?"
"Looking for my husband," she said matter-of-factly, making a show of peering around the room, leaning around him to look. "I was going to ask him to come to bed."
"Oh, were you?" he crooned, shuffling closer until the fabric of his shirt nearly touched her nose. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance."
"Sure, you can look," she sighed, waving one hand theatrically as she began to draw away. He snatched her before she could, though, pulling her back into his chest so she could only giggle and reach over his squeezing arms for the bed again.

"Oh no, Dragonborn, I meant I could come to your bed," he purred, hefting her off the ground so she dangled in his grasp, holding onto his forearms and snickering. "I am quite an expert at coming in bed. Could put your husband to shame, I believe." She twisted around a little bit to peer at him expectantly, even as he hoisted her up in his grip, so far they were almost eye-level.
"I don't think my husband would like that," she said, batting her eyelashes at him.
"Well, he can't be a good husband, if he has so thoughtlessly abandoned you," he huffed, striding forward to set her down on the mattress.

Before she could twist around or move back Miraak practically sat on her lap, and Tharya couldn't help the wheeze of surprise that left her as part of his weight settled on her knees.
"Good- gods," she grunted, putting her hands on his thighs as if it could relieve any of the pressure of having the largest man she knew on top of her.
"Something the matter?"
"I think maybe-"
"Excellent," Miraak chortled, reaching back to grab the collar of his shirt. "You know, this husband of yours-" as he spoke he pulled the shirt up and over his head, tossing it away onto the bed. "You look disappointed."
"I liked the way the shirt looked on you," she pouted. "My husband never wears shirts."
"Is that so? What a barbarian. I'll admit it makes one's chest look quite appetizing."

Laughing happily, Tharya scooted back enough so she could lay down again, and Miraak relieved some of his weight from her poor knees with a grin.
"Well, I would put it back on if you weren't making a pillow of it at present," he hummed as she snuggled back into the heap of shirt under her head, soft and warm and scented from his wearing it all day. "Tell me, what exactly did you need this husband for?"
"Oh, he usually warms my bed," she replied airily, rolling her eyes as he leaned forward onto his palms, watching her with an amused smirk. "In winter, you know. I've been thinking of making him sleep downstairs in the summer."
"Truly? Now that is marriage cruelty," he chuckled, leaning down to nuzzle warmly against her neck. "But I suppose if he outlives his usefulness, it's only right."
"Exactly what I've been thinking," she hummed as he kissed her neck, the edge of her throat, lips smooth and familiar. Tharya dragged her fingertips delicately up his sides, pressing her lips to conceal a little smile as he twitched under the feathery touch. Miraak spread his knees a bit to stretch his back out, each kiss lingering against her skin, gentle and almost tired. She was glad to finally get him to bed, although...

He jolted almost like a cat would when she dug her fingers into his side to tickle him all of a sudden, back arching up and limbs bristling. She'd successfully tangled one of her legs through his so when he tried to squirm away he couldn't, and only fell heavily onto the bed beside her like a fish out of water. She didn't know how he did it, but most times Miraak was able to ignore tickling, pretending so fiercely it didn't effect him at all. He'd kept a straight face through much worse attacks than this one. But usually those little twitches when she touched him so lightly meant his guard was wholly down. That gave her a small window of opportunity to strike.

"This is marriage cruelty!" he wheezed as she rolled over to continue her onslaught, laughing as he tried to free his leg and grappled hopelessly with her torso. Every time he managed to push her out of arm's reach she just flew back in, partially dragging him closer by his leg. It was difficult to get a laugh from him - he did a good job of keeping his lips sealed on the rare occasion she even got to execute her plan - but his little gasps of surprise and swallowed giggles were indicative enough of her triumph.
"Consider it divine retribution for staying downstairs so long," she retorted as he swatted her arms, elbows pressed firmly to his sides to fend her off.
"What sort of tyrannical marriage is this that a man must be tortured for losing track of time?" he moaned pitifully, dodging one of her arms and reaching to grab it instead. She managed to slip her wrist from his grasp once or twice, battling his fingers, before he really caught hold of her forearm. She immediately saw the wicked gleam in his eye - she was half-captured. Simultaneously she gave up all offence and scrambled up to scoot away, pushing herself to the other end of the bed. In vain, of course. He latched both hands around her leg and dragged her back to him, sitting up now with a villainous grin.

"Now, let's not be hasty, my most beloved, darling, handsome husband-"
"Hasty, my wife? I was perfectly content to play your sordid extramarital lover and kiss and hold you before you declared this war," he interrupted with a huff, looking frazzled and his hair tousled. She squealed as he took her other arm and transferred both wrists to hold in one of his hands, and used his free palm to pin her hip. She strained and wriggled for a moment, and he let her for no other reason than the amusement of it. "Do not make it a test of strength, my beloved," he cooed, pulling her arms so he could kiss each of her fingertips as he grinned, straddling her thighs and pressing enough of his weight to make her immobile. "You know exactly who would win, and though I am ever yours, it would not be you."
"I have won before, though," she pointed out, trying to distract him by stroking his jaw with her hands clasped just below his chin.
"By cheating."
"How else am I supposed to play?"
"Fairly, so that I can win every time," he teased, fingers trailing down her arm. She tried to stroke his cheeks, to pull his attention away, but to no avail. He traced and rubbed her side warmly with a perfectly innocent smile on his face, and as much as she tried to steel herself for the oncoming attack it did nothing. With moments she was crying with laughter and yelping his name as he held her down to exact his revenge, squirming uselessly.

Somehow she managed to turn over onto her belly, even though he kept hold of her wrists and his hand dug uncomfortably into her chest as he fought to retain his grip; at least this way she could use her heels to kick at him, though it didn't do much good - her legs were hardly hers to control, twitching and jerking as he aimed his assault. Finally, when she was pink in the face and out of breath with his knuckles pressing into her sternum, he let up, smacking her backside with one palm and easing his hand out from where it was crushed below her.

"I know I shouldn't," he chortled as he traced the faint, fading pink spot his hand left, "but you are the embodiment of temptation to me, elskavin." He hummed as he leaned down to kiss the back of her flushed neck, rubbing both hands across her lower back, rear, and thighs. Tharya settled for catching her breath before she could even care to reply, exhaling heavily as he kneaded her hips. With some awkward manueveuring she was able to retrieve her legs from under him, and let her calves and feet rest upright against his stomach until he rubbed those, too. Easing himself further away from the edge of the bed he let her legs down again and leaned down to stretch out over her back, pressing one hand between her and the sheets as his lips found her shoulder.

"Turn over for me, little one," he murmured, nibbling the shell of her ear as he pushed his arm further to wrap around her waist from the front and help her onto her back. She looked tired, rightfully so, happily so. Her eyes fluttered shut easily as he found her neck again, planting delicate kisses along her collarbone, her throat, the soft underside of her jaw and chin. He slipped his free hand below her rumpled shift to spread his palm warmly against her belly, rubbing it in slow, tender circles, urging her muscles and limbs to relax once more. He'd been the one to excite them all over again, after all - it was only right he coaxed them back to sleep. And she looked so pretty, so divine in the dim candlelight below him, holding the arm by her head that supported him, snuggling her cheek into his palm. Entrusting herself to him so easily.

"I am sorry for losing sense of the time downstairs," he murmured softly against her cheek, pressing his palm ever so lightly to the lower swell of her belly to force the muscles of her hips to let go. Tharya giggled a bit against his hair, stroking the thick pillar of his arm delicately.
"I don't mind," she promised. "I was just bored trying to fall asleep, and I wanted to sit with you if you were painting." He was only a bit sorry to have lost out on her snuggled into his lap and hugged around his torso, dozing off while he placed his last few strokes on the canvas. He much preferred this, pampering and kissing and massaging her in the comfort of their bed, feeling her limbs relax and warm.

After a few moments he pulled her into his arms and whispered to her to lay down again, wait just a few precious moments for him to undress and wash and return. He found his discarded shirt and folded it to leave on the desk chair for now, stepped out of his pants and did the same, before finding the chilled porcelain basin in the bathroom to wet his face from the day's grime. He scrubbed his hands of any dried paint that had escaped notice, and, muffling a yawn into his wrist, returned to her. She'd discarded her shift as well, and snuggled close to him as he slid under the covers in her smallclothes. He didn't mind, he never could mind the chance to feel her skin, to have her true body pressed to him. Wordlessly he pulled her onto his chest, stroking her short hair and tracing her placid face as she held him gratefully.

"Sleep well, elskavin," he whispered, rubbing her bare back below the quilt and fur, squeezing her hip as she mumbled something distant and incoherent against his heart. He laid awake for a while as she drifted off, merely happy to enjoy the closeness of her body against his, the feel of her skin against his hands. Eventually, though, he closed his eyes and put his arms snugly around her, and followed her into comfortable wedded slumber.

Chapter Text

"My gods, forget it! Use some elbows! Excuse us!" Lofrek bellowed. People parted a bit more easily once they heard him yell his threat - the square was crowded, but not packed to the brim like the party in Solitude always was. And, luckily, no one was miffed about their struggle through. Most moved aside happily. "I can't believe we went to get fries at 11:57!"
"I'm sorry, okay! I didn't check the time," she groaned back.
"How? We were staring at a giant clock." Tharya yelped as she nearly toppled her fries, recovering them with only a few falling to the stone. All eyes were turned up to the giant clocktower and its huge clockface, ticking away dutifully. Fries were secondary. She had to kiss her husband.

"Ten...nine...eight-"
"Oh, gods, it's starting!" she laughed as she squeezed through a chanting family. "Let's go, let's go!" With new urgency she fought her way back to where Miraak and all the Atmorans stood with her entire family, all of them having made the journey in various cars to Lofrek's apartment and walked the rest of the way to the square. She could see them now, Dukaan's white coat and Freana's workboots stamping the cold out of her toes.

She saw Miraak turning on his heels, peering over the heads of most everyone and searching wildly, before finally catching sight of her.
"Where's my wife?!" he called theatrically.
"I'm here, I'm here!" she cried.
"Four...three...two!" He was bigger, so parting the throngs of people jumping and dancing was easier for him; holding her cheesy fries out to the side Tharya allowed him to slide forward, arms open, his smile huge. He wrapped both arms around her and swept her off the ground as the clock began to toll, and cheers and music and lights erupted in the square all around them. Her feet left the paving stones, the fries left her hand - for a long moment it was only her floating in his arms, his warm lips smiling on hers, the soft tickle of his beard. For a moment they hung between time, touched both years before and after, and, as she was every year, she was eternally grateful for the moments of bliss for a New Life kiss.

"8E, 409, is it?" Miraak chuckled as he snuggled into her cheek, squeezing her tightly.
"Our third year married," she hummed, rubbing the tip of her nose against his.
"I think we can do at least three more." Her feet found the ground again, the world seemed to return - all the shouts and jostling bodies as music began to play from all corners of the square.

"Wait, wait, I didn't get a picture!" Lilika cried as she fumbled for her phone. "Go again!" Tharya threw her head back to laugh at her sister's eagerness while Miraak kissed her forehead and cheek, gradually tilting her lips back to his.
"How about another three kisses?" he teased, rubbing her cheek tenderly.
"I think I can make that work," she replied, giggling, and kissed him again as time stood still for just a few minutes, celebrating, at long last, the start of a new year.

Chapter Text

She couldn't see it at first; everything happened quickly, tearing him out of that hellhole, dim and brutal, and all she could see was the way ahead with her husband finally rescued from Thalmor clutches. She, Mathyas, and Bhijirio continued through the forest to the sound of wolfhounds barking and growling into the night, catching their scent, of Thalmor hollering in Aldmeris and coming after them. All she could feel was the weight of Miraak's hand finally in hers, his long, running strides nearly outpacing hers. He was as eager as she was to get away from this place. More eager.

"They're coming up on us!" Bhijirio cried, and Tharya felt her arm strain as Miraak lengthened to his full strides, encompassing probably half her height across the wet forest floor with each step. She'd only seen him run as he could precious few times, and never when attached to him. Every muscle in her body screamed to keep up.
"Don't stop to fight!" she called back, her hand slipping from Miraak's grip, but he didn't allow it, dragging her behind him through the forest. If they stopped they risked recapture, and she could not allow it. Finally, through the trees, she saw a slice of magicka light up ahead of them. "Go there!" she shouted to Miraak, his pace still unrelenting, and together the four of them cut through the dark forest towards the wavering line of magick that suddenly spread open to an uneasy shape, illuminating Quaranir standing beside it.

The four of them shot through in quick succession and Tharya finally lost her footing, tripping as she leapt through and catching her foot on her own leg, rolling over hardened tree roots and small, jagged rocks until she came to a stop. Tangled in her ruana, she groaned as she sat up, and before she could unknot the fabric fully she was enveloped in his arms, his heavy breathing, his underfed and strained muscles twitching with exertion. He hugged her so tightly it was impossible to move at first, and then all she could do was put her arms around his as he panted into her shoulder, fingers gripping her sides, her hair, the nape of her neck. The others came through and Quaranir's gateway shut with a shower of sparks.

"Welcome back," she murmured softly to him, stroking his dirty hair, the grime and sweat coating his arms. "We've got you."

Quaranir draped the robe they'd taken for him over his shoulders, and after long moments of silence Miraak finally let go of her and put it on properly. Immediately he put the hood up, shading his already shadowed face from the dappled moonlight. Without words he embraced Bhijirio and Mathyas too, holding onto them especially long, and then the five of them returned on foot to camp.

She only saw it once she could bring him to their tent, the tent he had been absent from for so long, the pallets pushed together to make their bed and covered in furs and unfolded bedrolls. She never noticed how the wind cut under that side of the tent until he was not there blocking it, and worried that he had taken the draft without complaint for her sake. She'd put an extra stake down to seal it off.
"I'm sorry for the mess, mul gein," she sighed, letting go of his hand at long last to start moving things out of the way, things she hadn't been bothered to touch in the weeks he'd been gone. "I had the tub filled before we left, I'll warm it so you can settle in." With a flick of her hand the candles in the tent came to life, and she summoned a soft golden magelight to hover near the flat canvas ceiling. "Dinner should be on, I have to do a few things before I can sit, but you-"

As she turned her words slipped off her tongue and melted away. He pushed his hood down before the last sound left her mouth, and she lost what she was saying. He looked more haggard than she ever remembered him being. His shoulders were stooped, and in the sleeveless robe of his she'd brought to give him, his arms looked thin. Perhaps most of all his face struck her as worringly gaunt, stretched, filthy and desolate, though she felt it was in part  because of the nakedness of it.

Tharya couldn't help lifting a hand to her mouth, cupping her sweaty palm over her lips parted in disbelief. He wanted her to see it - the way he removed his hood, the way he stood there, watching her, told her it was all deliberate. She whispered his name between her fingers. The golden magelight did nothing to hide the grey exhaustion coloring his dull skin. And, as she crossed the tent to him, she watched a single unbidden tear slide off his eyelashes and sink into his cheek.

"My love," was all she found the strength to say, reaching up to touch his shoulders, his neck, her fingertips ghosting along the rough, lengthened stubble unevenly coating his jaw. "It's alright," she whispered as he winced. His skin was knicked and cut in places they had not wanted to be careful, in places gentleness escaped their criminal hands. "It'll be alright," she promised, and was surprised to find a smile on her lips. He was still Miraak, beard or not. Still her husband. Still Dragonborn. Nothing in the world could change those three simple truths. But she knew how important it was to him, those remnants of Atmoran culture only he remembered, things that would pass from the world when he was gone from it. To him, she thought, it must feel like the sawing off of a limb, or a sliver of his heart. When he ran a hand through his hair and his lips moved to speak, she understood what he could not say. He'd worried the Thalmor would shave his head, too.

"It's pathetic," he croaked after a few attempts to speak, his voice thick and distant.
"No, it isn't," she whispered back, squeezing his shoulders. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, filled with tears he would not let out. "It's not pathetic to mourn it. It's important to you. It's part of you and your home." It was dehumanizing. Demoralizing. But it did not make him pathetic, and it did not make his dammed tears over the loss of his beard pathetic. "It's a war tactic," she continued softly, unsure if it would be as comforting as she hoped. "It's happened before this war, and it'll keep happening in wars to come. But that doesn't make it pathetic. It means you were strong enough to survive it." His chin crimped and his mouth twitched and she watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, overcome with emotion in a rare way. She could not imagine how burdened his senses were, suddenly being out of that cramped cell, suddenly being safe again, back amongst people who cared for him. She hugged him in the silence as he exhaled shakily, frowning at how much weight he'd lost, how she could feel his ribs jerk below his skin as he sniffled.

Miraak didn't let her hold onto him. He was filthy, a wreck of a creature, and he did not want to soil her with the dirt and grime of a Thalmor dungeon. Hurt flashed in her eyes as he delicately pushed her away, but he could not meet her gaze. His eyes were clouded with shame.
"I'll heat the water back up," she said after a moment, squeezing him again before stepping away. The wooden tub was small but it was better than nothing. Better than the cold river. "I have to step out for a moment," she added, closing a flame spell in her fist and holding it below the glassy surface until steam rose. "But I'll be back in a couple minutes." She reached for his hand and, despite the dirt exposed in the cracks of his knuckles, kissed the back of it firmly. "Okay?" He only nodded. "There are guards outside. They can come if you need me. Just a few minutes," she promised, rubbing his hand soothingly. After a moment she leaned up to kiss him, and for the first time she could think of he turned away from it, deflected her with his eyes on the floor. She didn't press, and left him alone.

He supposed she knew he would want some quiet minutes to himself, as counterintuitive as it seemed, after being rescued from that place. She was right. Of course he wanted to stay with her, to be with her, to have her near again...but not when he was like this, filthy, beaten, mauled, deformed. He supposed that last one would be difficult to get rid of, to forget. To rectify. It was freeing to step out of his clothes, even the robe that he was too dirty to find comfort in, and he flung away the Thalmor rags gladly. The water was too hot, but he didn't cool it. It would burn away the dirt. The dust. The caked blood and crusted sweat. There was a small, coarse brush hanging by its curved handle on the tub's edge he used, and he bent forward, even as his back ached in protest, to soak and soap his hair. The little cuts on his jaw that the Thalmor had left as they robbed him of his beard stung under the suds. He would have to clean them before healing them, before shaving the mess they left behind.

Nearly an half an hour passed before Tharya returned, but the night sky outside the tent showed no signs of time marching on.
"Unless we're under attack or the Thalmor magically surrender, I don't want to be disturbed," he heard her order outside the tent, and moments later she pushed back the flap and came in. She couldn't help the little laugh that left her - he was clean, dressed, and rubbing a thick lather of soap into his face and neck, his posture slack and knees spread where he sat. "Better?" she hummed, placing down a heavy tray laden with two of everything she could take from dinner. She reached out to squeeze his shoulders warmly, rubbing her thumbs into the sore muscle.
"Very," Miraak murmured as she massaged his neck, feeling knots of tension he had never realized melt away in his jaw and forehead. "Thank you, elskavin."
"Of course."
"For finding me."

She met his eyes in the small hand mirror wrapped in magic and floating in front of him, collected his gaze in their small reflections.
"I would never leave you there, mul gein," she said quietly, but firmly, so firmly even the most skeptical would have no choice but to believe. "I'm only sorry it took so long." She frowned as she felt his shoulders again, rubbing them carefully, and he could tell she was examining him. The wounds and bruises. The thinness. She appraised each as if she had dealt the blows herself.
"I never thought it would be a short stay," he said after a long moment. "Such things never are. But I did not doubt your arrival." He continued to rub the lather along his skin, wincing whenever his blunt nails caught the edge of frayed or puckered skin. Finally it burned enough he was confident to heal it - slowly, as she continued to rub his shoulders, he wiped the suds away and cupped both scrubbed palms against his jaw to summon what little magicka he could find. There was a surge of it from somewhere, from behind, from her, flowing down through his arms and mingling first, then overpowering his own. His skin prickled, his veins felt swollen, cold, and then it was done. But her magicka didn't recede. She was healing all of him. As much as she could reach.

"You've lost a lot of weight, Miraak," she murmured morosely as her spell drained away. The skin was knit together, the muscles repaired, but the fatigue remained. The aches. The discomfort. Without a word he picked up the slim, straight dagger and turned on the stool to face her, spreading his knees to let her stand between them.
"I had weight to lose," he whispered back. Silently he passed her the blade and the damp towel he'd been using to wet his skin.
"Are you sure?"
"It needs to be done. Else it will not grow back evenly." She contemplated the knife for a second, brushing its tip against her index finger before sighing.
"Let me change," she mumbled, and slipped away to get rid of her ruana and boots and the night-cold clothes, no doubt stained in some places by Thalmor blood, both fresh and old. He watched each movement intently, the way she pulled the vest of cotton over her head, the methodical movements to folding her ruana, draping her clothes, moving her boots, donning loose and thick trousers for the chill.

How many times had he imagined that simple routine, how many times had he tricked himself into believing he was there, watching her just across the tent, and not alone on the jagged floor of his cell? How many times had he imagined her skin, her freckled cheeks and arms, her sunlit brown eyes and smooth hair like liquid sun? It was uncanny, how much she now resembled all those fervent daydreams. It did not bring him as much comfort as he would've liked.

When she returned he reached out to hold her hips, to feel her skin and pulse and body as she began to shave what destitute stubble the Thalmor left him with. He closed his eyes and let her handle his face completely, her fingers gentle, her palms caressing.
"It'll grow back," she murmured after a while, trying her best to sound comforting, to find the fortune in the misfortune. He knew she was right. It would be idiotic to mourn his beard for long - it was not a limb, it was not a death. It could be reversed. Left to nature, it would be. He had little cause for this desperation, but still...still.

"The last time I was clean-shaven," he murmured carefully, giving her waist a feeble squeeze, "I was seventeen." He was glad of her little laugh. It eased the world one more degree into correctness, he thought. "I have worn this beard for nearly five millennia."
"Five millennia," she echoed appreciatively, cradling his chin and realizing for the first time just what that meant. It meant his family and friends in the beginning of Time, in the Merethic Era, had known this beard she was now scraping off his face. It meant it was the first beard he had, maintained throughout all of written history until, like so many things, it was erased by the Thalmor. It meant it had been etched into his very being by the time she met him, by the time Bhijirio, Mathyas, or Quaranir met him. It had known the hands of both Morokei and Vahlok, and also herself. They shared him across time.
"I told you, it is pathetic," he breathed, his eyes shut again. "And yet I cannot seem to let go of it."

"And I told you it isn't pathetic," she insisted gently. "Miraak..." But what could she say? His culture placed such immense significance upon it, the likes of which were foreign to her mind, and yet she could still comprehend how crucial it was to him. How defining. But what words? How to say any of it? It was a task unsuited to wartime. Without finishing her thought she went back to the blade, holding his chin delicately on her fingers.

When she was done she made him remain and wait as she massaged lotion into his face and neck, his arms and hands, hoping it would do anything to help cool his aches and nourish his skin again. Finally she let him stand, and for a long time he merely held her gaze; she drank his new features in. It was strange to see his full face like this, his jaw dark, his mouth so exposed. It did not make him look much younger as she predicted, but she thought that was perhaps the fault of his flat eyes, and the vertical scar in his eyebrow. It was jarring, for sure. Surprising even as she continued to look at him. But it changed little about him. She thought the palpable shame he exuded, the feeling of guilt, the shaken security of who he was, changed him more than a smooth jaw.

"You'll never be anything less than handsome to me," she chuckled, her heart leaping at the twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth. "Now eat. Before it all goes cold."

She sat with him on their pallet, hastily made so the furs would lie flat, and rubbed his legs as he began to eat. Slowly, at first, almost as if he'd been trained out of eating real food, and then he went through everything on the tray. She told him of all that had happened since his capture, how they devised the plan to save him, how they carried it out. It still felt too surreal to have him back and each moment she thought would be the moment she woke up to the grey morning, to the empty tent, the dismal camp. But he ate everything from the tray and listened to her intently until she ran out of things to say and only sat there, massaging his thighs, glad he was clean and fed and safe.

"What?" he hummed after a silence, setting the tray aside and surveying her curiously.
"Nothing, I'm just not used to it," she chuckled, reaching out to touch her thumb lightly along his plump, pinkish bottom lip. "I feel like I've never seen your mouth so naked before." He echoed her chuckle at that, and in that moment he did look younger, like Miraak past, the one she had never known. He pushed his sleeves up his wrists before taking her forearm lightly, stroking her skin as he pressed his lips to her thumb, her knuckles, kissing each finger like he always did. This time he sighed, a wavering and uncertain sound, before kissing her palm and pulse too.

"I am sorry for pushing you away, before," he murmured. "For not letting you kiss me. I...I could not..."
"You don't need to apologize for it, mul gein," she promised, shifting closer to him and smiling gently. "You never do. You know I don't want to make you uncomfortable, it's the last thing I could ever want."
"I know," he mumbled, "and I do not deserve it of you." He craned his head to kiss the crease of her elbow, and then the round of her shoulder, the base of her throat. Her chin, her cheek. For a long moment he waited at her lips, his mouth grazing hers, his eyes fixed on her. Seeking. The kiss lingered. It was chaste. Sweet. But she watched the way his eyelids fluttered and brow twisted as if a knife had been pulled from his back, and she kissed him again, just as gently, to ease the exit. The more she kissed him the more distressed he felt, his shoulders bunching up again, his spine tightening, until finally he forced himself away. Not far enough that he could not feel her breath and mingle it with his own, not far enough to be free of her loving touch, of the way she held him so easily. Was it true? Any of it?

"You are an illusion, elskavin," he croaked fitfully against her plush lips, her warm lips, her smooth lips that kissed the corner of his mouth, and then the center of it, the lips he could not but help respond to. He groaned into the pretty bow-like curve of her upper lip, groaned meekly as she kissed him again. He wasn't strong enough to resist these dreams anymore, these visions spurred by his captivity. They were taking him slowly, his mind, piece by piece.

"Not this time, I don't think," she hummed, and that had never happened before in these dreams - and suddenly she was laying down with him on something soft, covering them in furs, her body close to his for the first time in centuries. And she kissed him just as tenderly, just as eternally, just as warmly as she could, let his arms rediscover how to hold her, let his hands search out their old holds. They kissed just like that until the bleak light of pre-dawn tinged the side of the tent, and then for the first time in a long time he fell into an unguarded, blissfully dreamless sleep in her arms.

Chapter Text

I do not wake as early as her. Never. Except the occasions on which we leave together at dawn, but most often she lets me sleep. I have no reason why, but I retire late and wake late, and I did so in the Merethic Era once. Kept late hours. Perhaps it was only natural in the wake of being freed from Apocrypha that some habits returned.

She is ready for her day early, rises like the sun, as I am sure her life before becoming the world's savior taught her to. We are similar in that regard. On some mornings she remains in bed, resting if not sleeping, enjoying the rare quiet, the rare tranquility. The time to herself, I hope. She has so little of it. On other mornings she gets up to go about her own tasks and needs. Occasionally I wake up to her leaving, but not always. When I do, I try to convince her to stay. Even more occasionally, it works.

"I have to get ready to go, big guy," she whispers, voice close and soft. Her hands in my hair are tempting to fall back asleep to, so soothing, so particular to her touch. It's barely sunrise, where could she need to go? She gives too much time to the city. A boneless gripe of mine - as much as I would love to occupy all her free moments, I am aware it is even too selfish for me to influence reality. For now I steal moments in the morning before I go back to sleep, but without her it is a lighter, cooler slumber. Less restful than when she is beside me.
"I know." She laughs at my complaining. Her skin is warm, the cradle of her chest and arms so, so comfortable. Nails along my scalp and down the nape of my neck coax sleep back, bit by bit, but it seems unworthy without her. "Allow me a few more moments before the world tears us apart."

Even amused she graciously accepts my request, stroking my hair, holding my too-large body close in her too-small hands. My wife. Sometimes the thought rattles me when I turn it over and over in my head, but on these mornings it merely muddies my mind and thaws my heart. When she moves to wriggle away I find that I cannot give her up just yet. The curve of her belly and hips around me is too perfect to let go of so quickly, so cushioned, so hearthlike. My wife. Wife. What a strange word. My wife.

"Have to go, handsome," she coos, gently pushing at my arms until they slip away to give her freedom to move. My eyes are hard to open but I try to peer up at her as she stands, seeing a smile on her face through the blur. "Don't look at me like that. Go back to sleep." Her fingers are cool as they stroke my cheek and guide my head back down, but nothing is the same without her. She remains for a few moments - even rarer, I think it to be an act of pity, but one I do not mind - before standing from the bed and circling it out of my vision. I listen to her get dressed in her heavy winter clothes, and then finally her presence reappears on the edge of the bed.

"See you this afternoon, Miraak," she whispers, leaning down so her cold lips find my forehead, and then my nose, and then my lips. With that she is gone, taking her delicate whisper of my name with her.

Against my disappointment I resign myself to fall asleep again. Last night was late, so late it became early. It is still early now, and the day will be wintry, so I have no plans. I rarely do, aside from accompanying Tharya if she desires. Otherwise I paint and take care of Sofie and plenty of other things semi-retired Dragonborns do to fill their waking hours. I sleep.

My slumber is always more shallow without her, as if my mind is unwilling to let go of my awareness of the world. For fear or anticipation of what, I do not know. I hear the door creak almost ten minutes after she leaves, but it doesn't disturb me. Runa usually joins me in bed after Tharya leaves. But this time, there is no feline weight around my feet or paws kneading my back.

"Elskavin?"
"Never mind. It's snowing," she says quietly as she undresses again, and then slides quickly back under the covers. Her hands are cold against my sides but I take them in gratefully; the coolness feels good for me, and she can take my warmth. "No way I'm walking to the city." She sidles and snuggles close in only the ways she can fit me, humming happily to herself close to my heart, hugging my torso and huddling under my chin. A yawn forms tears against my eyes but it is better than anything to have her back. Such simple pleasures have become necessary to me in the past few years.

"You fell back asleep fast," she teases softly. I can relax around her, limbs heavy, breath slow. She feels good to hold. Like the winter sun.
"Never," I murmur. "How can I sleep without my wife?"
"You were snoring."
"Or bemoaning the loss of my wife."
"Well, she's back," she giggles, lips still cold from the dawn-colored outdoors as they touch the base of my throat. "Now you can sleep soundly." She is joking, but it is true. I sleep sounder in her arms, sounder than perhaps I ever have in my long, long life. I was never one for simplicity before, but nothing surpasses cold winter mornings wrapped in our furs and linens and holding each other. Nothing surpasses resting beside the woman who has so thoroughly and beautifully altered my entire existence for the past five millennia.

In the silence things begin to settle. Breath, temperature, sound. Awareness. It is a sensation I feared for centuries, but she makes it safe. Loving, even. It took a long time to learn to sleep again, but now that I have, there is nothing in the world I would give it up for. I was never one for simplicity before, but this, the simplest, most natural act, has become the greatest joy of my second life. The fact that she shares it with me only serves to make it better.

Chapter Text

"Yes, but who is she?"

Gold hair was rare in Atmora, even rarer in such a pure color - most often when it appeared it was rather dusty looking in Dukaan's opinion, neither brown nor yellow. But hers was gold, molten, liquid, like Miraak's eyes. It fell to her waist, a respectable length, and was straight and fine but not too thin and not too straight.

"Her hair is braided," Dukaan mused as the pair spun through his line of sight again.
"Is it his?"
"I think so." He recognized Miraak's handiwork because he himself had worn it once or twice. The First Mage preferred flatter strands, nothing so loose or tightly portioned as some others but something fashioned to display its natural beauty. Her braid started low, or at least it appeared to, but sheaves of hair at the back of her head were layered so minutely and so loosely it was impossible to see. And it glittered. The braid itself was a five-strand, quite impressive for a woman Dukaan and Zahkriisos had not met nor heard Miraak speak of before tonight. There were smaller braids barely the width of Dukaan's pinky interwoven as well, creating an altogether new pattern that swayed gently downwards. Small gemstones littered her hair, catching and gleaming in the light, and she wore what looked like small blue snowlilies tucked into pieces of the braid. It looked like at least two hours of work.

"Interesting," Zahkriisos hummed, tapping his glass curiously. "That is quite juvenile, no?"
"Not in some parts of the country," Dukaan replied, taking a long sip. "Especially to the south."
"Jylfurfyk?"
"I'm not sure. She could be eastern. Sometimes they have bright hair."
"The dress, then." A pang of guilt shuddered through Dukaan before dissipating. Did it really matter who the woman was if Miraak was content? She could be a new concubine, for all they knew, though she didn't seem his type to take in. Were Lok and Shul here? They were often easy to weasel bits of information out of. The dress was heavy winter fabric patterned with dark embossing, and jewels sewn around the waist and bodice to make her gleam as she turned. There was a thin fur lining on the low shoulders, a pleasant shadow of her full breasts, and a gentle curve in the back that was low enough that the ends of Miraak's fingers met her bare spine as he held her. Carefully planned, if Dukaan knew the other man half as well as he figured he did. No one made dresses so meticulously plotted ahead if they did not know the wearer would be coming. Obviously he'd been planning to bring her to this ball for some time.

Zahkriisos looked across the table before shrugging. The dress gave little away except her pretty neck, slender and long and perfectly outfitted in a heavy diamond necklace, and her strong shoulders. She was an anomaly to them. Unmentioned by Miraak, unnamed by anyone else, unknown to them. Yet she wore his braid, Dukaan was sure of it. That alone was a marker of intent - a claim. A declaration to whom it mattered. Only those who knew Miraak's style would be able to see its true meanings, but anyone else could assume she wore the work of the partner she had come in with. If Miraak wore his hair long it would've no doubt been braided in a similar style, but he and Vahlok preferred themselves to be rebels of style like many of the newer generation, short-cut and short-trimmed.

They moved so easily together, arms looped, her hand resting delicately atop his. Still, there was a bit of a stiffness to her, a hesitancy. Dukaan studied it as Miraak brought her in a ring around the room, passing through the required introductions with his trademark charm and wit. She took a bit of convincing each time he ushered her to someone new. Unused to such settings, he would guess. Few people in this land were. Even Lok and Shul were infrequent appearances at such gatherings, and they had been with Miraak as long as Dukaan knew him.

"What are you both staring at? Alduin's balls, you look like vultures."

Both Dukaan and Zahkriisos turned at the unexpected voice to find Vahlok joining their table, imitating them with an all too hunched posture and nasty face.
"What poor soul are you trying to dissect tonight?" he chuckled, sitting back in his chair.
"Idiot. Do you know the woman your brother brought?"
"Woman?" Vahlok echoed, peering through the mulling crowd to find his beloved elder brother. "Last I heard he was bringing a man of his. Téodor."
"His bodyguard?"
"They're quite close."
"Is there anyone in the world your brother won't fuck? Anything?"

Dukaan groaned as Zahkriisos spewed those words out, watching Vahlok's lips purse with a sound grimace. He was young, usually easy going - though not as airheaded as others believed - but rarely took criticism of his brother in silence.
"Téodor is like a third brother to our pair," Vahlok said firmly, his voice full of warning. "I have no need of your bitching tonight, Zahkriisos." After a moment the other man relented, raising one palm in a tranquil gesture. Dukaan stayed silent. He happened to know Téodor had found Miraak's bed once or twice, but such was expected of your bodyguard. Even so, he didn't think there was much beyond a close friendship between the two men. Such was expected of a Moth Priest's lovers.

It took Miraak a while to finally move towards their table. When he did he paused with the woman by the edge of the dancefloor and plucked two fluted glasses from a nearby liveried servant; they drank easily, pressed together and speaking in hushed, tender voices. Dukaan figured he was flaunting her, making a show in front of them so they could all see. It wouldn't be unusual. Miraak was making his prize known so they would all pay her due compliments. One thing did surprise him, though, as he watched the First Mage clasp her hand warmly in his own and hold it against his chest - and then kissed her. Perhaps it was not surprising, but that kiss seemed quite...delicate for perhaps a concubine or vain fling. The kiss lingered, gentle, warm, and when it ended Miraak raised her fingers to his lips and kissed each individually, murmuring something that made the woman wearing his braid smile. He nibbled the tip of her index finger playfully, and the brightness on her tanned face grew to a gleaming, happy sun. It all looked very out of place in this bustling grand hall, like a stain in a novice's otherwise white gown. Or a single flower sprouting from the unforgiving ice. Too intimate for such a large world.

"You are like vultures," Vahlok muttered, gesturing for a servant who passed by with a tray of drinks. He had little need for gossip and drama to stay entertained, not in the ways Dukaan and Zahkriisos watched each function and each ball and each meeting for the slightest bit of conversation material. Of course, the truly meaty bits even pure Vahlok was interested in. But he never seemed to want to dabble in his brother's doings, at least not outwardly. Morokei had hinted once or twice that it was not so and that the pair shared much with only each other. Dukaan wondered where their more agreeable elder was - Ahzidal would arrive shortly with all the pomp and circumstance afforded to the Grand Mage, but Morokei should've been here by now.

"You plainly see she wears his braid," Zahkriisos said, gesturing to the woman as she and Miraak leaned together to converse. He still held her hand against his chest, kissing and rubbing it occasionally, watching her speak with such attentiveness. "Who is this woman? Why have we not heard of her?"
"Perhaps my brother has a life of his own beyond the scope of your scrying eyes," Vahlok retorted, sipping his wine with a smug look. "They come this way now. Do try to pretend you're human."

They approached only after Miraak spotted the three of them, looking surprised. So...his intentions hadn't been to display the new woman? Dukaan was sure he'd stood in their line of sight to get their attention, but was it possible he simply didn't see them? No. Miraak would never be so uncalculating.
"My brother," he greeted Vahlok warmly, with a hug and a kiss on the cheek customary of older siblings to their younger brood. It was quite comical to see someone as short as Miraak perform that little kiss on someone so obviously taller than him. "Dukaan, Zahkriisos. My father hasn't yet arrived?"
"Not to my knowledge. He may be mingling," Dukaan replied with a shrug. "Do introduce us to the sun goddess you keep in your umbra, brother. Let her shine a bit more in our direction." With a chuckle Vahlok gave Miraak's heavy violet robes, decorated with thick silver embroidery and small gems sewn on at random to resemble stars, a small tug, and he stepped aside. The woman looked a bit startled but took his offered hand, glancing between all three of them. She was not meek, even if she was out of place. She looked comfortable if guarded, and let Miraak introduce her, but did not let him be her voice.

"I present the Third Keeper of the Solstheim Clearing, formerly of the Medja Enclave of Atmora. Tharya Stormhand, these are my brethren of Caecil-Moore. Zahkriisos, Dukaan, and the brother of my soul, Vahlok. One of our seniors may yet be present," he added curiously, eyes sweeping the hall for Morokei's silvery hair.
"It is our pleasure to make your acquaintance, Keeper," Zahkriisos said, his voice sagely as he took one of her hands and touched it to his forehead. "Please fortify our empty table. It will make us less prone to undesirables weaseling in." Dukaan repeated the gesture, touching her knuckles delicately to his forehead as she and Miraak rounded the table, affording Vahlok the chance to do so as well before sitting. Her hands were toughened by the outdoors and work of nature, and yet sat lightly in his.

"I'll admit I'm glad to sit," Tharya spoke finally. Her accent was a slow eastern and laden heavily with the trudge of Lower Atmoran, though she spoke Higher well otherwise. No doubt she and Miraak spoke in Lower often - Alduin's scales, what a fit Ahzidal would have. "I'm not used to such events. In the Clearing there are not so many rules about forks."
"You used to be of the Medja Enclave? I am impressed they sent you away," Zahkriisos mused, studying the woman with his appraising doctor's eye.
"I was sent to search the new Cult-controlled regions for any sense of a Clearing. Likely around the same time the six of you were sent here," she replied, gesturing to the four men assembled. That gave Dukaan pause. Obviously she knew something of their short few years here. She knew about all of them - she said "all six", and there was a familiarity in her tone when discussing the Cult. Warily he glanced at Miraak. Just how long had he been keeping her secret?

"And?" Vahlok prompted eagerly. "I presume your efforts have born some fruit, if you remain here." His tone indicated he already knew the answer. How long had Vahlok known her?
"There is at least one," Tharya replied with a genial, comfortable smile back at Vahlok - a familiar smile. They'd met before. "We've been tending it since we discovered it, some months after arriving. It is only two days' ride from your compound," she added, gesturing a bit to them all almost in invitation.
"Our prison," Miraak muttered correctively. He sat with his arm atop the back of her chair and his fingertips grazing her naked shoulder and neck slowly, looking strangely...settled in the action. There was no aloofness or showiness Dukaan expected from his one-off lovers or bedmates. It was all too tender, too knowing. And he actually watched her when she spoke.

"An Elder sapling from the Clearing has been placed at the Rose Palace, you know. The Keeper has been coaxing it back to health."
"What could've possessed you to place it there?" Zahkriisos wondered. "I thought the Elder Trees were much too large to be confined by gardens."
"This one is a diseased cutting from the one nurtured in the Clearing. Though that one is still young," Tharya replied, a gentle crease forming at her brow. She sounded troubled about the young tree, but Dukaan cared little for the nature talk. He had more important questions to mind.
"How did it come to be diseased?" he asked, feigning true interest as best he could - which, he knew, was impossibly well.

But she did something then that gave him immense pause. Before replying, she tilted her head to look at Miraak. Not for permission, as some before her had. It was strange. There was no submission to her question, but a sort of equal assumption Dukaan had never glimpsed in one of the First Mage's partners. Miraak didn't do anything - he merely gazed back at her as one gazed upon a varnished portrait of perfection, a painted marble masterpiece. He continued to stroke her neck lovingly, repetitively, and she went on.

"Shortly after we established the Clearing it was attacked by a local pack of nightcrawlers, beasts displaced by our arrival," Tharya replied, turning away from Miraak to address the three others. Dukaan clicked his tongue softly - she took it for remorse at the attack, but he had meant it accidentally as the pieces of the story slid into place. "I and the other Keepers sent for aid from Caecil-Moore but were denied." A cloud touched Miraak's brow at the memory, but the Keeper seemed totally at ease to criticize the very compound she now sat in, the very institution she now mingled with. "I rode here myself to beg our case, if need be. Luckily, I found a willing ear." She smiled again, and it struck Dukaan how genuine and pretty her smile looked. He was now so used to false ones and shallow ones, smiles that meant nothing, smiles that lied. But to his shock she smiled and looked back to her enraptured admirer to touch his chin softly, her brown eyes warm. A willing ear? A willing cock, more like. A willing chest to be her pillow. It was impossible to tell who was deeper under whose spell, but the sylvan would not be the first to fall so completely at Miraak's feet.

"I remember that night," Zahkriisos said, snapping his fingers suddenly. "Yes, Morokson, I quite remember you riding away in a flash of drama to the Rose Palace. I am certain the legends of Moth hatred for such abominable creatures as those are well known to your ears, Keeper," Zahkriisos chuckled. "And so you could not have picked a more fitting patron."
"Careful there; you draw dangerously close to complimenting me, Zahkriisos," Miraak tutted.
"If there are any compliments to be had they will be accidental, I'm sure," Vahlok laughed, smacking one hand to the table.
"Except, of course, for our starlit guest," Dukaan added genially, raising his glass to the woman before drinking briefly. She smiled back at him again, delighted but a little flustered by the sudden attention. "How long did you say the sapling has been at your shack, Miraak?"

Miraak looked him squarely in the eye before he replied.
"Two years," he said. Two years. Two full years he'd kept this woman, this sylvan Keeper, utterly secret from them - except Vahlok. Two years!
"Surely the final vestiges of disease would have worn away in such an extended time?"
"I will not pretend to answer with the assumptions of an expert," Miraak replied smoothly, masking the conversation's layers under dense charm as always. Determined, Dukaan instead turned his gaze to the Keeper; she would be easy to pressure, easy to pry the truth from. Sylvans were so often undeceiving, an unnervingly honest breed - so the stories said, Dukaan had never spoken to one personally before now. But before he could pose his interrogation to her Miraak's eyes slid above them all and he got to his feet to greet Morokei as the elder approached their table.

"Ah, Father, we were just wondering about you," Vahlok chirped, popping up as Morokei put a wise arm around his younger son's shoulders. The senior priest's long silvery hair hung in a neat but informal braid, and his beard was done together in a similar fashion. Vaguely Dukaan wondered if Morokei and Ahzidal still considered themselves braid-brothers, if they still did each other's hair as siblings did. It seemed many a long year since the two had been on the warm terms Morokei spoke of in their earlier life.

"Speak of a dragon and he shall appear," Morokei said with a grin, his sharp green eyes landing on his older son and the glistening woman beside him. "Has Ahzidal not yet arrived?" Miraak's mouth twisted sourly.
"Not yet," Zahkriisos replied. "Isn't he supposed to give a speech before the banquet?"
"Yes, as is his custom. But I'm quite hungry already, so I wish he'd hurry along with it," Morokei added in a sort of paternally conspiratorial tone. He grinned at the five of them, patting Dukaan and Zahkriisos affectionately as he rounded the table to embrace his eldest.

"It is good to see you, dii kul, but I am more interested in the lovely guest that graces our table," he hummed, putting an arm on Miraak's back. "You seem familiar to my old eyes, dear girl, unless I am mistaken?"
"We've met only briefly," Tharya replied, letting Morokei take her hand and touch her knuckles to his forehead. Then she bowed to him as well, something she had neglected to do for the rest of them - either through knowing malice or innocent ignorance - though they stood infinitely higher than her in society. He held onto her fingers, like a father welcoming in a new daughter-in-law.
"You may recall when the Grand Mage spurned the Keeper for asking his assistance on a matter of banishing a hoarde of nightcrawlers from the Clearing, Father," Miraak droned, disdain dripping off his every word; he would never miss a chance to drag Ahzidal's name through the dirt on his boots. He already hated Ahzidal enough - if he was as deeply under this woman's thrall as Dukaan wondered, this past injury would only serve to widen that hated gap. "And had her dragged from the audience hall."

"Ah, yes." Morokei was seasoned - he didn't let his son's scathing review interrupt his cordial demeanor. "I remember you running to assist the Clearing quite readily, dii kul. You could not have sought a stronger hand to deal with the nightcrawlers, my dear," he added with a chuckle, patting Miraak's thick shoulder lovingly. "I trust all is well there now?"
"Very well," Tharya replied with another smile that seemed too genuine for a court of lies and secrets, "we've been able to establish a large Clearing and locate its Elder Tree."
"Truly? Perhaps you will allow a visit one day when the storm season is passed," Morokei said, his eyes a little wide. "It has been many long years since I laid hand on one of the Elder Trees."
"You're welcome to it some day," she replied. "Tell Miraak and he will tell me, I can arrange for your visit." As she spoke she laid a hand on Miraak's chest, stroking the thick violet fabric of his dress robes. Those words shocked Morokei, even though he hid it - Miraak, a willing messenger boy? It felt surreal.

They all sat once more, Morokei taking the chair beside Tharya to chat with her, which pushed Miraak down one to sit beside Vahlok rather than take one of two empty seats beside his father. That left one space for Ahzidal beside Dukaan. At the very least the Keeper would be somewhat insulated from the Grand Mage, and Miraak, though likely not as far away as he'd like to be, would be out of arm's reach. Dukaan wasn't sure he could take another fight that came to swinging punches tonight, but, hatred aside, they wouldn't be so foolish to devolve to barbarism in front of the entire compound.

Not long after they all settled Ahzidal did indeed appear, his dark robes gleaming severely, his hair done intricately - nothing like Morokei's - his beard left to hang free. The circlet he wore to denote his rank, hardly less than a crown, caught the light on its many points and edges as he swept through the hall, silence trailing his footfalls. Miraak, as First Mage, wore his circlet as well, less gaudy than that of the Grand Mage's. He waited barely a second at the head of the room before raising one hand, and as one body everyone staring back at him stood. Miraak was noticeably slow to do so, still sitting by the time Dukaan's knees had straightened. Ahzidal stared at him, ruddy brown eyes engorged with annoyance under his pointed brows as Miraak eased himself up lazily, and then offered his arm to the Keeper to help her up - she was already half to her feet, looking bewildered. And then, quite loudly, Miraak cleared his throat and coughed into his fist, adjusting his robes, straightening his circlet. Vahlok chuckled boyishly at his side, but a stern look from Morokei shut him up. Miraak gave a deep, arrogant nod to the front of the room, allowing Ahzidal to begin.

The speech was the same as it always was for the winter feast: praise Alduin, praise the god-dragon, their scaled overlords expected harder work in the new year, better servility, more bent backs. Tribute from the region would increase, just as it had last year, which sent a ripple of quick murmur through the hall that Ahzidal only allowed to fester for a second. Miraak took the chance to lean over and murmur something against the Keeper's ear, stroking her spine and doing his best to look utterly bored with the speech. Thankfully Dukaan could still see over his head - it was a blessing sometimes that he was so short - and stared dutifully ahead, so that Ahzidal would see his determination past Miraak's insubordination.

The speech concluded to ready applause and Ahzidal made a gesture for the servants, and promptly flew over to come and sit with them. Only once he had taken his seat did everyone else sit - except for Miraak, who sat with a yawn as the Grand Mage approached their table. The Keeper was smarter; she lingered a few more moments on her feet, and though she sat early, it could be chalked up to unfamiliarity with these events. Not that Ahzidal would be forgiving either way, but at the very least his retribution would likely not fall on her. This time.

"Grand Mage, excellent speech this year," Zahkriisos said in an almost militant tone, inclining his head deeply to Ahzidal as he sat.
"And last year's?" Ahzidal replied sharply, raising a dark eyebrow. "Was it not up to your standards, Second Priest?" Zahkriisos colored a bit but was too learned to give in entirely.
"No, of course it was, Grand Mage. I misspoke," he said humbly, bowing his head even deeper. There was a tense silence between the seven of them as they waited for dancing to start. Other tables all around had slipped back into easy chatter, but not theirs. Morokei poured some wine for himself and offered the same to Ahzidal, who gave a curt nod, and then Tharya.

"Do tell us of the new Clearing, my dear," he said as he poured, "is it so much smaller than the ones back home?" As she opened her mouth to respond Ahzidal cleared his throat harshly.
"I thought I recognized you," he said with a stiff smugness. "The Clearing survived then?"
"Yes," she replied after a moment.
"With little help from Caecil-Moore," Miraak shot in, his gold eyes dark with venomous dislike.
"You went, did you not, runt?" Ahzidal hummed, unbothered as he sipped his wine. "I suppose that could be taken as little help." Luckily Miraak was far beyond jabs at his height after enduring them so long - or so Dukaan thought. Hoped. If that was to be the only joust tonight between those two it would be a good night.

The rest of them broke off into easy chatter, Morokei's question about the Clearing willfully forgotten. Miraak sat rather stiffly, watching the conversations but not participating. A few minutes later the chamber orchestra plucked and strummed into existence, and the First Mage got to his feet as quickly as he could without looking eager to escape. Holding her skirts somewhat awkwardly, Tharya allowed herself to be pulled up after him, and well before they were out of earshot Ahzidal said loudly:
"Would anyone care to explain why a dirt-mage has been given a seat of honor at our table?" Vahlok grimaced deeply, shifting in his seat as he watched his brother go.

"I wish I knew," Zahkriisos spoke up, sighing and shaking his head. Just once, Dukaan wished Zahk would stop breaking his back to kiss Ahzidal's boots. "We'll probably have to sweep up the soil from her toes she tracked in here."
"I'll alert the servants," Ahzidal droned in his own sort of half-joking way. He never told full jokes. "We have a mud-sucker in our midst. Feeble-headed sylvans. I sent her away from my hall," he added as almost an afterthought, frowning deeply. No doubt in his mind he was sowing an even deeper connection between her and Miraak; Ahzidal had refused to aid her when she begged at his slippers two years ago, so Miraak had gone forward to play hero. That tied her damnably to him in Ahzidal's eyes. She was beyond guilty by association; she was a personal enemy.

Dukaan stayed quiet while the others continued to talk, and eventually Vahlok, his face darkened, got up to abandon them for the dancefloor too.
"Want to dance, Dukaan?" the younger man offered, nodding back to the floor. He considered for a moment before nodding warily. Zahkriisos was eager to be Ahzidal's lap pet, but hated being left one-to-one with the old snake. Served him right for sucking up so much.

On the dancefloor Dukaan had to lead, as the elder, but he and Vahlok were too well trained to really notice or care about the steps. They both watched in turns as Miraak danced with the sylvan, her golden braid swinging, her pretty face glowing.
"She isn't woeful to look at," Dukaan admitted after a while of spinning and sliding and drifting aimlessly.
"Woeful? She is gorgeous. Much too gorgeous for my brother," Vahlok laughed. He was right, though Dukaan wouldn't admit that far. "I saw your face when he told you. You can't be truly so surprised?"
"Two years is an incredible length of time for Miraak to hold onto anyone," Dukaan scoffed. "Even if he has not been bedding her for two years-"
"He hasn't. They were friendly at first, for a year or so."
"That surprises me even deeper. Can you think of anyone besides his bodyguard who has lasted so long in his company? No one. Alduin's tail, he's dying the death of monagamy, two years with her. When has he ever dedicated himself to someone so? He is enslaved by more than her breasts or freckles this time."

He surprised himself, speaking of love in such a way as enslavement, but for Miraak it was true. Miraak did not love. He could not do it. He gave freely, he circulated, he could forge deep, lasting bonds - Vahlok and Téodor, Lok and Shul were all proof of such - and perhaps he did love them all in ways of their own. But he could not love romantically. He cared for partners, but did not adore them. He aided and protected them, but in a way that intentionally rendered them submissive to his incredible power, to his influence, his station. That was not love. He enjoyed too much arrogance to be a lover. But this woman was demanding much more of him than his usual toothless worship, the courting and respect his Moth tenets made him promise to. He was never rude or spiteful to his partners, on the contrary, he treated them in ways that were loving. But it was his belief. The Moth told him how to act. This woman, though, received more than his basic beliefs.

And he wouldn't have brought her here tonight if she was any less than a lover. Not merely a partner, a bedwarmer, a nightly interest. A lover to the man who could not love.

Neither Miraak nor the Keeper returned to the table when the dancing was done. They sought a different table down by the huge glass panes looking out onto the balcony hanging above the cliffs, and sat beside Téodor and a few others for the rest of the night. They laughed raucously, dined and drank without fear, kissed and chatted and fawned over one another. They danced more, and Dukaan realized that Tharya of the Clearing was in fact not an exquisite dancer as he first thought - she was merely stepping on Miraak's shoes. They swayed together on the floor even after the chamber orchestra was finished. When the flock started to leave they stayed, speaking to Téodor and Vahlok over burning candles, and finally when it came time to go, the moon high overhead, did they tiptoe together from the hall. Dukaan had not intended to follow them, but he found himself yawning and blinking and doing so, shuffling after the click of Miraak's boots.

"...nothing the old bonebag can do about it. Our division is not secret, but I do not care what the world reads from my taking a different table."
"I know. And you shouldn't. When did tables ever matter so much as they do here?"
"That is the Priesthood, my darling. There are rules for the rules in this place." He recognized the voices immediately. They were speaking off towards the end of the hallway near a grand window in Lower Atmoran, far too fluent on Miraak's tongue. Ahzidal had never successfully beaten that quick western slur off his words, nor his intimate fluency with the peasant tongue; a fact that enraged the Grand Mage to no end. A dirt-mage, on the other hand, he would no doubt find a fitting vessel for that lowly language. "Gods, some days he makes me feel ready to retire."

Her laughter was gentle, consoling, as it floated down the hall. She sat in the deep stone windowsill, skirts draping regally around her legs and to the floor.
"You know there's no retiring for your sort, abjor," she teased.
"No, indeed there isn't," Miraak sighed as he lowered himself to sit beside her. "The only retirement I could see is a few days in the dungeon before the Grand Corpse executes me for sedition." They laced their fingers together on her lap. That name she called him - abjor. Great tree. A shortening, Dukaan thought, of a larger Lower word, meaning great tree who touches the stars. A lofty and too sturdy title for someone as prone to whims and ego as Miraak Morokson.
"That won't happen," Tharya said softly, her voice serious even if gentle. Dukaan watched as Miraak looked at her and then smiled, rubbed her cheek and the pretty length of her tanned neck with one hand.
"No, sunflower, it will not. At least not until I do something worthy of the charge - which will be never, since I am all too aware of how Ahzidal slobbers for my removal."

She did something strange just then. Rubbing the inside of his arm soothingly, she put her hand down in his and laced their fingers, and then held his chin lightly and put a kiss on his cheek. It was a very normal motion. Dukaan was sure Miraak had held hands with many others before. But the way she did it was so easy. So...practiced. With a thoughtful hum Miraak squeezed her hand and tilted his head to kiss her, tracing her pretty throat again. It was a tender but familiar kiss, not at all the kiss of sordid lovers trying to wring every ounce from their affair before its inevitable demise. It was the kiss of a married pair departing for a long day of mowing fields, or a clerk departing his little cubby-home in the grand city for a slow job. Regular.

"Thank you for putting me in it, but," Tharya murmured against his lips, stroking his short-cut beard, "I am ready to get out of this dress." Dukaan thought he knew a hundred replies Miraak could give: all scandalous and salacious, with my hands or teeth, darling? It would look better on my floor. You would look better in my bed. Perhaps a thousand things he'd said before, all variations of one another, rarely original. Tonight, though, he said something for the first time.
"Thank you for being my doll to dress up," he chuckled, "you look resplendent as always tonight, sunflower. Let me bathe and sleep beside you and I will be the happiest man on this gods-forsaken cliff." Together they eased off the sill and, looping arms, started down the perpendicular hall.
"Then you are easy to please, abjor," the sylvan snickered. Dukaan had never thought of Miraak as easy to please. "Though I wouldn't discourage-"
"A foot rub, I know. I am no amateur to your whims, my love."

My love. He called her that. Miraak had taken his share of lovers throughout the years - he wasn't yet thirty and he at least had taken more than Dukaan ever did. But none of them had ever been my love. That word was too big for Miraak. He only ever spoke of love as a lofty philosophical ideal in connection to his Moth teachings. Never as something tangible, personal. Never as something small and fresh. Dukaan didn't think Miraak believed in love.

"Good night, Dukaan."

Without stopping and only half-turning to look at the other man before passing behind the corner, Miraak nodded down the hall. His voice echoed slightly. Dukaan barely heard it. Worse than being in love, Miraak had known Dukaan stood there all this time.

Chapter Text

This was why he didn't wear shorts.

Not if he could help it, but obviously the weather on the southern continent was hardly what he was used to. In Atmora it was a heatwave if it got above 70 degrees Farenheit, or whatever they called it down here. Summers were cool, ranging from 50 to 65 degrees most often, colder the farther north you went from Morne and warmer the farther south towards Jylfurfyk. But almost 80? Asinine. He was a good winter husband, a perfect one even. And he wouldn't deny he loved sundress season - Tharya was a perfect sundress wife. She knew it. But she was also all-season, all-terrain, year-round. He was winter. Only winter. So sometimes he had to wear shorts.

"Really! That's ridiculous. I'm surprised she didn't get fired," Tharya snorted from his side, stirring whatever ice-loaded fruity drink she had condensating on the table. Vahlok tossed his hands up, eyes blown.
"Right! That's what I was thinking. Gods love her, but I can't stand her sometimes," he replied, rolling his eyes. "She seems fine, but then pulls shit like this, and all of us have to do damage control!"
"Performance reviews will get her," Zahkriisos droned, adjusting his sunglasses. "Does anyone have sunscreen?"
"Oh, I do," Tharya said, and her hand disappeared from his thigh to root around in her tote bag before extracting a bluish spray can.
"Do you have any of the lotion stuff?" Zahkriisos mumbled.

"We are not a walking convenient store," Miraak snorted, raising an eyebrow across the table. "Do you want to switch seats?" The umbrella for the table was large, but Zahkriisos was occupying the end. He regretted the words once he said them - he didn't want to be away from her touch, but at the same time, he had no desire to spring an erection in front of his friends and brother. But neither did he want her to stop stroking his thigh like that.
"Switch with me," Dukaan offered, half-standing as he did. "I have long hair, it'll cover my neck."
"I'm not sure that's real sun protection," Vahlok muttered. The pair switched anyway, and Miraak relaxed. He watched Tharya take a few sips of her drink and chew on some fries from the middle of the table; she even gave him one, which he ate gratefully off her fingers.

She traced the softer inside of his thigh as she chatted with Dukaan, paying little attention to what her fingers wrote or drew. Truthfully he had no right to find it so arousing, but she did know his thighs were sensitive, especially to her brand of gentle touch. But her fingers were probably closer to his knee than his groin - gods, was it the heat? He'd always said Tamriel's heat would drive him mad.

He grunted a little as she squeezed his thigh, a tender squeeze, but enough to catch him by surprise. Oh, she couldn't be doing that. That was dangerous.
"You good?" Zahkriisos questioned, chewing through a long, crispy fry. "You made a noise like a dying cow."
"Fine," Miraak snorted, aware Tharya was now looking at him. "Sore from the gym still."
"You should stretch more."
"Thank you, doctor. What else did they teach you in medical school? Eat your fruits and veggies?"

Zahkriisos rolled his eyes but Miraak snickered, and swallowed another groan as Tharya squeezed him again, more gently, and rubbed the length of his thigh.
"Sorry, big guy," she crooned, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Big, juicy thighs come at a big, juicy price, I guess." He silenced a smooth reply about how he liked to keep them big and juicy for her, merely tilted his head to kiss her once with a little hum. But now she massaged his leg lovingly, leaning into his shoulder to give her hand more access. Drawing herself closer to unknowingly wandering higher, touching gentler. He swallowed. Across the table, Vahlok eyed him, and then shook his head with an evil snicker only a sibling could dream up.

Choosing to exhale - very calmly - Miraak laid his cheek on her hair and sought something else for his focus. Anything. Fries, maybe. But they weren't that good. His drink was just melting ice now. She switched to her nails and fingertips, dragging them ever so lightly over his skin. So delicate. And he smothered whatever sound he wanted to make - nothing sexual, but he knew Vahlok would tease him mercilessly for even the smallest sigh, and Miraak was a vocal person when it came to physical sensations. He groaned and sighed and moaned and grunted a lot. How was he supposed to help that? Gods, her fingers were so light. He could never tell if he liked this light, airy touch better than the full palm and gentle squeezes. From her, both were sublime. It was impossible to describe her brand of touch, what made it different or better. He simply knew it was both of those things.

"Are we putting you to bed, Sleeping Beauty?" Vahlok crowed from across the table, reaching one leg out to kick Miraak's foot. That jostled his leg enough that Tharya's hand slipped off it, and Miraak leered back at his brother by wadding his napkin and tossing it at him. "Did I disturb your little nap?"
"Yes," he droned, slapping the napkin down as Vahlok hurled it back. Tharya snickered as she munched on a couple more fries and resumed her conversation with Dukaan, both hands now woefully on her lap. He tried to nudge his leg against hers, leave it lying snugly thigh to thigh, but she didn't seem to notice. Or she did, and didn't catch his silent plea. Or, she was ignoring him. She was rarely a coy person, but could play when she wanted to.

Holding Vahlok's stare, Miraak reached for her wrist after much deliberation and dragged her hand back to his leg, spreading his knees just a tiny bit more to let her get to the soft parts. Perhaps damning himself in the process, but what did he care? He was a man worthless without his wife's touch. She glanced at him before giggling, patting his thigh once in acknowledgement. But the hand laid dormant otherwise. He scowled at Vahlok.

You ruined it, that scowl said. Sipping his drink, Vahlok merely grinned and sucked down an ice cube to chew on.
I know, that grin said.

Chapter Text

The pink tree in Dukaan’s garden did not move with the wind, she noticed. Though it reflected beautifully in the small rippling pond below, though all around it swayed and rustled, the pink tree alone was eternally still, frozen. Removed from its own life and surroundings.

Across the small pond Miraak stood, peering at it too, though more out of curiosity than her own concern. He looked beautiful in these Roscrean fabrics Dukaan gifted to them, silken robes, somewhat thick to ward off the northern chill - deeper than the cold on Solstheim, and yet a chill utterly tame compared to Atmora - and decorated lavishly, some with wide stripes or vibrant checkered patterns, others embroidered. Miraak’s bore embossed flowers, his robe a muted mauve bordered by deep silver. These clothes moulded him differently than what she was used to seeing him in: dark, commanding, thick fabric, formless silhouettes that made him into a mass, a space, a color. A tapestry, immutable, premade. Covered from neck to toe.

The silk flower robe draped and fell naturally over his broad shoulders, the wide sleeves crinkled where he held his hands clasped behind his back as usual. It made the slope of his shoulders more elegant, defined, rather than the squaring off of his Dragon Priest uniforms. He let the front of the robe fall slightly open around his chest, but the wide grey border accentuated his thick neck, the tendons lengthened as he peered upwards, the column of his throat, the cut of his jaw. He wasn’t wearing any necklaces except the small wooden one she’d carved and given him a few months ago, after he brought her to her first ball at Caecil-Moore, and no rings except the signet he earned upon ascending to the Priesthood. The robe’s skirt was long, covering the loose trousers that were wrapped snugly by strips of buttoned cloth around his ankles, but even then the smooth downwards shape of it seemed more organic to her than the stiff paneling of the vestments of a Dovah Sonaak.

Here in Roscrea he seemed to ease naturally into the world, rather than stand atop all of it. She liked him this way, calmer, more himself. The past two years she felt he’d been changing, searching for a new skin as a snake sheds its old one. Perhaps now he was beginning to settle. 

Forgetting the frozen tree for a moment she started over the pebbled garden path to join him on the other side of the pond. He looked away as she came, his face lighter, his dark skin smooth without the worry and weight of being in Caecil-Moore. It sometimes surprised her how much he hated that place.
“What’s Dukaan done to it?” she asked, slipping her arm through his and nodding up to the frozen tree. Miraak tilted his head to kiss her hair first before humming, draping his hand over hers in the crook of his elbow.
“A spell or ward, I think. I asked him last night while we were on the porch,” he replied curiously. She remembered dozing off on his arm last night on the porch while a delicate spring rain started to fall; she remembered their shared exhaustion from the journey once Dukaan showed them to their room, the tired lovemaking at the storm rumbled closely but never violently overhead, and the long, long sleep afterwards. “He said he did it because these trees live only in Roscrea, and only bloom for a short time each year. He warded this one so it would remain in bloom all year while the rest of the garden died. To look at, I suppose.”

She must’ve made a face because Miraak laughed suddenly, lifting her hand from his arm to kiss each of her fingers.
“I am sure that is a dreadful affront to nature for you, sunflower,” he chortled, only half-joking.
“It is...uncouth, maybe,” Tharya replied after a moment. “To halt nature for your whims rather than enjoy her cycles. Pretending to lord over it all.” He hummed, only hummed, but she was used to his non-use of words in replying sometimes, in conveying. This hum meant he took her concern of it seriously, and gave thought to her perspective. It was something that occasionally surprised her. It was one reason she thought he was changing. “But I’m a lowly dirt-mage only, your Eminence, and it is far beyond my realm to judge the matters of the mighty Sonaakke. ” He slid her a knowing look, another hum, before chuckling.

“I would gladly take a dirt-mage’s opinion of these gardens over anyone else’s,” he replied, and together they pulled away from the pond to wander the perfected wild, following the small gravel path.

Miraak felt strangely at ease here, letting her walk ahead of him in her pale green silk, embroidered at the sleeves and the hem with dark, snow-capped mountains. Like him she wore a wide belt of a complementary color, but hers was done in an elaborate knot on one hip, his at the back. Unlike him she wore the thinner white robe below, but he remembered her this morning draped only in his floral robe while they shared breakfast privately, away from the others. She pulled a little further ahead, letting her arm stretch to stay linked to his hand, and he rubbed her fingers under his thumb. Her nails were shaped and lacquered, he noticed, grown a little long - totally impractical for a sylvan, he knew, but occasionally she surprised him with these tiny luxuries that he so enjoyed. The perfect length for back scratching, of course. She wore her hair down, too, close to her hips, a golden waterfall. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Maybe he was changing. Maybe he was changing significantly. But maybe significant change did not need to affect other areas of his life - it would bear little weight on his duties as a Priest, and only perhaps a bit more on his relationships with the others. It would change his duties to his Moth flock, though only a bit. Perhaps they would not have such access to his body and privacy as before, perhaps he would not give him their lord so freely. And was that something to feel shame over? No, however much it had clawed at him at first. The Moth goddess gave him the free reign over his own soul-vessel and he used it as he wished; gave of himself to who he wished; went naked or clothed in front of who he wished; bathed with who he wished. No one else. 

Still, it was...strange. Almost frightening. For so long he had followed the same ideals. Was he right to change now? Was it right to enjoy her touch more, above anyone else’s, to want to relieve his skin of every other hand that had ever laid on it - and there were many - in favor only of hers? Was it right to only seek her in his bed, to turn away all others, to utter that ridiculousness about affection and proximity? He didn’t know. Was it right when only in the darkest, deepest minutes of night they could whisper about hearts? About dreams? Promises? He didn’t know any of those answers. 

All he knew was that he cared for her. He treasured her mind and her body and he idolized the woman she was to him. Yes, he idolized her. He was unafraid of that fact - he used to be. Everything was so much easier, the air sweeter to breathe, the love sweeter to make, once he let that fact cease to frighten him. He idolized her. He wanted her forever, like the warded tree in the garden. He wanted her permanently in his heart’s garden. To never fade or lose strength.

But he was afraid to call it anything beyond idolization. Dukaan froze the tree to look at it, to keep it eternal. Miraak could not do that to a living person. It would kill her, and it would kill him to see her despair at being caged. And yet he still wanted it - wanted that eternality at his own whim. 

Before he knew what he was doing he reached up to touch the small wooden pendant, carved and polished by her own hands, pressing it firmly into the curve of his sternum. He was changing, in ways and into something he had no prior knowledge of, no experience, and no idea as to what he would become. Silently, hoping she would not turn to see the strain in his eyes, he lifted her hand again and kissed her fingers delicately as they walked, slow and easy, along the path. Her smooth nails touched his lower lip lovingly, but she didn’t turn. She knew him too well. And as much as he wanted to, he could not make her like the tree.

Chapter Text

“Elskavin, may I?”

She looked up after a moment more to see what he was gesturing to, and then nodded.
“Of course, mul gein. You bought that for me,” she chuckled, looking back to her page. Fiddling with the pen for a moment she waited before continuing, more thoughts and words streaming from the back of her mind. It’d been a while since she picked up the journal, but she used to keep one so religiously. It felt good to write everything down again. 

Miraak took the little glass container of lotion and swiped a finger through it, and from the corner of her eye she watched him kneel in front of the mirror and massage it into his face. His skin rarely dried even in winter - she was certain he was too used to the brutality of Atmoran winter, and anything more forgiving than that was trivial, but he kept the habit anyway. It was a good habit, she thought. He so rarely did things for or to himself, but it gave him at least a minute every day to be kind to himself, to take care of himself. That made it unquestionably worth it in her mind.

Legs tucked under the covers and knees propped up to rest her journal on, she went back to writing. She never thought that leading such a boring life as she did now - no longer constantly on the road, adventuring, fighting - could warrant so much to write about. But it flowed naturally. Each word, each letter written chipped slowly at the ineradicable weight that so often bent her shoulders. The calming effect was one she sorely missed, but couldn’t realize she missed til she took up the journal again. How easy it was, how simple to have a blank page before you. To have it entirely at your whim, a thing that couldn’t interrupt or misspeak. Perhaps the journal could not talk back, which sometimes created a wedge of loneliness between her pen and the page, but...perhaps that was for the best, too.

Wordlessly, without disturbing the flow of her hand, Miraak tucked her forward a bit and sat behind her, against the pillows and headboard, and as he leaned back let his fingers trail over her shoulders soothingly. She watched his long legs extend on either side of her, and shivered a bit at the sudden brazen heat of his body displacing the comfortable chill seeping in from the window by the bed. She did not worry he was reading over her shoulder - he could if he wanted to, but she knew he wasn’t. Coaxed by the gentle massage of his fingers, slightly smooth from the remnants of the lotion, she finished her last sentence and watched the rest of the page, untouched. Nothing new came to her, so she let it go, marked her place, and set journal and pen down on her lap. 

“Here, do you want some of the blanket?” she murmured, pulling the covers free from below his legs and drawing them back so they covered him, too. She transferred the journal to the side table and sighed softly as he massaged her neck and shoulders more earnestly, her task done, distraction now permitted. She didn’t bother fixing the slim straps of her shift that slid off her shoulders, rope-scarred, and let his palms brace against her skin more fully. As she always did, lost in the pure feeling of it, she marveled at their size, at how he encased her collar so easily in each palm. His hands had wrought endless agony and turmoil, just as hers. They were together in that blame. But the instruments of pain to others were never anything except gentle to her, so the thought of his misgivings, of her own, never once crossed her mind while he touched her.

“I thought of you today,” Miraak murmured after a while, in that slow, rocky and sleepy voice reserved solely for her, in the safety of these moments of domesticity.
“I’m shocked,” she teased as she laid back against him, feeling his torso jolt with a short scoff of a laugh. His hands drifted around to her collarbone, arms, and throat as she snuggled into his sternum, enjoying the warmth and dense pillow of his chest and stomach. “What about, mul gein?” Tharya murmured after a moment, finding one of his hands to kiss it softly before letting it return to its work.

“You were a soldier,” he hummed, sounding almost curious. “I forget that often.”
“I don’t talk about it.”
“No, nor will I make you. I simply forget it.” He shifted around a bit, legs sandwiching hers snugly under the covers. She found his thigh below the blankets and began tracing her nails delicately in circles over his skin. “The only other soldier I have known was Ahzidal.” It was her turn to snort. “And he was much the worse for it. It turned him ugly and despicable,” he added quietly, and then, making a conscious effort to lighten his words: “So I am not used to soldiers being so beautiful and gentle, which makes it easy to forget.”

She snickered, shivering again as a wash of chill dripped down her spine. Not from the window this time, she thought. Miraak’s hands met delicately around her neck, one cradling her throat against his palm, the other cupping her jaw with care beyond what she thought possible. He never held it tighter than that, just the warm, light weight of his palms, and even then controlled to remain comfortable. She’d gotten used to the strange touch long ago - it was comforting now, his odd hold of her neck, his fingers stroking the column of her throat. Her Thu'um.

“It was hard,” she murmured after a long while, her body growing heavy and relaxed against his familiarity. “Maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than Alduin.” He gave a soft grunt of understanding, curiosity maybe - leaving her free to go on or leave it at that as she wished. Harder than Alduin? Yes, she thought so. Fighting Alduin, she had had help from the old heroes. Help from Sovngarde itself - the World-Eater wasn't at his full strength. Soldiering? Fighting in the Civil War? She had Ralof, maybe, but...she’d never felt more isolated before. Never remembered being so dismally, abysmally solitary.

“Surrounded by people who thought I couldn’t last. Men, mostly, who just wanted me as their camp whore. Got mad when I wasn’t meek enough to let them do it. I didn’t know many women in the army, but plenty of them fought. Real Nord women, the men always called them. Not mages. Not cowards. Too good to be camp whores,” she went on, speaking without thinking. “I knew ruins, and I knew magick, but I was terrible with a sword. I was a drunk, and I was sad and alone and angry at being alone. The army should’ve killed someone like that.” Tenderly Miraak rubbed the backs of his knuckles along her scarred cheek, making a soft sound in the deep of his throat. “And there was Ulfric. I couldn’t love him but I wanted to follow him. If the Thalmor hadn’t toyed with his head, maybe - before the end...I could’ve helped him to see differently.” 

She wasn't sure how much she believed that, but it was easy to say, and easy to argue for, so she said it anyway. She'd keep saying it. Maybe Ulfric wouldn't have listened; maybe he wouldn't have condoned the massacre in the Snow Quarter. Maybe Kharjo wouldn't be dead. Her throat tightened unexpectedly as the visage of the Khajiit settled behind her eyelids: his tall, pointed ears, pierced with hollow golden rings, his ready grin, his sharp eyes, the soothing rasp of his voice. She remembered him so...clearly. As if they never parted on the balcony of Dragonsreach. As if, when he walked away from her that night, she hadn't resented him, and that resentment had only lifted when she put his charred corpse in the ground. She'd prayed for his forgiveness many nights since, whether or not Arkay cared to listen. For his peaceful rest. For his love and friendship.

"I am sorry, elskavin," Miraak crooned gently, wiping at the thin wet trails sliding down her scarred cheek. "You do not need to speak of it. Rest, instead."
"No, I- I was just thinking of Kharjo," she whispered back, straining to clear her throat. "I think you would've liked him, actually. He was coy and clever, a bit quiet. He and Bhiji don't look anything alike," she chuckled, forcing the twitching muscles in her forehead to smooth, to relax. "You were there when I buried him." That fact did nothing but settle in the air between them, useless, heavy. But it was true. Regardless, it was true, and the fact that Miraak had existed even in some sense at the same time Kharjo had inhabited her life meant something to her. Somehow, somewhere, they met. Once.

"I suppose it was the hardest thing I've ever done," she sighed at long last, carefully shrouding Kharjo in her mind until he would inevitably reemerge. "It took so long. Those couple years between the Civil War and killing Ulfric, they just...went on forever. And I was still a soldier. I thought I would feel different when the war ended, but it didn't go away. I wanted to feel different," she murmured, grasping his forearm for no other reason than to find an anchor to the world, "I did...but soldiering had destroyed my body. My mind. Broken my faith and my patience. I thought it would feel different after I rescued you, too." She gave his wrist a little squeeze, and he tilted his hand to hold hers, lacing his fingers between hers delicately. "I thought you would be what I needed to stop being a soldier. You almost were," she chuckled faintly, "you did a good job distracting me, at first. You were my only goal. Keeping you alive and safe, and fed and healthy. Was harder than you might think," she added teasingly. He made a sound, rueful and dismally amused, in the back of his chest.

"I knew it was even then," he replied quietly, stroking and toying with her fingers. "I am ashamed to say it did not bother me in those early days, but you were very thin then, very slight. I should have guessed it was unnatural. I could not see past myself."
"You didn't need to," she hummed, kissing the inside of his wrist. "You were a soldier then, too."

He was quiet for a long time, considering those words. A soldier? He never considered himself a soldier before. His oldest friend Téodor had been a soldier once, in one of Atmora's naval wars with Yokuda. What made her think of him as a soldier?
"Geh?" he prompted finally, tapping her cheek lightly.
"Soldiers are born when people try to survive against the orders they're given," she replied after a minute. "That's the essence of being a soldier. Surviving when you're not supposed to - when you can't, when your odds are stacked a thousand to one. That instinct never leaves you permanently. You've been a soldier," she hummed, tapping him back. "You have that instinct stronger than anyone else. Stronger than even me." Then, to his surprise, she sat up and laughed a little, craning up to kiss him and rub his chest. "Ralof used to call us soldiers of misfortune. I always thought it fit well."

He sat up as she slid away, putting out the candles on the desk and finding the lotion to rub some onto her dry hands and face still flushed from the sudden tears. She backed up to stand between his knees as she massaged her cheeks and forehead to ease away the tension, letting him rub her thighs and put his chin on her hip, ruminating. Soldiers of misfortune. It did seem to fit, though the fit was ugly and damaging. It was something that shouldn't have to fit at all.

Her body was blessedly free of scars compared to his overburdened skin; she bore a few light ones, knicks and puckered tissue common to a life spent in the wilderness of Skyrim. There was a larger one, messy and somewhat discolored, on her calf, where a slaughterfish had torn and chewed her skin, and another along her side from a barbed arrow taken during the war. Besides the one below her eye, they were the only two so readily noticeable. It was incredible enough she escaped war with all of her limbs intact, her eyes whole, her bones set right. Of course there were tradeoffs; her weight fluctuated easily now, too easily for his liking. And she had lost much of her resistance to the cold since freezing in Fort Snowhawk. It drained her quicker, became harder to fight off. And the dreams, memories. The internal aches that could not be healed. Soldiers of misfortune.

Tharya winced suddenly as she shifted her weight, a jolt wrenching her spine as she tried to step away. She felt Miraak rise immediately behind her, holding her waist in firm hands if she should fall - but instead she began to laugh, albeit quietly, and tiredly, and leaned back into his chest.
"Nothing - just my back twitching, remember it does that sometimes?" she chortled. "I can't tell if it's my back or my hips. Just twinges like that. Can you crack it for me?" she added, crossing her arms diagonally over her chest as he clasped his wrists in front of her. Squeezing her into his chest he bent his knees a bit, and found her ear.
"Ready?"
"Mhm." With a huff he lifted her up and let her dangle, pressing her spine into his chest and scoffing in surprise as it crackled like a broken branch. Before he could even put her down she was laughing loudly, trembling with it in his arms and snorting through her nose as he sat with her back on the bed.
"Thank you," she croaked, and that made him laugh, chuckling happily into her shoulder, letting their giggles mingle.

Tharya blew out the last candle and in the sudden darkness they laid down again, slipping under the covers as chill filled the room. The bed was still warm from where they'd lain before.
"I suppose we're getting old, elskavin," Miraak teased, fluffing his pillow a bit before putting his head down. She snuggled close to his chest, nudging one of her knees between his and tucking into his chest.
"Guess so. But you need to get old a little quicker, if you don't mind," she hummed, stretching up to give him a lingering kiss goodnight. "You'll look very handsome with a little silver in your beard, mul gein."
"So you have told me many times," he murmured against her lips. "I am glad you at least look forward to that day."
"Very much," she snickered. Squeezing an arm around his waist she pressed into his chest again, yawning slowly. "Sleep well, my love."
"Pruzah vulon, elskavin," he replied softly, drawing her close to kiss her hair and wrap her in his arms.

Chapter Text

As usual, on Thursday at sundown, he was waiting on top of the tower, letting the cold winter breeze billow and fill his heavy cape, the rigid boning for flying swaying easily in the wind. As usual, she was late. But she was hardly punctual, so he was used to giving her ten minutes of grace, fifteen if he really felt generous. She rarely kept him waiting past that threshold without good reason. But she wasn't here yet, so he kept the mask on, and watched the bleak gold and pink sunset on the optic display in silence.

There was crackling on short-range comms first, and then the split in a distant cloud caught his eye, but he didn't bother zooming in on it. Birds didn't fly that fast, but what was she holding with her cape? Something was bundled in it, tied awkwardly around her torso. He didn't bother to ask, either. He'd find out soon enough. Her voice, broken and scattered by the whipping wind, gargled through the line:
"…four dozen eggs, every morning to help me get large! Now that I'm grown…" Only then did he allow himself a soft groan, and reached into his hood, behind his ear, to click the receptors for his mask.

Dark chrome metal folded away instantly, revealing the world in its true wintry hues and shadows, which pleased him - the nanotech was somewhat new, and adventurous for the mask, but better than his old one. It was absolutely necessary his whole face be covered - he found himself too attached to the beard to shave it off, and besides, there would be public outcry if he did - his voice and thick accent distorted. Slicing through another cloud and flying showily, swinging in wide loops and sliding on her back, she was coming into better view for his naked eye.

"Who has brains- entertains- who can make up these endless refrains like Gaston?" She was coming into view now, slowing down, still making pretty loops of thin cloud wisps and showing off until she shot down and landed easily on the lip of the roof, holding the bundle of her cape in one arm. "There's just one guy in town who's got all of it down-!" She was gesturing to him, waiting, poised theatrically, and with a sigh he let his hood down finally.
"We're not watching another musical for a long time," he muttered, and she jumped on her toes expectantly. "Did you get everything?"
"Say it!"
"No."
"I'll toss it into the river!" she laughed, holding the bag up menacingly and making to throw it off the side of the tower. "Oh, come on. I nearly burned my hands picking it up at first. And I'm hungry-"
"Gaston," he grunted, and joyously she leapt down, crimson cape billowing, and passed the takeout bag to him.

"I'm starting to think I like musicals. I've been singing that all week," she chirped, sitting on a nearby electrical box and pulling the red cape snugly around her to ward off the chilly wind. "I don't know which was better, though, the original or the Luke Evans remake."

Without replying he ripped the stapled bag open and passed two of the foil wraps to her, and kept the two brown paper wraps for himself. He was starving and had been looking forward to this more than he cared to admit. Tearing his gauntlets and gloves off and tossing them to the ground, he leaned on the big electrical box beside her, and attacked the waxed brown paper.
"Anything good today?" she hummed, unwrapping hers more slowly in her lap. He shook his head and grunted again, and then bent to his food and tore off as big a bite his mouth could fit. She watched as he groaned in relief, letting his head fall back as he chewed around the colossal wedge of food. "Hungry?" she teased, reaching out to kick his ankle lightly with her own. "You want a moment alone with that sandwich? That was quite a…a moan."
"It wasn't a moan," he said thickly, shaking his head.
"Uh-huh." She took a bite - a very normal, respectable bite - of her own wrap, a chicken caesar loaded with dressing and crisped chicken, and watched him doggedly go after his food again. Another day without breakfast before patrol.

She enjoyed her first wrap in silence, peering out at the cold-colored sunset, watching the far bridge become clustered with cars and buses as rush hour began. Distantly, in the back of her head, she heard his heartbeat, more steady now that he had something to eat, but she was so used to the sound it faded as part of the landscape. Still, it was a warming constant. Grounding. They hadn't seen much of each other this week, which for some reason made her sad, but…that was normal, wasn't it? They were both busy people. They lived in different places. Protected different cities. That was always the first job, always. Anything else, anyone else, was always second. No matter what or who.

When he started his second wrap - buffalo chicken, as instructed - she moved to sit facing him, crossing her legs atop the electrical box.
"I'm feeling generous, so, I'm bequeathing you your movie night rights back," she said grandly, bowing her head to him. Bemused, he drove one eyebrow up, looking at her as he undid the paper.
"Finally over the last one?" he teased, a glimmer of joy in his golden eyes. All he remembered of the last time he was allowed to choose a movie - weeks ago now - was her weeping profusely into his shoulder.
"No, but I figured it's not fair for me to be movie night dictator, and if you want to watch miserable movies then that's your right," she laughed, smiling widely at him. "So long as it's my right to cry at them."
"Maybe with less snot on my arm, though," he chortled, and she burst out laughing even harder at his rare quip.

The wind cropped up again, brutally cold but only discomforting them a bit through their thick suits and her alien blood. She caught the takeout bag under her foot before it could fly away, and when the howling subsided, he nodded slowly to the bag.
"Nice of you to feel generous after buying this with my credit card." She snorted challengingly.
"The credit card you gave me and told me to use, might I remind."
"Right. Just like the apartment-"
"That's temporary and you know it, until the mold problem is out of my old place!"
"And the rental car two months ago?"
"You said I didn't have to pay it back! You argued with me over that."
"And the Netflix account?"
"Teodor gave me that password."

He grinned to himself, watching her roll her eyes and look back to the sunset. But her smile faded quickly, too quickly to be genuine, and he felt his spine straighten out instinctively. He had a knack for that, ruining her abundantly good mood without intending to. He knew she disliked the fact that he paid for so much, provided anything he could for her, the saviour of millions living on a meager journalist's salary, unthanked, unnoticed. Not for the first time he wanted to take her shoulders and tell her squarely he did it all for her - they were all gifts, all of them, everything he paid for, everything he let her borrow, everything he arranged. What else was he supposed to do with all the money if not…if not spend on people - on someone who he wanted to spend it on?

She was the apex predator of this world. Nothing stronger than her, nothing better. Didn't she know she deserved his tribute?

But he said none of it, as much as he hated that falsely joyous smile that returned when she looked away from the crammed bridge. Is it so hard to let me care for you? He didn't say that either, because it wasn't a question for her. It was a question he needed for himself first.

"Everything okay?" she hummed, nudging his leg with her foot. He cursed himself for forgetting she could hear his heartbeat.
"Cold," he muttered, but it hardly touched him.
"What can I do for you?" The question struck him dumb for a moment, not understanding fully what she meant. "You do everything for me, Miraak. I should be able to give something back, but it's hard when you're one of the richest men in the world." Her chuckle was thin.
"I don't do everything," he replied flatly.
"You know what I mean. In the three years we've known each other," she said, gesturing between them, "I don't even want to know how much money you've spent on me." Cautiously, her fingers a little red from the chill, she put a hand on his forearm and squeezed it. "What don't you have already that I can give you?"

She searched his eyes for a long moment, his gaze as guarded and distant as ever. Though she couldn't feel his skin through the suit, it was nice to touch him. She'd been missing his closeness, however accidental it was the past year or so - moments of helping her up in battle, the one time he'd carried her back, the two instances they'd hugged one another in a moment of survival. He let her sit close to him on the couch during movies, didn't shift away when their legs rubbed. And, of course, the one time she'd woken up in the cave, under surgical lights, and his hands were the ones holding her together, helping her bathe and dress and eat. She didn't notice at first, but if he could help it, he never let Teodor be the one to tend to her on the rare occasions they limped back to the cave together. He always did it himself.

"What don't I have?" he echoed, sounding faraway as he stared at her.
"Yeah. What to give a man who has everything in the world?" she hummed, watching him tear his gaze away to watch the ice in the river. He was silent for a long time, looking down at his abandoned wrap, no longer as hungry as he had been before she arrived.
"Not everything," he said softly, and she let the subject die.

"Your interview with 60 Minutes comes out this Friday," she said after a long, reaching silence, retracting her hand and shifting to face forward. He grunted, carefully redoing the brown paper and folding it down. She was ready to reprimand him for not finishing it - she could practically hear his hunger, but he cut in before she could speak.
"There's a charity gala, this Friday. Will you come with me?" The invitation took her by surprise, partially because she always thought it would be reckless to appear in public together - a billionaire, practically the king of the tabloids, and some no-name reporter from across the river? It just didn't make sense, and it endangered them both. She knew he shared this sentiment. So why ask?

"I thought-"
"I already bought you a dress." Suddenly he stood, tossing her the remaining half of his wrap. "Teodor will get you at five-thirty to come to the manor first."
"I can take the train," she objected, standing too, and shoving the wrap back at him. "And you should finish this."
"Trains are never on time," he scoffed, reaching back to flick his hood back up, its magnets clicking into place to hold it up even against the wind.
"You know, a generous donation from a billionaire could solve that," she said after a moment, smiling again - a real smile. He took in the sight of it for a moment before nodding once. If it was improved trains she wanted, then he would give that, too.
"I'll draw up a proposal. Five-thirty. Teodor will bring the dress."

She followed him as his nanotech mask unfolded and slid into place, covering the entirety of his face and beard, rendering him anonymous. Without ceremony he stepped onto the ledge of the roof, felt around his belt, and prepared to grapple to the opposite building.
"Wait- what color is it? I probably don't have shoes to match, or anything," she called, throwing her hands up.
"Someone will be by to do your makeup at four-thirty," he said plainly, his voice crackling and distorted, as intended, by the mask. "Shoes are in the box. You don't need to bring anything."
"Not even one of those bedazzled tiny purses that don't actually fit anything?" she laughed. His posture shifted, looking thoughtful for a moment. "No - no, I don't need one! I was only kidding!"
"I'll send one with the Teodor," he replied, gave her a little nod, and then vanished over the side of the building.

Scoffing, Tharya put her hands on her hips and watched the last shred of light sink below the skyline across the river.

Chapter Text

She woke on warm sheets, cocooned in ample blankets and dimmed sunlight. The air was warmed by the scent of incense burning somewhere, and as her eyes opened fully, her senses trickled back, and her ears caught the crackling of a fireplace.

She had no idea where she was.

Groggy, a distant ache in her head, Tharya moaned into her pillow and tested her limbs. It was the kind of sleep that left the body too comfortable, too heavy to move at first, but she did so with great effort. There was an acute ache between her thighs that sparked at first and then simmered as she twisted around. Getting up and keeping her eyes open seemed like the two hardest things in the world, but as the awareness of the huge bed stretching around her sunk in, she knew she had to take in her surroundings.

There were tall, thick-paned windows with colorful stained glasses rosettes in their top arches, but most of them were covered by partially drawn curtains. As she guessed, a sizable fire burning in a huge hearth on the opposite wall, which seemed divided from the bed by an ornate deep-sea blue rug the size of a small house.
"Oh, gods," she groaned, clearing her throat to wet it. Nothing about this room was recognizable, but it was fit for a king, or at the very least a pretentious noble, and the fact that she was naked and achey in their bed was not good.

"And not like you at all," she cursed herself as she slid out of the bed, feet touching cool floors and tiptoeing, half-hunched to hide her nakedness. As useless as it felt to utter now, it was true - she'd never done this. Promised herself to never do it. And thus far her success had been unbroken, because she didn't like casual…things like this. Her heart was too sensitive, her mind and body bearing no interest to let people know her so vulnernably just for fun. It wasn't who she was, it wasn't her code. And yet she was in this huge, opulent room, the ceiling painted to resemble the night sky - no, not painted, there was magick lingering there, a fog of it recreating the dark sky perfectly, complete with the distant figures of the twin moons. The bed, rumpled on both sides, was a massive four-poster draped with linen curtains that were tied back to each post. Only then did her eyes catch the slim, shiny violet shift left folded neatly on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed, with a little scrap of paper atop it.

Glancing furtively towards the towering, intricately carved doors, she snuck to the bench and took the paper. On it were scribbled two words in a language she didn't understand but recognized after a moment: Atmoran.

A chill stabbed into her gut, igniting that strange, fleeting ache in and between her thighs again, but she lifted the shift and held it up to the morning light. Thin, expensive, buttery soft silk in a deep, regally purple color, laced with delicate silver embroidery at the neckline. That was Atmoran too, those colors. There was nothing for it but to put it on. Where was her uniform? The banquet last night…oh, gods the banquet! The war was over. They won. The banquet…yes, they were in Atmora, all the commanders and their armies, in Atmora where the final decisive battle had been fought and won. Atmora who had onlt turned to their side when the former emperor died and the new one took his place. Too many dead for the victory to taste sweet. She remembered that thought haunting her entering the huge banquet hall last evening, she remembered being glad for her Skyrim uniform and shoulder cape and not a gown, she remembered talking to the Atmoran Emperor. He shared her view about the immense loss of life, shared drinks with her to commend the fallen, asked her to dance - which she politely declined. Most things after that simply didn't exist.

Tiptoeing she went to the heavy, drawn curtains, peeling one back just enough to look outside. Atmoran spring was still cold, but had all the beauty and abundance of spring in Tamriel as well. The palace gardens stretched far into the slim fog of the morning, but the sun was high. She didn't dare draw the curtains back, and stood resolutely in the shaft of sunlight from the ones not fully closed as she tried to collect herself.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter she'd broken two great rules. The war against the dragons was won, good gods, shouldn't she be able to enjoy it? The war against the greatest monsters to ever plague Nirn was won. They'd done what even she thought impossible from the onset. No, she would put these celebrations out of her mind. It didn't matter what she'd done, and she couldn't remember most of it anyway. After four grueling years at war with the lizards she deserved to revel the victory, and now she had, and she would continue on with life. All she needed to do was find her clothes, cast invisibility and slip out of whoever's rooms these were-

The yelp left her involuntarily as she turned and saw the figure, standing a healthy distance behind her and wearing a warm-looking, embossed nightrobe that hung lazily off his broad shoulders, opening to his chest and belted loosely at his hips. The Exalted Emperor of Atmora, the Old Forest, ruler of the largest single nation on Nirn, stood there, his coffee-dark hair tousled and his arms crossed thoughtfully over his scarred chest. Her heart plummeted through her toes. Caught.

"Majesty," she croaked, and was about to bow when he jerked and laughed grandly, tossing his torso back with the force of it.
"Ah, I was afraid you would begin calling me that again," he replied, his accent thick and still unfamiliar, but his deep voice warming. Then, with a grin, he gave her a flourishing bow and a wink, adding, "General." What could he possibly mean by that? She'd always given him the due respect. Her eyes were distracted by the unraveling knot of his robe, and with little care he undid it to let it fall open before adjusting the fabric again. Ignoring the fact he was incredibly naked and she'd only seen him covered from the neck down before in his usual severe violet robes - the same violet as her shift - she struggled to pull her eyes away and contain her blush.

He took his time redoing the robe, looking at her curiously, his golden eyes kinder than they ever had been before. She remembered this man only from their war councils, though a handful of times she fought nearby him on the battlefield. He was not a military mind, but he was an incredibly ruthless fighter and an even more spectacular mage. Magick was much more ingrained in the fabric of Atmora than it was in her homeland, where it was treated with passive indifference, a begruding acknowledgement of its importance but not much beyond that. Miraak Althëasson, recently crowned Emperor of Atmora. She had only spoken alone with him twice before, and outside of that, only around the war table.

"You feel sick, my star?" he prompted after a long silence, and she blinked, slipping back into the reality of the room. He'd drawn closer. "I admit you and I drank perhaps half the wine on the continent between us the night previous. Sit, prinsaessa." That little nickname stirred something in her, something partway between recognition and melting affection, and at once she was horrified to feel that way. Regardless, the Emperor was holding her arm lightly, his hand on her back, and guiding her to sit by the fireplace.

The sofa rose to meet her, and as she sat she did feel dizzy. Miraak - the Emperor - stepped away to feed the flames, carelessly toeing another log into place and then bending to place a second, before turning to sit beside her. When she tried to shift away for politeness, he was the emperor of Atmora for Talos' sake, he merely took her arm in that gentle grip again and bade her stay.
"I'm sorry, Majesty," she croaked again, not daring to look in his eyes. "I do feel…" But the world began to drip and spin, and though he spoke, she couldn't hear it, or anything, and the glow of the fire blurred and spread, and then…

There was a pulse of magick around her head and then an immense tingling sensation took over, spreading through her skull like a cushion against her throbbing brain. It flowed down her neck and eventually to her spine, simultaneously waking and easing her slack muscles. It was easier to open her eyes this time, but harder to find the will to move her body. She was wedged against something solid and warm, but fleshy, something human. There was fabric below her ear, a burst of heat concentrated on the back of her neck and the other sliding up and down her legs - her bare legs.

With a sharp breath she came to and fought to lift her head, blinking rapidly. A weight lifted off her head as she did, and she was looking into melting golden eyes, looking into a face of rich brown skin split only by a small, slender scar cutting upwards from the left eye.
"Oh, fuck me," she groaned as she realized, and dropped her head again.
"I would be a most willing fulfiller of that request, prinsaessa," he chuckled, "again."
"So I've ruined my career," she mumbled into his neck, feeling too weak with the understanding that these were his chambers, it was his bed, his colors she wore, his couch she occupied, his warm hands rubbing her legs and neck and his solid body supporting her. Somehow she'd embarrassed herself at the highest station possible: with the Emperor of Atmora.
"I think not," he murmured cajolingly, "you have just won the world the war it will remember for eternity." He was quiet for a moment, before adding, "Unless you mean the sex was disappointing, in which case - I would humbly beg you to offer me a second chance."

Heat burst in her neck and face, and all she could do was press into his shoulder, awash with the incredible humiliation of it. It was impossible to think, to ideate, to figure out what she could do to ever, ever live past this moment. The fingers massaging her neck were traitorously relaxing. She couldn't be relaxed right now. She'd have to bow and scrape and apologize in words she didn't even know to even attempt a dignified exit.

Even worse, memories of the night were filtering back to her freshly sobered mind - that pulse of magick had been him healing her, she was sure of it - memories she'd never be able to dream up in a hundred thousand lifetimes. He was handsome, but that wasn't her subjective opinion. Everyone thought so. And everyone knew he attended some little known scriptures and teachings about the body as a sacred vessel for the soul, about intimacy, about love and relationships, the body's role on Nirn, the soul's pureness…why did any of that matter?

It took her a moment to realize he was kissing her hair lightly, lips drifting across her forehead to deliver tender kisses that drew her mind piecemeal from the haze.
"Majesty," she laughed feebly as he found her cheek, and gently put her hand against his mouth, pressing him back. He groaned against her fingertips, a sound that dragged the unfamiliar feeling of too-big hands on her hips, caressing her belly and breasts, those same lips on her throat, back to the screen behind her eyes.
"I see you do not remember our pact, prinsaessa." Her gut churned. Pact? "Oh, nothing so terrible as whatever you have just imagined." He chuckled prettily and began to kiss her fingers one by one, still rubbing her thigh with his other hand. "We drank to it, you see, that while we are alone you must call me by my name."

"I have the feeling we drank to too many things," she said after a moment, trying to choose her words carefully as he kissed her palm and nibbled her thumb. It was all absolutely wrong. She was a soldier, she didn't belong here, much less with him, but he was luring her in so absolutely, treating it all as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Mmh. Perhaps, but few things as important as your using my name," he said pointedly, "it was indeed…favored in your vocabulary last night." Despite herself she laughed, but mostly at the ridiculousless of it all. There was no way she was not dreaming. It was the only viable explanation for everything. Without thinking she dragged a hand over her face and half expected to wake up in her guest quarters, or even in her bunk, in her tent, anywhere else. But when she pulled her hand away it was still that hazy magick ceiling above, still showing the night sky.

Suddenly he piloted her legs up and to retain her balance her torso fell back onto the sofa cushion, but now he was shifting closer, sitting so he faced her and her ankles leaned on his shoulder. Her skin tingled as she remembered something like this from last night too, something like this position, but he had been closer, his hips flush against hers, his knees spread and dense thighs caging her pelvis while he held her calves. She banished the thought as quickly as she could, but none of it was helped by his knowing laugh, his golden eyes fixed totally on her face as if he could see each and every thought she bore.

"Majesty- there's no need-" she tried to say as he massaged her legs, curling her toes against his shoulder to try and ease him away, but he didn't let go. In fact, he was silent. Challenging. "Miraak," she whispered, his real name sounding near blasphemous on her tongue after so long using only his titles, "you don't have to do that."
"Ah, good girl," he crooned happily, kissing her shin and squeezing her thighs. "It's not quite so hard, is it?"
"It is but- you don't have to…I can leave," she suggested after a damp silence struggling to find words. There was no polite way to say it, not after his praise made her dizzy. Gods, she wanted to yell at herself, find your sanity!

"You are not my prisoner, prinsaessa," he said finally, his hands stopping, his body shifting back to give her room. "Of course I will not keep you." Then, after a moment, he added General to the end of that thought, and made a small gesture for the doors. Unceremoniously he eased off the sofa to kneel on the floor beside it, watching her patiently. There was a real crease of concern in his dark brows, though he smoothed it quickly. Feeling stupid and exposed she sat up, puling at the shift to cover her legs better.

He was handsome. And, staring back at his waiting eyes, she remembered much more of the night than before. She remembered how well his hands treated her, how praising and melting his voice was, the warmth of his body, his arms cradling her, almost…revering her. This man she only knew through the sin of war. She'd been with few men in her life, and that fact didn't bother her. She preferred it that way, never one to give casually, rarely seeking companionship. It was just the way her heart chose to work. So why him?

Her mind distracted by thought, her body turned to its own action, reaching out to touch his cheek lightly. Though his hair and beard were uncommonly short for an Atmoran, he still was Atmoran, and she knew they were particular about who could and could not touch their hair and beards. Very carefully she stroked his jaw, his short beard, traced his plump pink and brown lips. He waited. Her strained line of reasoning abandoned, she leaned down to kiss him.

His mouth was still unfamiliar, so she took it in slowly, feeling his plush lips, his warm tongue as delicately as she could. He groaned softly, happily, she thought, kissing her with all the tenderness she would've expected from a firmly devoted husband. She kissed him for as long as she could, fingers sliding through his hair, relishing his little sounds of delight and relaxation.
"Stay for small while, prinsaessa," he murmured finally against her lips, a question cloaked in the false certainty of a statement. "If for no other reason than I find you to be the most intriguing and beautiful person in the world, and you are in my country, so I order you to," he laughed again as she sat back, shocked with his admission. Intriguing and beautiful? It was impossible to her those words should describe her to anyone.

With a pleased hum he adjusted where he sat and put her feet firmly on his lap before he began to massage them too, his grin growing as she sighed her relief. For a moment a new memory filtered back to her, as her feet felt the bulk of his thighs, and she hurried to remove the warm tingle from her skin at the thought of his size, the pleasant ache it left her with this morning. Miraak watched as she smoothed the shift again, hands making only fleeting contact with her own skin, her eyes closed in bliss. Oh, yes. She stayed, so he would take her again before breakfast, before the pomp and ceremonies began. And then he could lavish her, the greatest general in the world, in history, the woman who had delivered Nirn from the yoke of the dragon slavers, lavish her with all the gifts that had been waiting in the back of his head since he first took the throne from that dragon-licking senile old cane Ahzidal.

"You know," he said after an easy silence, digging his thumbs into her soles and chuckling as she twitched, ticklish, "in some war meetings, I could not always understand the ideas, so I agreed with you because you are smarter than anyone else who shared that room with you, and I know precious little of how to conduct a war."

Her laugh was sudden and genuine, making her torso shake as she draped a wrist over her eyes.
"You're kidding?"
"Not at all, my darling. I do not have a mind for the movements of wars - logistics, numbers, supplies, I am good at. I hope I am good at," he amended. "But it is your mind that gave us the movements, the maneuveurs, the battles. Who am I, a stupid man, to pretend to disagree with such a woman who can coordinate - with immense success - the actions of thousands of people, all of different backgrounds, skills, and quality, doing different things at different times on a field of battle?" She flushed a little under the praise, the same flush he so adored last night under much different praise. Others had said similar things to her in his hearing before, and she always brushed it off, sometimes sternly, reminding them she was only one person, and could not take responsibility for the good skill and dedication of those who sought her as leader. "Ja, the Atmoran crown has prepared no lacking list of honors and gifts for your pretty head, prinsaessa."

"There's no need for that, really, Maj- Miraak," she retorted immediately, and his name on her lips sent shudders racking down his spine and through his thighs, into his groin. He continued rubbing her feet for a moment before gradually letting his hands wander up to her calves, leaning forward to kiss her knees. "Really. I mean it," she added gently as he looked up at her with pretty, pleading eyes that made her laugh as she stroked her fingers through his hair. "It's not necessary."

"As they are my honors to give, I think I will reserve judgement of that for myself, my star," he cooed, grinning. How pretty she looked, so relaxed, out of her stiff uniform or armor, off a battlefield, out of the saddle, properly fed and bathed and clothed and cushioned in his rooms. It sated his daydreams fantastically. "The first of which," he murmured, kissing the inside of her knee, then her thigh, meeting the hem of the shift, "I should like to bestow upon you now, prinsaessa, and perhaps entice you to receive more of them again tonight."

He eased her knees apart and slid forward to occupy the space between them, kissing her thighs softly. She made a pretty sound as he slid her legs onto his shoulders, holding them snugly to his neck and ears. Suckling gently over a tender, purple little bruise from last night, feeling her twitch and sigh, he looked up. Her face already pink and disheveled, he could practically see the cogs and gears churning for nothing, finding no reason not to let herself indulge in an emperor on his knees leaking with eagerness to pamper her. Moaning softly she nodded to him, and bunched her shift up by her chest in acceptance of his first gift.

Chapter Text

She turned over one more time, trying to settle onto her back and stare up into the darkness. Outside the sound of the wind was dampened by the floating, falling snow, but both obscured the dim moonlight from hitting the windows. She suppressed her sigh, blinking into the darkness, listening to the soothing, regular purr of Miraak sleeping not far away. His warmth radiated in the short distance between them, his arm outstretched so she could feel his hand leaning on her side.

As much as she tried to find sleep it wouldn't take her. She'd dozed for an hour or two at first, content in his arms, but woken up just barely out of his grasp and unable to relax again. No, she was perfectly relaxed - her limbs heavy, warm, her mind empty. But that was exactly the problem. She was aware of how still everything was. How quiet. Listening only to her husband and the muted wind outside.

A small breath whistled from between her lips and, carefully, she turned onto her side again, finding Miraak's arm and caressing his wrist. Gently, she rubbed her hand up to his bicep and back, lightly enough he wouldn't wake. In the soft grey-black of the room she could just barely make out his silhouette. He slept almost always on his back, occasionally on his belly and sometimes on his side. Despite her annoyance, her inability to sleep, she...enjoyed listening to him. Watching over him as he slept. Enjoyed knowing he was there, resting, safe, comfortable. She traced up and down his arm carefully, smiling to herself for no reason other than he was asleep, cozy and soft and loved and totally peaceful.

Then, suddenly, he turned over, and she felt his hand slide along her arm to take her hand and pull it to his chest. Groaning softly he settled on his side, brought her closer. Thinking he was asleep - he almost always found and snuggled her in his sleep, as easily as he did while conscious - she went pliantly, sinking towards the immense warmth and cushion of his torso.

"Why are you awake?" he croaked after a moment of silence. His voice was impossibly deep, lovingly raspy, his accent thick as syrup.
"Go back to sleep, mul gein," she whispered sweetly, rubbing his arm and shoulder again.
"Only with you, little one," he mumbled, pushing a kiss into her temple. "What keeps you?" Lazily, and making soft groans and sighs by her ear as he did, he began to kiss and nuzzle her cheek and forehead, lips pressing fully, lingering for a moment, sliding somewhere else.
"Nothing," she said truthfully, snickering as he rubbed his bearded chin against her shoulder with a little huff of amusement. "I'm just not tired."

Tilting his whole body now he pushed himself up on one elbow, laying his other hand by her head and shifting one knee between hers; the sudden onslaught of warmth made her shudder, but she hadn't realized how her limbs had chilled since leaving the fold of his embrace what felt like hours ago. His lips were soft, sure, seeking hers in the darkness until they met and kissed soothingly. His weight pressed her gradually, not unwelcome, his chest and stomach radiating the heat of a campfire. She let her hands travel up his arms and shoulders as she sighed against his mouth, enjoying the task, as simple as it was, something to fill her sleepless hours.

"The tenets of the Moth say that kissing your bedpartner is the cure of night ills," he hummed after a moment, kissing her chin, nibbling her lower lip playfully.
"Really?"
"No." For just a moment she could meet his eyes in the dark, and then they were giggling together, noses touching. "But I am a Moth Priest, so what I say must be true, geh?"
"Oh, yes. Of course," she snickered, massaging the back of his neck. He groaned happily at that, and then tucked an arm around her to pull her with him as he turned over. The covers slid away a bit as she adjusted atop him, but not sitting up fully, and with a chuckle he pulled them back up as she laid against his chest.
"Forgive me for being an old man who needs to lie down, elskavin," he murmured against her.

The soft smack and parting of their lips seemed to replace the endless, erratic howling of the wind outside for her ears. Like this, tucked against him, it was easier to kiss him, easier to enjoy his heat, easier to let his hands rub her legs and back to coax them into sleep. His lips were just as plump and soft as she always knew them to be, the prickle of his beard a little ticklish, his kisses - even these sleepy ones - so loving, so tender.

Suddenly his fingertips pressed deeply into the lower curve of her back, trying innocently to massage there - she nearly jumped off the side of the bed, yelping so abruptly it was impossible to control her volume. Shocked, she melted back onto him shaking with laughter, trying to adjust her legs and back as he lightened his touch but continued to rub it.
"Ah, there is our culprit," he chuckled joyously, snuggling her cheek as she stifled giggles into his ear. "Deep breath, elskavin." She obliged, and he pressed the sore knot again, much gentler, and as she exhaled he rubbed his fingers in slowly widening circles. It eased the sharpest edges of the ache off miraculously. He breathed with her, murmuring soft instruction to relax and adjust as he continued with quiet praise.

"You make fun of me for moaning when you rub my back," he tutted, kissing her temple gently with a smile on his lips. "But I think you are just as guilty, my wife."
"That was not a moan," she argued, too comfortable now to lift her head from his shoulder as he continued to massage her back. "Not like yours, anyway."
"No? I think I would know what your moans sound like, geh?"
"I think I would, since they come from me, and that was just a sigh. Either way," she tapped his chest accusingly, "I don't make nearly as much noise as you do getting a backrub."
"I'm a vocal man," he snickered.

Lazily she lifted her head to stare down disbelievingly at him, but then with a hum sought his lips again. The ache in her back slid away, and his warm palms began to rub slowly up and down her spine, pressing and melting her torso to his. Her eyes felt weighed as she kissed him, lazy and lethargic, tongue pressing with innocent familiarity. She was sorry for waking him up, but all the same glad she did. Kissing him, her husband, because that's all he was in the middle of the night wrapped in their warm covers, made the rest of the world vanish. She'd never been fond of kissing before she met him, before she felt his lips, and now it seemed like she could spend hours each day with him just like this. Just to kiss him. Maybe rub his head and snuggle close and stroke his beard - but above all, just to kiss him. It was such a simple, chaste joy, untouched by anything else, not even the troubles of the encroaching world.

"Ready?" he murmured after what felt like hours, letting her lips draw away, rubbing her thighs patiently. Weary now she nodded and snuggled into his shoulder, exhaling one more long breath before settling. He craned up into his pillow a bit before draping his arms around her and falling still.
"Thank you," she whispered, nuzzling into the soft edge of his beard as he yawned.
"I could kiss you for days, elskavin," he mumbled. "And I will never tire of sleeping with you."

Together they lapsed into comfortable silence, and though he fell asleep before her, she was lured by his even breathing and the soft rumble of his chest, and finally, blissfully, fell asleep.

Chapter Text

She plucked at her sleeves for a moment, unaccustomed to the flowing looseness of a proper gown, her exposed shoulders and hair fully let down. Luckily the servants had agreed to trim it for her, cutting it closer to her chin so it wouldn't brush her clavicle anymore. She hadn't been as lucky trying to talk them out of painting her face, though, and now delicate powder caked her cold cheeks. They were trying to hide her scar, she knew, and the redness from scrubbing off her warpaint against her protests. She felt naked, more naked than waking up in only her skin in the emperor's bed.

It had been a full week since that night, and she hadn't returned to his chambers since, now that the edge of adrenaline over winning the war was firmly in her mind's control. He still doted on her in private, though such moments were few and far between with the festivities and arrangements, gave her the seat of honor at every dinner, spoke loudly of her accomplishments to those still eager to talk about the war. They hadn't spoken of the night - nor the morning following - except for her to expressly say she would not repeat it, explaining, however feebly, that her mind simply did not loan out her body easily for such casual entanglements. He'd been gracious and incredibly kind, to her surprise, and that kindness did not come with strings attached: he did not try to woo her back to his pillow, or force her back to his affections. He was simply friendly and warm towards her, and if he flirted out of earshot of the court, she could not tell an emperor not to.

She waited, alone now, in the small, very private dining room attached to his apartments, fit only to host ten people at most. The gown wasn't uncomfortable - the fabric was fine, thick to ward off the nightly Atmoran freeze - but she wished for her uniform, even the ceremonial one with its shoulder cape and long, sky blue coat. And her bed. Unlike many others she was not keen to discuss the Dragon War so soon after its conclusion as if it happened in the lives of their forefathers. There were deaths on her hands, on her mind. Rivers of blood in her every footstep. Pallid faces lingering in her dreams-

She stood automatically as he came in, sighing loudly and rubbing his beard thoughtfully. He saw her at attention there and laughed, skirting the table in his many-layered violet robes to bend and kiss her cheeks as was custom in Atmora.
"You need not jump up for me, General," he chortled, offering his hand. "You and I are on friendly terms, no?" Wearily she nodded, letting her hand go automatically to his, but he didn't kiss it as he usually did. No, he stood there, towering over her - and yet still a head or more shorter than his countrymen - and watched her.
"Yes, we are," she said after a moment, trying to cover her lapse. With a little flick of his head the servants standing in the four corners of the room bowed low and filed out, shutting the door soundlessly behind them.

"You look very tired, prinsaessa," he said gently, and she clasped that little nickname hopelessly to her heart, at the same time wishing he wouldn't use it. Why did it matter what the Emperor of Atmora called her? She didn't know him at all. In time his friendliness would become troublesome and annoying; he was like all rulers, charming when it suited him, cold-faced when it didn't. She would be glad to sail back across the Sea of Ghosts when the season came, back to Skyrim. Bloody, divided Skyrim.

She didn't notice he was helping her sit until her legs found the chair again, and he still stood over her, still holding her hand captive.
"You would prefer to return to your quarters, General?" he asked, making a little gesture for the door. She gazed at the immaculate spread of food before them, hunger in her bones as much as the exhaustion. She had starved in the field just like all the rest of her soldiers, and its effects on her body - the thinness, the fatigue, the cramping - were still not totally reversed. Still, so much food gathered in one place made her feel sick.
"No, I can stay," she said quietly.
"Oh, General," he chuckled, sliding into the seat at the head of the table, with her to his left. Finally he surrended her hand, but not before kissing it tenderly, apologetically. "Please take care of yourself."

She couldn't find her voice to protest when he served her, all too aware of his eyes locked on her dry face and pressed lips. Then, suddenly, with a plate of warm food in front of her, he shoved his chair over to sit on the corner of the table and balled his napkin; magicka thickened the air, and she watched a glittering ice form over his hand before melting into the cloth, and he turned to face her.

"I am sorry for dragging you to dinner with me tonight, my star, when you are so tired," he said, making a little motion for her to lean in. "And, with the Lady Moth as my witness, I fear I am wearying you with my attention, and will not continue seeking you if you do not want me to." Confused, she leaned forward, and he took her chin in his palm lightly, and then began to wipe at her face with the cold, damp napkin. "You are an incredible woman, and we Atmorans are more affectionate than you Nords, I fear. I will not play in the shallows while you are sent out to sea - that is…" he paused for a moment, shaking his head.

"Beat around the bush?" she supplied, and he grinned - not those monarchical, gallant laughs, but a true, amused little grin.
"Ja, perfect. I will not beat the bushes. My only intention tonight was to tell you what I would like for us. If you desire nothing, then I will let you eat alone, return to your quarters, and when the storm season ceases, you will return unhindered to your country, and never hear of me except perhaps in a century and a half when I die. Or in a year or two when I am deposed."
"Nords don't live that long," she chuckled as he began wiping the makeup off her cheeks again, exposing the thin scar below her eye.
"Ah, but mages do." He winked. "Regardless. You may eat and then answer, or answer and then eat. Either way you must know how divinely I regard you, Tharya Stormhand. You have bent history and the Weavers to your intelligence and heart."

Finally he set the napkin down, stained with flesh-colored powder and pink blush, and her face felt blissfully clean, lightweight again. A stone of weight lifted from her shoulders as he rubbed his hands together and leaned back. To preserve that feeling she elected to eat first and hear him out after. Something he said kept tickling the back of her mind: or in a year or two when I am deposed. She guessed that was what he wanted to talk about, but enjoyed her food first, slowly opening into easy conversation with him. He only reminded her twice to call him Miraak and not Majesty, and after that his name came easier. He shed the thick robe of imperial command, the outer facade of aloof charm. Inside he was more serious, more reserved, but incredibly attentive.

She ate slowly so she finished only after he did, and declined wine when he offered, but he drank, listening to her speak and enjoying the silence between. Then finally, well-fed for what felt like the first time in centuries, she refolded her napkin and tried to smooth her skirts as she turned in her chair. Miraak grinned at her, his dark skin glowing in the light of the candles and sconces, his golden eyes unnaturally brightened by the uneven shadows. Swallowing the last of his wine, and having shed two or three layers of his robes of office so only the thinner, fitted one remained, he reached out to fix the shoulder of her dress.

"I hope you do not mind my familiarity, prinsaessa," he sighed, touching her collarbone lightly before pulling away. "You must tell me. You possess such a unique sort of beauty that I cannot help but desire to be close to."
"Are you drunk?" she asked him after a moment of disbelief, and he chuckled into his wrist.
"No, but I am…eh, wine-warm, I suppose it translates to," he replied. "But you must tell me."
"I…don't mind it," she said slowly, surprised at herself. "I don't know why."
"I will never force myself on you," he said suddenly. "And if I am possessed and a Daedra uses my body to do so, it is within your legal rights in Atmora to kill me." He chuckled again as he said that, as if offering a juicy piece of gossip. "Or castrate me, if you prefer. But as I like to remain whole, I would always like you to speak to me if I overstep."

Nodding once, he stood finally, clicking open his belt and dropping it unceremoniously to the table. She watched him drag a hand through his short hair, so much shorter than most others, men or women, in Atmora wore it.
"Before you reveal your grand plan, can I ask you something?" He turned, eyebrows up, before nodding. "Why keep your hair so short?"
"Truthfully," he hummed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I prefer it this way. Oh, I suppose I'll grow it out when I start to grey, to keep with tradition. I cut it short just after I took the throne, so you never saw me, but I had such curls before - a terrible pain, my gods."
"Your hair was curly?"
"Oh, gods yes. Very pretty. Tedious to care for, down to my waist."
"But…" she shrugged, spreading her palms placatingly. "Were you caring for them?"

He surveyed her for a moment before snorting, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Yes, I look after my hair. Or my brother or father does. If you are here long enough, prinsaessa, you will learn hair is very sacred and intimate to us," he explained, "keeping it properly it personal, not for servants to do. If you are here long enough," he repeated, looking at her curiously, with an almost scientifically appraising edge to his gaze, "perhaps I will get the chance to show you."
"So why does your brother…?
"Vahlok."
"Why does Vahlok keep his short?"
"Oh, because I do," he said, heaving a long sigh. "Now, are you ready for my - as you said? - grand plan?" She nodded and gave him a wide gesture, and then waited. "I suppose it would be easier if you asked me what I intend," he added, eyes sliding to her almost conspiratorially. "That is what I rehearsed in the bath."

Tharya couldn't help the laugh that burst out of her, scrambling to cover her mouth to stifle her giggles. Miraak stood patiently, grinning as he watched her laugh - suddenly so carefree, not at all as dismal as she looked when he first came in - and when she finally composed herself, she gave him a courtly nod.
"What do you intend - Miraak?" she tacked his name on after a moment, and then, without thought: "For me?"
"Oh, for you, my star, is somewhat different," he replied, obviously caught offguard by her specification. But then: "To marry you."

Her laughter died immediately. She stared up at him, that sinking, cold feeling returning. To marry…her?
"What in Talos' name could you possibly want me for?" she whispered before she could stop herself, her tone more accusatory than was acceptable for addressing an emperor. It all made sense now. He was faking it. His ridiculous charm, his words about unique beauty, it was all a ruse. He was trying to reel her in, and the hook was already in her mouth. Perhaps the…the night had been the first step of the plan. Hadn't he just said he wouldn't force her?

"I will not propose against your wishes. I will not force you to marry me. But my spot on the throne is precarious; I require either a strong political marriage, of which there are no fitting candidates in Atmora, and I do not want to marry outside the continent. If not that, I require a marriage to someone who can command," he said, almost fiercely, but his tone otherwise flat and…legal. "I need someone to help secure my throne. I cannot give children, so I will have no dynasty. However long I am emperor will need to be milked for every moment."
"You can't?"
"No. It was…an accident, in the war," he said carefully. "That is the truth, but I ask you not to wonder for more just yet." She nodded. Then, as if he'd expected her discussion, even her debate, welcomed her questioning, he gestured to her. "What else?"

"By marrying me, you marry someone outside the continent," she pointed out, standing now, leaning one hand on the back of her chair.
"Ah, I suppose so, in technicalities. But you have fought here the past year, in the dragons' lairs."
"Why is your throne precarious?" She searched his face as he was silent, preparing a reply, weighing his words. And then, grimly, the realization came to her. "Are those rumors true?" she whispered. He nodded, but he adjusted his stance as he did; spreading his feet a bit, squaring his arms and shoulders. He was getting ready to restrain her, if need be. Gauging her immediate reaction, ready to strike if the threat came.

"Yes. I killed the former emperor Ahzidal - may he rot and boil in the Void forevermore."
"Why?"
"You know exactly why, General. He spread his legs for Alduin and the others to rape and pillage my country," he replied, a sudden indignation and rough passion flaring in his posture, in his words. "He bowed to them, pledged Atmorans to their slavery. He kept us out of the war for so long; no, he kept us in support of the dragons! I could not watch while my beloved homeland fell to such tyranny; as we became the ire of every other civilized nation on Nirn for our cowardice. Ahzidal is - was a disgusting parody of a Man. Yes, I murdered him myself. And Atmora is better for it."

She sat back in stunned silence, feeling as if all the wind had been sucked from her chest. Yes, I murdered him myself. Did that mean with his own hands? Or did he simply give the order? Either way…he was a usurper. Unlawful. His reign was built on nothing but a single fragile secret, and one he'd just openly admitted to.

"How did you succeed him?" she whispered, more to herself than to him, but Miraak answered regardless.
"Atmoran succession where there is no bloodline is a many-layered process. You need not concern yourself with it beyond the fact that I rose to the throne lawfully."
"After you killed the previous emperor."
"And what would you have me regret that for?" he retorted, his voice hardening. Charming when he needed to be and coldblooded when he didn't. "Without Atmora, General, the war does not end as happily as we have enjoyed. Without Ahzidal's death, the dragons do not disappear. While he was alive they had an eternal foothold on Nirn. Atmoran battlemages and infantry were the only reason any of you southerners survived the last year of winter here. No?"

Violence surged in her veins and she wanted to stand up and scream at him, to ask him where his mighty Atmoran battlemages were when she and her troops were breaking off toes and fingers so cleanly their blood froze before it could drip, where were they when she and Ralof were starving, eating raw beetles and twigs, burning their clothes to keep warm? Where were the fabulous Atmoran armies and supply chains when she was dying in the cold for months, waging the war from a three-legged stool as her desk, until she had to burn that too? Where was he, the murdering, illegitimate emperor, when her troops were killing themselves on chokeberries?

Her limbs trembling, she sank uneasily into her chair again, aware of Miraak's eyes narrowed on her. Watching. He'd seen her body, she reminded herself. No doubt he knew her thinness was unnaturally begotten. She wasn't the only person who starved during the war, all four years of it.

"I apologize. I do not mean to antagonize you," he said after a long while, circling the table to resume his seat at the corner, facing her entirely. "We can speak of my ascension later, and I will promise to answer your questions however I can. For now it is imperative to me that you understand the full possibilities." Wearily, wishing for her bed again, and to be out of this gods-damned gown, she nodded.

"You rooted out traitors regularly from your own ranks. Tyranus, the Cyrod general, you discovered his treachery and all of his accomplices. You can secure this throne. And it is in Nirn's best interest that Atmora is stable - I will not lecture you on that, though." He was right again, unfortunately. Atmora was the only nation on Nirn that was a single sovereign power inhabiting its own continent; the country and continent were the same. It was as large or larger than Tamriel, and did a thousand times more in trade and farming than Skyrim. For it to fall into civil war would have unprecedented repercussions on the state of the world.

"I ask for your wit. Your strategy. Your hardness," Miraak went on, clenching his fists and planting them on his thighs. "But you do not need to marry me to do it. If you stay in my court until the matter is concluded - until I am sure no treacherous tongues remain, you will be free to go home. A marriage is better for the public stability, and better for your safety in my court. But it is possible you may stay on as an advisor - an ambassador, something, and be let loose on those imbecile traitors."
"What traitors?" she asked sharply, wanting to rattle his shoulders and tell him he was the only traitor here.
"There is a plot against my life."

She was silent.

He looked at her solemnly, appraising her reaction, watching as she heaved a sigh. She had the full truth now. He knew of the plot, he could use her - yes, it would be using, but he could at least be honest about how he used her - to sleuth out those involved. Her continued presence as the greatest living hero on Nirn would bolster his security on the throne, and whether or not she married him, she would be a massive buttress and lifelong ally towards what he was attempting to build. A free Atmora. Free of the dragons. Free of the war. A liberated, abundant Atmora.

"It is in its infancy now, only whisperings. But it will come to fruition, perhaps multiple times. And if I survive it, or crush it completely, then my reign will continue unquestioned," he explained slowly. Hesitating a moment he reached out to take her hands, both of them in one of his, and squeezed them tightly.

"So I would be your shield? To take the killing blow for you?" she scoffed.
"No, General, I do not think so feebly of you. You would be my inquisitor," he hissed, straining that word obsessively as he shifted onto his knees in front of her. "Your mind is unlike any other who guided this war. You need not think you would do this for me but for the good of Nirn. My spymaster. My most secret, most intimate advisor. To expose this plot and secure my throne is in the best interest of the entire world as we freefall into what we must rebuild. You need not marry me to do it, but my will is stone - it must be you, or it cannot be anyone."

She met his eyes then, and he saw her as he always saw her standing across the war table, speaking little, indulging in the maps and wooden troops spread across them, seeing what others could not, understanding what others did not. From the moment he laid eyes on her he set his people to discovering as much as they could, down to the details of her entire command during the war. Battles lost and won. Traitors ousted and their punishments. Inner circle. Even her magick. He studied her as thoroughly as he could in those meetings, devising plans to weld her - even temporarily - to his court, to shore up his power. Likely she would think he manipulated her into his bed that night, and he would work to prove his innocence in that regard. He spoke true of her uniqueness; she enraptured him for some reason, she had since he first pledged Atmora's aid in the war, Ahzidal's blood still fresh on his hands, and it was pure happy accident that she found his pillow and his arms that night.

"Why marriage?" she asked at long last after probing consideration. He hadn't expected that to be her question, but wasn't that why he wanted her? Because she could outthink everyone?
"Married to me, you would gain extraordinary power and protection in this court that would likely smooth the path of your work," he replied honestly.
"Protection in a court you think is trying to kill you." You think. Ah, she was good. She still didn't believe him, but it didn't matter. He had proof. He would convince her.

"Yes, perhaps I could not keep you as safe now as I wish. But there are other protections and many powers." Slowly he let go of her hands, letting her palms drape and drag along his, letting their fingers trace one another's before releasing completely. "Truthfully, I do not wish for a loveless companion all my life, which I believe I would gain from a political Atmoran marriage. And it is possible that, if you married me, we would be the same; friendly, but loveless. If that is my fate then it is too petty for me to fight against," he allowed. "I believe we could grow together. You are deep and unknown to me, and I wish to know you, to orbit you like a moon and share the light of knowing you. But even as emperor I cannot force you to love me, nor will I ask you to. I believe we would not need to love each other to understand. And that is quite rare indeed for people in our positions."

"Couldn't you take consorts? Concubines?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Even if you were trapped in a political marriage. You could have side lovers."

"Ja, that is correct, and if that were my lot I would do just that. But concubines and courtesans are also liabilities. They will always require careful screening and consideration, but a partner in love - not they." She nodded slowly. He worried to drown her in information - she was not the same since the end of the war, lingering gravely on its death and destruction, the memories of battlefields, of the grueling winter campaign. He shared some of that dimness. Perhaps they could help one another somehow. "Please consider every part of my offer. You do not need to love me. I ask only that we understand one another." Looking up at him again, her face set stonily, Tharya nodded once more.

"When should I let you know?"

"The Tamrielic forces leave in a month when passage through the Sea of Ghosts is safe. Before then. And, prinsaessa," he said as they both stood, extending a hand to her. "I would have your binding word that you will not speak of this to anyone." Magicka pulsed through his palm, manifesting in slim orange tendrils. She scoured his face for any sign of misgivings, any smallest hint of deception. It couldn't be so straightforward; not for an emperor. But she would feel his untruth through the bond, if she pressed, and so she summoned her own magicka - sea green and blue, like an undulating wave - and clasped his hand between hers.

Their colors mingled and absorbed one another's, pulsing and waving, and she could feel his magick invading her veins slowly, like a seeping pool. Before the bond could seal, though, she squeezed his wrist.
"Your word that you're telling me the truth," she demanded softly, and he nodded, pressing his opposite hand atop hers with new magicka, new bonds, and together they watched as the lacelike strands created a latticework pattern over their hands and settled tightly, like netting, pinching their skin, and then vanished. He looked at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes delving hers. That strange edge of his magicka floating in her veins would ebb over time, but until it did it would be a constant reminder of this pact. Of this promise.

He escorted her in silence to the main door of his chambers, gesturing for one of the guards to bring her back to her room in the maze-like palace.
"There is to be a gala, of course, before the southerners leave," Miraak said with a little inclination of his head as she stepped out into the cold hallway. "I will not constrict you to a gown," he gave a little chuckle, knowing as always, and touched her sleeve, "wear what you choose. But please accept my father's personal tailor to make something for you, General." He pretended to look around, but she knew he was reminding her of the guards in their presence, speaking only what could be said.
"That's very generous," she said after a moment, and then added Majesty to it.
"Consider it a keepsake of your time in Atmora," he replied, and gestured for the guard, who bowed low and then stood aside for her to pass.

Chapter Text

"Careful on the slope, you'll-"

Her backside hit the ice with a commanding crack that ricocheted surprising pain along her back and legs, and then she was slipping and sliding down the ice-covered road, her voice rising, the wind biting her ears and face as her scarf came free. The ice seemed to be endless, and then at long last she skidded and swiveled to a stop, hands burning from dragging along the cold surface, her breath steaming.

"Woah!"

A sudden, bellowing sound echoed rousingly into the afternoon grey as she laid there, catching her breath and giggling at the sheer comedy of it - her warning just before succumbing to the slope herself seemed a little too perfect now that she'd slid halfway down the road on her rear, arms and legs useless against the sheer sheet of icy buildup.

At the crest of the small hill Miraak was doubled over, pulling his scarf away from his mouth as he laughed loudly, peering down the road at her and throwing himself back for a new fit of cackling.
"Yeah, it's funny when it's not you, isn't it?" she challenged, giggling herself as she tried to sit up. "Gods! That could've carried me halfway back to Whiterun." Brushing little chips of ice and frozen road dirt off her palms she got to her knees slowly, and then made an attempt to stand; it lasted a couple seconds before sending her back to the ground, as did the second, and even the third.

At the top of the hill, Miraak was laughing even harder.

She paused her vain struggles for just a moment to admire the sound, the way it moved his entire body so effortlessly, like ripples in a lake - he never laughed, and when he did, it was so often little chuckles, little titters that only reached her ears. But here he was laughing so hard he started coughing around the cold, thin air, and she smiled broadly as he staggered a bit, caught between coughing and laughing, not enough air for both, and then suddenly he was sliding down the hill too…directly towards her.

The collision would've sent her flying into the snow by the roadside, but he strapped his arms around her and they both toppled gracelessly, slid an extra ten feet, and finally caught some patch of frosted now and came to a rudely jarring stop. Her ears rang with his breathless laughter, the bulk of his body shaking happily against hers.

"You were right- it's slippery," he snorted, and she burst out laughing too, smacking his arm. "Can we slide the rest of the way home?"

"Probably!" she cackled.

"Careful on the slope," he mocked, pinching her sides through the thick layers she wore. She writhed, ticklish, and fought him off. After too long a time giggling and lying on the ice they started to get up, wobbling and clutching onto each other, laughing wheezily as they each slipped and fell and tripped and slid even more; none of it was helped by their growing laughter, which brought tears pricking her eyes and had Miraak kneeling over himself on the ground in front of her.

"How are we going to get home?" she cried dramatically, raising her hands to the sky. "Kyne show me the way- oompf!" Miraak hollered as she fell again, clutching his stomach. "Gods, my back hurts…"

"Elskavin, I have a solution," he announced once he caught his breath, and shakily got to his feet to somewhat skate his way over to her. He looked ridiculous, toddling over with his arms out for balance and sliding his feet forward. "Come, come. Allow me to lead us bravely from this treacherous land!"

With much trepidation she took his outstretched arms and got to her feet, clinging around his torso to stay upright. He cast a hand out for their staffs lying scattered and forgotten and the weapons snapped to his palms, almost throwing them both off balance.

"Here," he instructed, cracking the tip of her spear down into the thick ice with a triumphant huff. She put her cold hands atop his on the shaft, thinking fervently of home, of Tundra House, of the little path leading up to the door… "Ready?"

There was a surge in magicka, like a bulging bubble, and then suddenly it broke around them. She watched as he carved a thin, jagged rip in the air before their eyes and the rip widened just enough to let them pass through one by one. On the other side of the rip was exactly the image she'd conjured of home.

"Did we really rip halfway across the Hold to avoid some ice?" she said after a long moment of silence, looking up at him from his chest.

"No, of course not," he scoffed. "We are Dragonborn."

She grinned and, holding his arm, started to shuffle forward through the dense snow…

Her boot slid along the layer of rock hard ice hidden beneath the powder, and they went down together already laughing.