Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

High in the mountains of the stretch of land that would someday come to be known as Haafingar, but was then known as the Feign, a temple curled quietly amongst the trees and cliffs. It barely made a sound, until nightfall, when pounding drum music echoed from its walls, a particular song for each phase of every moon that hung in the sky. Unlike the greyed, rough stone used for temples elsewhere across Skyrim, like Forelhost or the Labyrinthian, Feintmire’s walls seemed smooth and wet like carved ice, curling towers and battlements overlooking the forest below. Her walls however refused to melt, under the shift of seasons, or the pyres lit within to brighten its sweeping halls.

This grand and beauteous structure was home to the Briinahmaar do fin Jill. Mortal women, the messengers of the Minute-Menders, whispering between the ebb and flow the Dovah swam through. Peaceful in their ways, the Briinahmaar had no use for domination or conquest, using their infinite solitude for their rituals and seances. Feintmire’s Sisterhood remained removed from the blood cult Brotherhood of the Dovah, as well as The World Eater’s dominion as a whole. The Nords were none the wiser to what resided in the most North-Western corner of the land, and the Brothers were content to not visit the Sisters’ priestesses casually. Paarthurnax had not visited the temple in decades, or perhaps longer. Time was as simple as breathing to a Dovah, there and over with in an instant. It made surprises that much more startling, however. The Grey Wyrm was quiet, when Feintmire screamed and hissed from across the snow capped lands all the way to Monahven, and looked to the Black Wyrm.

Alduin lifted himself from his wall-throne, standing to his fullest height like a hare looking past the long grass, staring towards the Feign in quiet anticipation. Paarthurnax thought to laugh, because if the Elder Brother had been warm blooded, he might have paled to the point of looking ill. As the screaming whispers came with the winds howling over the mountain peak, the World-Eater became afraid.

-

Untouched snow-blanketed hills stretched as far as the eye could see. Not even hares had dared pervert the freshly fallen white yet that morning, and the sun had yet to fully rise to behold it, and let it glitter. Two horses stood side by side at the edge of the Solstace countryside, their riders thickly cloaked in grand robes of reds and purples and gold trimmings. One wore his mask, like a soldier’s medal beneath his hood, while the other had pulled a thick scarf down from his nose in order to admire the view. A younger man, though far from a child, with dark, curled locks peeking from under his hood over an olive brow. His breath rose like smoke in the air, taking in the landscape with a haughty smile.

“Such grace, our land,” he said to his companion, glancing towards him as if he was completely sure he would nod. “It commands beauty like a maid, and screams its chilling strength like a shieldmaiden.”

The man’s companion, who had not wanted to stop, did not appear to react. He was smaller, with slight shoulders cloaked in rich purple furs and fabrics. His thick iron mask wore no feeling, no hint of humanity. It appeared almost as though it were sleeping, the slit eyes arched down and a frown firmly engraved into the metal. The man resembled a crouched sabre cat, furiously patient, ready to pounce. His riding partner smiled, no kindness in the expression, once again glancing to the masked man and away again. “I must apologise, friend of mine. I have been remiss. I’d all but forgotten, how would you know of a snowy maiden’s delicate skin, compared to the sheen of your fair wife’s mighty scales?” The masked man silently turned to look at his companion, a dark glare hinting in the tightening of his shoulders. The dark haired man looked back, not an ounce of shame nor worry. “The village is still a way’s. Shall we be off?”

The silent rider snapped his reigns, and with a yelp his black stallion leapt for the hills in a rush.

Rahgot smiled once more, pulling his fur mask over his nose, and taking off as well. They rode for some time, as the sun began to rise and the snow flash tried to blind them. Spindly huts appeared in the distance, the sound of oxen and ground churning, pickaxes cracking. The tiny village came upon them at last, and what a sight they made. The nordic people scattered as the two steeds thundered to a halt, circling each other as their riders glanced over the shacks and farmers.

At last the two came to a stop, side by side, facing each others’ rears. The villagers stared in mute fright and awe. Never had they seen such beautiful stallions or rich robes. Whispers flew from ear to ear, of lords, kings, and warmongers. At last, a few took to their knees in confusion, though they were somewhat certain they should kneel.

An elder limped toward them, bowing again and again as he approached whilst favouring a frail back. “Milords, milords,” the white haired man croaked, shaking with age and not an ounce of cold. “We welcome yer visit. What might we do for ye? Though we haven’t much to gift, but perhaps food and beds might be yer need?”

“No, good elder,” Rahgot replied, looking down on the man, his fur scarf still decidedly set over his nose. “Not gifts, nor food, nor beds. But flesh.”

The elder raised his head and squared his shoulders, glancing back around at his people. This tiny settlement wasn’t large enough to have a jarl, or even a chief. But perhaps this old fellow had earned enough of the people’s hearts to be regarded as the authority, though no higher power had blessed it upon him. “Milords, the women here are but farmers and fishwives… I-I cannot offer-“

“To ride so far from the warmth of my temple and concubines to bed a fishwife certainly sounds a tale worth telling to my lords amongst our brotherhood, to raise laughter and ire at my tastelessness. Both things I enjoy tremendously, I assure you.” The man in purple once again fixed the red rider with a pointed stare through the tired slits of his mask. “I do not speak of flesh to enjoy, old man. Young flesh. Young meat, if you will. Is this the settlement known as Raahan?”

“It be, milord,” the elder replied quietly.

“Then, the maid Jaya, and her son. Are they here?” The old man paused, then nodded solemnly. “Bring them here. My friend and I must speak with her boy.”

The Nords whispered and looked to each other, nervous and curious. The elder turned to his people, and gestured to hurry. From behind a hut made of twigs and hide, a young woman shuffled through the snow. She had a vice like grip on a boy’s arm, who staggered behind her like a foal. The elder gestured again and, trembling, the woman stiffly came to the men. Her hair was a straw blonde, taken back and dripping over her shoulder in a long braid. Plain though she was, a common girl, there was a pretty edge to her plump cheeks and bright blue eyes. As she reached them, staring up at Rahgot in mute awe, she almost forgot to bow, hastily and messily leaning forward.

“Good lady,” the red rider said, dark eyes prying over the girl. “Present to us your boy.”

Jaya, still so taken aback, hesitantly pulled the boy closer. A handsome young thing. Blond, darker than his mother. He had her eyes, and likely his father’s face. There was the hint of a sharp jaw, not quite fully there yet. Curiously, Rahgot noted the faintly fading freckles speckled across the boy’s nose and cheeks. Odd, though perhaps he and his mother had not always lived with this tribe.

“Bow, boy. You are addressing kings,” Rahgot commanded, puffing his chest. All of a sudden, the village threw themselves to their knees, noses pressed to the snow, and the boy and his mother trembled on the ground. They slowly raised their heads however when the red rider began to laugh. It was a nasty sound. Like it would bite at you. “A jest, good people! We are not kings, but priests. Learned men of wealth and power, bestowing upon you our presence and glory.” He looked back down. “You may stay there, woman. You, boy. Rise.”

Now only further confused, the boy shakily got to his feet, his mother’s hand still tightly gripping his arm. The way he unconsciously shrugged and fidgeted, it seemed a bruising grip. “You were not born in this village, boy?” The child shook his head, jaw slightly slack. “You are not deaf, I see. Dumb, perhaps? Was you tongue taken from you, boy?”

“No, milord. Sorry, milord.” The boy gulped, and wetted his lips. “… me ma took me. Up from the south.”

“How long ago was this?”

The boy glanced away a moment. “A year, milord. We was in a village, near the mountain. Then me pa found us, and ma took me again. We been here a week, milord.” Rahgot nodded, reclined comfortably in his luxurious saddle. The lord Paarthurnax had sent Nahkriin to the village in the south not long before, and Rahgot had revelled in the great delight he wrought when the snivelling toad returned anguished and empty handed. He had been spared for his failure only because he had never once failed their lords before.

“What do you do here, boy?” The child scuffled his feet in place, glancing around.

“We’ve not been here long, milord. Ma helps clean clothes and spears. I been helping muck out the oxes.”

“Oxen,” Rahgot corrected. “Not oxes.” The boy looked up, for the very first time, meeting the priest’s eye. There was surprise in those sky blue eyes, intrigue. He was stared down, until he cast his eyes back down to his feet. “… can you read?”

“No, milord.”

“Can you fight?”

The boy’s brow furrowed, looking conflicted a moment. “I threw a rock at me pa. And I hit the baker’s daughter at the mountain village.”

“And why did you hit her?”

“She tried to kiss me, milord.” Rahgot laughed again, looking to his riding partner as though they might share a jolly. Met with silence, the red priest merely finished his giggle in his own time, shaking his head and sighing.

“I see. Boy, we have travelled from our kingdoms and castles, ridden across tundras and cliffs, to find you. Now, why might two lordly priests, who live only to serve our great, mighty god-kings, the Dovah, have left the comfort and duty of their lofty lands to find a muddy little boy huddled in a hut strung of horker skin?,” he asked. The boy’s eyes widened, like a rabbit being spotted by a hawk in a field. He dared not breathe, gulp or flinch, and the fabric of his sleeve wrinkled sharply as his mother’s fingers tightened.

“I don’t know, milord.”

“You do not? Then, might you know why our mighty, glorious master, eater of worlds, First Born of Akatosh, the Black that Swallows the Sky, our godly lord Alduin, looked down upon us simple worms, and commanded us, to bring you into our fold?”

The village had begun to creep back, further and further like the tide, and at last, the boy’s mother loosened her grip, and sadly curled her arm back to herself. The boy looked down to her, looked to the elder who had slipped back amongst the villagers, then back to the red and grey priests who watched him from atop their steeds.

“No, milord. I don’t.”

“Then we shall enlighten you. Ours is a brotherhood ancient as the grounds you walk upon, child. We were chosen not by blood, but by the will of the gods that walk our skies. For our cunning, our spirit, our strength. It is an honour unlike any other. There is no telling when the great ones will choose another. Til a short while ago, only eight priests have ever ruled at one time. Yet, the rules have been bent. And it is our lords’ right to bend them, and a ninth brother was brought to our order. For a time, we believed him to be the exception. However it seems our masters are not yet satisfied with our might. They have whispered amongst themselves and decreed that you, boy, will be our brother.” Rahgot straightened in his saddle, his mirth finally drifting away to reveal the sharp, judging eyes of a man who was jealous of a child. “Why?” Silence fell between them, thin and brittle as ice on a pond. “Well, it is not our place to ask. We obey, and we serve.”

Rahgot flicked his reigns, and his horse steadily plodded around and behind his companion’s stallion, not paying the boy one more glance. “You will learn a great many things. You will learn to read, you will learn to write. You will wield sword, shield, bow and arcane, to serve our masters with your blood and soul. We ride now, boy. You needn’t say farewell to your mother, she is no longer your family. This village a distant memory.” The purple rider, who had spoken not a word, nor seemed to have even taken a breath, stared down at the boy, and silently reached a hand down towards him. The glove was thick, black leather and, the boy realised, scaled.

The child looked away from the gloved hand, to his mother, knelt in the snow. Tears dripped down her plump, red cheeks, not a sound leaving her lips. He watched her, even as he silently reached for the gloved hand. It grabbed his wrist, and lifted him as if he was light as a feather, seated in the silent priest’s lap.

“We have fulfilled lord Paarthurnax’s wish, that even dearest Nahkriin could not,” Rahgot chuckled, that nasty glee returning. “Shall we be rewarded, lord Vokun?”

The purple priest did not reply, not giving his brother nor the village a second glance, once again snapping his reigns and bolting out between the shacks. The boy leaned suddenly, grasping the stranger’s robes to watch the sight of his mother, forlorn, alone, left behind in the snow. He found it hard to breathe, watching her watch him be taken, until he could just barely see the village at all. He finally turned back, lightly leant against Vokun’s chest, and watched with those wide, bright blue eyes, as the world rushed passed at a gallop.

They rode for a day, across Winter’s Hold, til the sun began to lower past the mountains and the skies darkened. The boy fidgeted and squirmed. The horse wheezed, and he worried it would trip on the icy roads. The winds that whipped across the land left his cheeks and nose numb, but his shoulders had been loosely covered with the excess of the priest’s purple cloak. His stomach growled and his legs twitched, until he couldn’t bare it any longer. The rider still had not said a word since they set off, not to him, or the man in red who trailed behind them upon his black stallion. “Milord,” the boy called as loudly as he dared, staring at the horse’s mane leading up its strong neck. “Can we stop?”

He got no reply, as he thought he wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly, bowing his head a little. “Sorry, milord. Can we stop? I really, really need a piss, milord.”

Another silence, and he thought he’d been ignored again, until the priest tugged left on the reigns. His horse veered towards the thicket, bounding to a rather sudden stop. The boy dared to feel relief, as the man swung himself off his saddle, and lifted the boy under his arms and roughly set him on his feet. He turned, and quickly bowed. “Thank you, milord, I’ll be fast.”

He scampered a short way into the bushes, the top of his blond head still visible. The sound of the red priest’s horse finally caught up to them, coming to a halt on the road. “What seems to be the problem, my friend?,” Rahgot called, leaning to see past Vokun’s panting steed. The poor thing lowered its head to lap at the snow for water, and Rahgot could see the boy’s back facing him. “Ah, I see, yes. Wouldn’t do for our new little brother to soil your robes, my lord.”

The boy finally felt the rubber limbed relief of getting to piss after a long, long journey, and quickly tied his trousers back up. He shuffled back out of the thicket, looking up at the priest. Vokun stared back down at him, the mask’s cold frown weighing down on him. “Thank you, milord. I feel much better.” The silent priest nodded, and lifted the boy again, having him straddle the base of his steed’s neck, just in front of his saddle. He climbed up after him, replacing his cloak around his tiny shoulders and flicking the reigns.

The stallion started at a steady pace, meeting with Rahgot’s on the road as they ambled along. The boy kept his gaze on the road ahead, not daring to look at the red priest. “Boy,” Rahgot said quite suddenly. Being addressed, he nervously peeked around Vokun’s robe to see the man in red holding out a bun to him. “You must be hungry.”

He quietly took it, cradling it in his frozen little hands. It looked sweet, he could remember the last time he had eaten something sweet. One of the baker’s elderberry pastry wraps in the mountain village. His daughter would steal one for him when her father wasn’t looking, and he would play with her as payment. She’d stopped bringing them to him when one day, she hid the sweet treat behind her back as he reached for it, and with a smug little look, said, “I want to be paid first. I don’t want to play today. You have to kiss me, or you won’t have it.” She’d puckered her lips and roughly leaned into his face, and in a panic, he balled his tiny fist and whacked her cheek. It was barely a tap, all the might a startled nine year old could muster, but she’d grasped her cheek like he’d slapped her with the strength of a man. Her eyes welled up, lips pulled back in an ugly grimace, and she shrieked and threw the treat into the river before running away howling.

He eyed the bun hungrily, mouth watering. “Thank you, milord,” he said, and took a big bite. Gods, it was sweet. So sweet his teeth ached. As he bit in further, his tongue found sharp snowberry jam in the centre, and he delighted even more.

“My lord, boy.” He looked back to Rahgot, who fixed him with a stern look. “Not milord. No speaking like a peasant now, boy. You’ll learn.”

The boy swallowed his mouthful, smacking his lips. “Yes, my lord.” The red priest nodded lightly, looking satisfied, and looked ahead. He looked back down at his snowberry jam bun, and eagerly crammed the rest into his mouth.

Chapter Text

Vuru’s hooves clamoured against the last icy steps he would be able to take, when Vokun pulled on the steed’s reigns. The howling of the blizzard around them was deafening, he could only assume Rahgot was still behind him. The trek up the seven thousand steps to the monastery of High Hrothgar was notoriously arduous. Monks and scholars rarely had to make the journey more than once in their lifetime, but the priests of the cult made it semi-regularly. And as an unspoken agreement amongst them, they tried to schedule a meeting upon the Throat of the World as little as possible. However, the note Morokei’s eagle had brought to them when they paused their journey at the border of Krosis’s land, Winter’s Hold, summoned them to fall before their masters at once. And so, they rode. No rest since then, bundling the child in as many furs as they had spare. It was pitiful luck though that they should have to make the trek up the mountain right in the middle of Sun’s Dusk. What began as a flurry at the base quickly became a howling temper the higher they climbed. The horses stamped and protested, and Vokun felt the boy’s shivering become violent, forgetting any fear he might have had for the dark priest and pressing as close as he could for warmth. So it was with a mighty sigh of relief that Vokun looked up to the blackened stone towers of the temple, just barely looming through the swirling snow.

He gathered the boy up in his cloak, and clambered off with him, all but stuffing him under one arm as he struggled to guide his horse to the stable. Once he’d made it to the wooden doors, treated with a lacquer crafted specifically for mountainous weather, he unceremoniously booted it open, and tumbled inside. The boy squeaked, nearly completely frozen, trembling against his side. The stablehands jumped up from the small pyre in the far corner of the stables.

“My lords!,” one of the boys exclaimed, and Vokun glanced to his side to see Rahgot staggering in after him.

“Hurry now,” the red priest wheezed, shakily handing the lad his reigns and rubbing his gloved hands together. “Mustn’t keep everyone waiting.” He started walking briskly to the back of the stables to enter the monastery from the lower levels, simply to avoid stepping back out into the storm. Vokun panted as Vuru was taken from him. Now with his hand free, he carried the boy sidelong, like a sack of coal as he went to catch up with Rahgot.

Warm air swallowed them the moment they stepped into the cellar, and they both breathed a sigh of relief. Rahgot took a moment to stand perfectly still, just soaking in the warmth from the multiple pyres around High Hrothgar’s hallways that filled every crevice of the place. He turned, looking down at the boy in Vokun’s arms. “Well?,” he huffed heavily, pulling down his furred mask. “Did he live?” Vokun, finally catching his breath, turned the boy upright again, and tried to stand him on his own two feet. The child collapsed back against the dark priest, both men grabbing at him to keep him from hitting the floor. “Boy,” Rahgot grunted, throat raw and dry. He snapped his fingers in the boy’s face until he stiffly and dizzily managed to raise his head. “Here now, boy, do you hear me?”

Snot and saliva had frozen beneath the boy’s nose and around his lips, even his eyelashes were crusted in ice. He blinked weakly at the tall man in red, and let out a confused grunt. “Good enough. Come, we’ll warm him upstairs.” Rahgot turned, once again heading off Vokun. With a put-upon sigh, the dark priest turned the boy, and lifted him.

The boy was near senseless, but he felt warm at last. He felt himself moving, but couldn’t feel his arms and legs. Nords had a natural resistance to the ice and cold, and that attribute would only strengthen in their race in centuries to come, but for a child born in the south-east of Skyrim, riding in one of her harsh blizzards was more of a shock.

The priests reached the main corridors of the monastery, and Rahgot glanced around to get his bearings. He heard the distant sound of voices, and followed them at a quick pace, Vokun trailing behind him. Through halls of black, polished stone, they finally reached the central hall of Hrothgar, greeted by the sight of his brothers, comfortably conversing in the light of the massive pyres.

“Drem yol lok, brothers of mine.” The priests turned, looking relatively surprised.

“Rahgot?,” lord Krosis called out. “Where in the world did you come from?”

“Dear brother only our father-lord and my mother might know the answer to that, and neither of them are talking.” He pulled down his hood and tugged off his gloves, grinning his hated grin at them as he marched in. “Come now, come brothers, tell me,” he cheered, walking toward them with arms out spread. “What of our sweet Nahkriin? Did his face brighten with joy when he heard tell of our success?”

Hevnoraak scowled in annoyance, a warning to not dare assume to come much closer. “You know better than to expect an outburst from that little toadie, cheerful or otherwise. But Vokun’s bird didn’t fare so well after he read your note.”

Vokun drew their attention, hurrying into the main hall with a blond bundle in his arms. He beckoned the handmaidens nearby, and they hurried to his side with blankets, taking the child from him and rubbing at him with them as he came to his senses. His ears throbbed and his vision swam, but feeling gradually crept back into his arms as he glanced around. He had never been inside such a gigantic building before. A wet, warm cloth was pressed to his face, one of the maids cleaning away the frozen gunk. He began to recognise faces, although he knew none of them, until he spotted the silent priest standing over him. He stared at Vokun, wobbling in place.

“This is him?,” a gruff voice echoed behind him. He looked back, leaning against a maid crouched beside him, massaging his legs. Four men stood in the hall with the red priest. One in deep red robes, scowling fiercely, another in bluish grey, tall with dark eyes. The third wore a darker blue cloak, shorter than the others, and balding slightly. The third wore brown and bronze, with the same mask as the silent priest, made of a warm coloured metal. They watched the boy with varying degrees of interest, though none of them seemed entirely impressed.

“Dii kul, Rahgot, he’s just a boy…!,” the balding priest chided, scowling at his brother. Rahgot simply smiled and shrugged.

“My lord, I was only told to seek Jaya of Raahan for her son, and to bring him before our masters. That is all I have done. How was I to know that son would not be a man?” He turned abruptly, waltzing to one of the pyres and calmly warming his hands over it. Spotting one of the great braziers, the boy teetered towards it, and the maids grasped at him suddenly.

“My lord, please,” one hissed, pulling on his shoulders. “Not yet.”

“Indeed, you’ll only discomfort yourself all the more.” The bluish-grey priest made his way over, boots clicking in the echoing hall. The boy looked up at him almost irritably. “Best you warm up gradually, my boy. You’ll hurt and itch for hours if you stood at the fires now.” He glanced at the maids, waving a hand vaguely. “Perhaps some soup for our visitor. Something warm but not quite hot to warm his insides.” The women nodded, bowing to the priest, and scarpering off from the hall. The boy stood, hugging the bundles of blankets and furs around himself, staring up at the tall man in bluish robes. All of a sudden, he felt his true size. The monastery loomed around him, dark despite the flickering fires. The imposing men stood around him, watching him, waiting for something, and he felt the urge to pick up his old habit of sucking his thumb for comfort.

The tall priest came closer, looking down at the child with clever, sly grey eyes. The boy felt his chest drop to his stomach. Those eyes looked like they were examining something, fascinated and amused. He quietly dipped his chin downwards, and pulled his blankets higher, as if he could hide in them. The priest smiled. “Greetings, my child. I am known as lord Morokei, of Bromjunaar, city of the Labyrinthian,” he said in a low voice. It felt like a push. A voice that felt like a large hand, shoving him to the ground. The boy swallowed, shaking for a moment, then bowed quickly.

“… a-an honour, mi-my lord…” Morokei nodded, smile becoming mildly amused.

“You must be quite confused, and frightened. To be taken from your home so suddenly. Rest assured, there is a purpose. We would not bring you here on a whim, I promise you.”

“Particularly since the climb is simply awful,” Rahgot chuckled to himself.

“Silence, mey,” the priest in deep red robes snapped. “You’re far too amused by all this for my liking.”

“What is there not to be amused by, sweet Hevnoraak?,” Rahgot laughed, turning to them again. “A boy. A child has been brought into our midst. We are to have a little brother, is that not something to be merry for?”

“It must be a mistake,” the balding priest insisted, looking between his brothers imploringly. “Surely. I know our lords and the sisters do not make mistakes, perhaps it is on our part? A mistranslation? You’re certain the lady had no other children, Rahgot?”

“She brought only this boy,” the red priest replied with a wide shrug. He looked back at the child. “Boy. Do you have any siblings?”

He stared for a moment, then shook his head. “N-no, my lord. It’s just me.”

“You’re certain?” The bluish priest tilted his head to meet the boy’s eyes. “Your mother had no children before you, that perhaps you haven’t met?”

The boy shook his head. “Me ma’s only young herself, my lord. It’s just me.”

“Your ma,” Morokei repeated with a thoroughly amused grin, and the boy looked down at his feet. “Come now, no need to feel shy, child. You are to be our brother, we have much to teach you. Including how to speak with dignity and pride,” he explained, a hand drifting out into the air between them as though he were gesturing to something grand.

“Nonsense,” yet another voice scoffed. Morokei’s smile fell as he looked up, to see a tall man marching into the hall with the maids on his tail, carrying a bowl of lightly steaming soup. “No reason the boy should speak any differently. Adds a little more variety to our little band.” The man strode straight up to the boy, looking down at him with the first smile he’d seen that day that didn’t send a shudder down his spine. “Welcome, my boy. I apologise on their behalf. Most of them very rarely speak to children.”

The boy blinked in surprise, and went to bow, when the friendly man waved a hand. “No no, none of that. If these gentlemen are going to proclaim you our newest edition, you’re to be treated as an equal. So you needn’t bow to any of us, little brother.” He removed his worn, pale gloves, and lowered to one knee before the child. Deep, sea green eyes greeted him on a strong, Nordic face, with straw blond hair braided in some ritual way, and a well groomed beard framing a strong jaw. “I am called Ahzidal, little brother. You look exhausted. Why don’t you eat up, and we’ll run a bath for you?”

Rahgot clicked his tongue in disapproval, turning on the heel of his boot and coming towards the two of them, waving his hand. “In you come, swaggering and smiles, to steal the show once again, Ahzidal,” he mused. “There’s no time for baths, not now. We were commanded to fall before our lordly master at once. Do not tell Vokun and I that we can wait for the boy to bathe when we very nearly risked the frost’s bite to get him here so quickly.”

Ahzidal glanced at his fellow priest. “… rightly so, my lord. Apologies. I didn’t mean any harm,” he said with a curt nod, getting back to his feet. “I simply felt we should be sure the boy was healthy and clean before presenting him.”

“Plenty of time for that, less time to keep the First Born waiting,” Morokei replied, eyebrows raised.

“The Lord is already here? Pardon my tardiness then,” Ahzidal replied. He looked back down at the child, hair messy, face grubby. “… enough time for him to eat, quickly,” the nicer priest said with a slight smile, and the boy’s face lit up as one of the maids handed him the bowl of soup. He brought it to his lips, and took a mouthful. After a moment of deliberation, he apparently decided it was delicious, as the same maid hurried to keep him from choking on it as the child gulped down broth, chicken and vegetables like a starved pup. “And perhaps a quick face wiping. And hair brushing.”

“Oh do not bother with the brushing, the trek to the peak will ruin it at once,” Morokei chuckled with a shake of his head. The boy wilted a little as he smacked his lips, the maid pulling the bowl from his face enough to clean the rest of his face with a cloth. Back out into the snow. “It is a surprise,” the bluish priest went on. “One so young… how old are you, child? Eight? Nine?”

“Ten, my lord,” he replied just barely, the bowl finding its way back to his lips.

“You’re certain it was him?,” the balding priest asked yet again. “There wasn’t more than one Jaya of Raahan?”

“There was a sum total of ten, perhaps eleven women in that little ice slum, dear Krosis,” Rahgot sighed with a heavy roll of his eyes. “If there were two women named Jaya, I’m sure the old fool snivelling at our feet would have mentioned, do you agree, Vokun?” The dark priest was stood by a brazier shaking ice from his cloak. He glanced back at the other a moment then turned back, and simply shrugged. “My, you are a treat.”

Krosis brought his hand to his head in disbelief, staring at the floor. “But he’s a child… what would a child have to offer?”

“The sisters see what was, and what has yet to be,” Morokei replied, drifting back to the centre of the room. He fixed the blue priest with a strange look, the most condescending of smirks. “Perhaps it is not what he can offer now but what he will offer in the future.”

“… I suppose…,” Krosis muttered with a nod, looking away. “Someone will need to care for him.”

“That’s what handmaids are for, my good man.” Rahgot landed a firm smack on Krosis’s back as he strode past him, almost knocking the short man off kilter. “Once you plant your seed in that delight of a wife of yours, you’ll come to know the truest value of a maid is not between her legs, but her knowledge of what might come out of them.” His brothers grimaced, scowling or rolling their eyes. “I expect, though, we shall all take turns in rearing our newly found little one. Perhaps what he has to offer has yet to be discovered, and all he needs is the opportunity.”

“Revulsion aside, Rahgot makes a point,” Morokei muttered with a shake of his head. “A pet project, shall we say?”

“We each contribute a little to the boy’s growth, and education.” Ahzidal smiled and nodded slowly. “Indeed. Imagine, a jack of all trades.”

“Is a master of none.” Volsung crossed his arms, the mask barely concealing the boil of his blood, listening to his fellows prattle on. “To learn what we have to offer, that is a given. The boy will find his own skill to offer to the masters or he will break. We are here to serve, not raise.”

“My, you have just answered many of my questions about your son, dear Volsung,” Rahgot laughed.

Mind and muscles muddy from the cold and long journey, and still a bit too young to fully understand what was being said around him, the boy licked his lips once again and shyly handed his empty bowl back to the handmaiden. “Thank you kindly, miss. It was tasty.” She paused, brown eyes skittering over the child’s freckly face and still-red cheeks. She then smiled a touch, and nodded.

“Come, little brother, here,” Ahzidal said to him gently. The boy turned and looked up at him, and stood very still as the priest peeled him from thick layers of blankets and furs. Instead, he removed his own cloak. A deep, rich green treated leather, with a snow rabbit fur lining inside. The boy’s eyes were immediately fascinated, reaching out his hand to stroke the soft fur, and his fingers tingled as warmth licked at them. He blinked in surprise as the priest wrapped it around him. “We don’t want you freezing again. This will keep you warm, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ahzidal fastened it around him with his own broach. His hands weren’t free, but it was snug, and the warm radiated so softly he didn’t begin to sweat. For a moment, he stood very still, staring at the stone floor, eyes prickling as he thought how nice the cloak was, but it couldn’t at all feel like his mother’s arms around him.

Ahzidal tilted his head, then squeezed the boy’s chin lightly to get his attention. “You’re a polite boy, you know your please and thank yous. I know this all must be frightening but you mustn’t worry. All will be fine.”

The boy stared up at the nice priest, then nodded with a little sniffle.

“Then, my beloved lords,” Rahgot proclaimed, throwing his arms out with an amused flare. “I believe it is time to ascend. Our Lord and Master Alduin awaits.”

Chapter Text

The little blond boy trotted along after the priests, Ahzidal beside him, Vokun following along behind. As they went, the others produced masks similar to the dark priest, and the scary priest, of varying hues and metals. They all stopped at a set of foreboding stone doors, placing on their masks and pulling up their hoods. Each mask had the same expression, sleep like, yet intimidating. When the child looked up at Ahzidal however, he saw that his golden mask was a touch different to the others. It was slimmer, sleeker, and looked almost new. The child tilted his head curiously, and assumed Rahgot’s strange rambling at the village about a “new brother” referred to the kindly priest who swaddled him in his own cloak.

He looked around at the walls and stone pillars, fascinated by the carvings and patterns that lined the place. His eyes followed curling, wind-like lines along the tops of the walls, until they landed back at the pair of double doors before them. At last he noted the creature drawn into the rock, sweeping wings and feathers. Though the depiction was largely stylised, he realised it was a hawk, bearing down and staring back into his eyes. The boy knew who this was, his mother had told him stories by candle light before bed of the Mother of Storms. The warrior-widow Kyne, who took the form of a great golden hawk when it suited her. The thought of her made him a little braver, and he lowered his gaze to the doors, rather than to his feet again.

“Very well,” Morokei announced with a sigh in his voice. “Shall we, brothers?” A pair of servants dutifully opened the double doors, and in rushed the wind and snow, howling to who knows what. The boy winced and squinted through the glare, but followed obediently as the men strode out into the storm.

As he passed one of the doormen, Vokun reached out and snatched his suede, fur lined cap straight off of his head, and all of a sudden stuffed it over the boy’s head and ears. He made a squeak of surprise as it was adjusted for him so he could see, then given a pat on the back to keep moving.

They walked out across what appeared to be a courtyard, though the boy could hardly make out any details of it, aside from stone tiles occasionally peeking out from under the snow. The treacherous things were covered in ice, and the boy gasped when he foot slipped under him and made him stagger. The wind whipped against his cheeks, and the tip of his nose turned numb far too quickly, but to his surprise, the cold did not find its way under the cloak. It kept him warm from his shoulders, all the way to where it hung just below his knees. A cozy warm, like warm milk and honey by the fire place.

They marched up a long staircase, towards a grand and decorated gateway where the winds howled the loudest. Ahzidal pressed a hand to the boy’s back as they climbed, the stairs slippery and the wind pushing. Morokei stepped ahead of his brothers, folding his hands together in front of him calmly. He spoke, and like a clap of thunder, his voice split the air. The storm cowered at the sound, and drifted away from the gates, and the boy was ushered to carry on.

It was as though they had simply stepped into a new world. The boy’s eyes widened, and he turned, the wall of snow and wind closing back up behind them. Ahead, the mountain path lay blanketed in snow, and the sunset greeted him in the distance. He stood and stared, mouth ajar. He could see the world from there. Miles upon miles of mountains, rivers and lakes. The sun burned against the blackened tundras of Skyrim, casting a purplish hue as she crawled away past the horizon. Captivated, and almost tempted to beg her to take him along, the boy got a nudge on the shoulder. He looked up, Vokun staring back down at him, ever silent, ever patient. The child licked his lips nervously, and scampered to keep up with the others.

Footprints and drags in the snow marked the path ahead. Someone had travelled the path before them, and it did not seem they had come back down yet. The snow was not nearly as thicks as it was in the courtyard, but it was enough that the boy’s short legs had to struggle to drag him through. He huffed and puffed, face flushed from the effort. Every now and then, the red priest would look back to jeer.

“Come now, boy, quick as a rabbit!,” Rahgot laughed, earning the occasional chuckle from Morokei or Krosis. The boy huffed, becoming agitated, when a rock caught his foot beneath the snow. With a cry of surprise he fell flat on his face, getting a mouthful of ice, and he curled on himself a little when he heard them burst into laughter. “Oh the poor dear!,” the bloody red priest cackled.

“Help the boy, Vokun,” Morokei chuckled. “Perhaps we should have carried him after all.” He did not want to be carried. He already felt as though he had been stolen away into the night. Being carried like a bag of loot would only sting his ten year old pride worse. A hand grasped him by the scruff, and lifted him back up onto his feet. Vokun once again adjusted the hat back into place, knocked ajar by the fall. Ahzidal tromped back towards them, crouching to brush him off.

“Are you hurt at all?,” he asked, a gentler smile in his tone, even behind the mask. “I’m sorry, you couldn’t catch yourself with your arms wrapped up like this.”

“I’m alright,” he muttered stubbornly, tucking his chin in and scowling at nothing.

“I see. Would you prefer to be carried? We could put you on Volsung’s shoulders, and you’d see even further.” The boy shook his head, fidgeting with the warming cloak. “You’re sure? Well, alright, but go carefully.” Ahzidal stood up again, and this time stayed nearby. The trek up to the mountain peak went on, with only a few more trips and slips. Morokei, Rahgot, Krosis, Volsung and Hevnoraak had gone on without them. Apparently the novelty of a child slipping and sliding on a dangerous mountain side had worn off fairly quickly, but Ahzidal stayed beside him, and Vokun trailed behind like a shadow.

At long last, they reached the top. The sun had disappeared, casting the snow into a shadowy blue in the moonlight. The boy was exhausted, and had resorted to worming one arm out from under the cloak to grasp onto Ahzidal’s robes for stability. His breath puffed in front of his face in clouds, and fatigue was beginning to make him dizzy, when a voice startled him back to life.

“Where have you been?!” Two more priests stood at the base of a slope, very purposefully leading towards what looked to be dancing lights just out of his line of sight. A priest, taller than even Volsung and Morokei, draped in wine red robes and ornate golden armour stood before them. He wore his mask, but something about the way he held himself with the twitching ferocity of a horker bull in rut painted a vivid image of what kind of expression might be underneath. “Paak kul do sunvaar! You make us wait til our flesh blisters and our fingers fall from our hands. Wretches! Sons of whores!”

“Beloved Otar, it makes my heart glad to see you again,” Rahgot chimed without missing a beat. “Apologies for the late arrival, our prize was having trouble in the snow.” He turned, gesturing to the boy, who gripped onto Ahzidal’s clothes all the tighter when the two new priests looked at him. A hush fell, and the large priest seemed to bubble all the more.

“What is this, an offering?! A joke?! Bleed yourself dry, you make a fool of me!”

“No, he does not,” Morokei replied calmly. “Though we were surprised as well, it seems that this child is indeed the one our lord was searching for. This once, Rahgot is not trying to make fun of you, Otar.”

The smaller of the two priests drifted past the rest, walking towards the boy with a disconcerting steadiness. He stopped a short way, seemingly looking the child over. “Now, Nahkriin, I’ll have no blushing nor bashfulness. In fairness, the child had left my lands not a week before you arrived!,” Rahgot snickered. “Your heartfelt congratulations on a job well done on our part is all Vokun and I need.”

The small, lean priest in near-black robes straightened, raising and lowering his chin a touch as though stretching his neck. “Your parading is unseemly. Find yourself some composure before you humiliate us all before the lord,” a low, hissing voice replied from beneath the mask. “You’ll find no applause here.” Nahkriin turned away, and slunk back towards the slope. “Come. It is time.”

Ahzidal pushed the boy along, a hand pressed to his back. “Do not be afraid,” he told him quietly, as they formed a line and trailed up to the peak. “Be brave, be polite. You will be fine.”

Upon the top of the Throat of the World, the boy’s eyes could barely make sense of what he saw. Snowflakes drifted in windless air, twinkling in the aurora lights. Before him lay a stone platform, leading to an altar, surrounded by a curved stone wall, smooth and coated in ice, and upon it and beside it, sat something unspeakable.

A black beast, tall as the monastery towers, sat upon the wall like a king upon his throne. Bat like wings rested at its sides, draped like curtains, pooling on the snow covered ground. Beside him, a white creature sat in the snow, smaller than the black, more slender and smooth. The dragons turned their gaze towards the priests approaching them up the mountain, and the boy froze. For a moment, he thought he would wet himself, as the monstrosities watched the mortal men shuffle before them, muttering quiet prayers into the crisp air.

Ahzidal once again gave him a push, and he found his legs again, staggering along.

The priests formed a line in front of the wall-throne, kneeling in the snow with their heads bowed. The boy was pushed to kneel with them, but he could not bow his head. His neck would not obey, his eyes glued to the creatures looming above them.

“Werid Drog Alduin, Naak do Lein,” the priests rumbled together, flawlessly in time. “Werid fin Kul do Bormahu, In do Tiid.”

“Drem yol lok, kiir. Remove your masks, bear your flesh and eyes before the first born,” the white dragon said, voice rumbling like distant thunder. The priests did as he commanded, one by one removing their sleeping masks, setting them face up in the snow, and pulling down their hoods. At long last, the boy saw Vokun’s face. Dusted skin, light eyes, and short black hair brushing across his brow, and a black smear of war paint seemingly slathered between his eyes and across his nose. Like this, the dark, silent priest was not so frightening. “Rahgot, lord of Forelhost. Rise, kiir.”

The red priest obeyed, standing but not raising his head. “My mighty lords, it is with my humble joy, Brother Vokun and I return to you successful.” He turned towards the boy. “My master bid for us to seek out Jaya of Raahan, to bring her son to him for judgement, and that we have done.” Rahgot stepped round the others, taking hold of the boy’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “I present him to you, my lord, may it please you.”

“Approach.” The black creature atop the wall lifted his head, neck curling into an arching S shape. If the white dragon’s voice was thunder, this one’s was an entire storm approaching from the seas.

Rahgot gave the boy a tug, and lead him to the platform. His little legs gave out underneath him for a moment, and the red priest paused, holding him up for him to find his footing again. Once there, he had to give him a light push to approach the altar, as the child continued to stare at the beast with his mouth slack and wide, then retreated back in line with his fellows.

Alduin leaned down, head tilting as blood red eyes flicked, slit pupils widening and narrowing, and all of a sudden his snout was just short of the boy’s nose. His nostrils flared a moment, and then he sniffed at the child, loud and curious.

“Zeymah,” the white dragon said. “Is he the one? Were the sisters correct?”

The dragon lifted his head once again, watching the human boy who seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. “Geh, Paarthurnax. The priests have at last done their duty.” Alduin sat back on his wall-throne, watching the child from up on high. “Drem yol lok, child of Jaya. You stand before your lord, your master. You may bow.”

The child stood stone still for much too long, then lurched forward at an angle all of a sudden, and back up again. He heard a chuckle. “The child is frightened, zeymah.”

“As he so should be.” The black dragon made a peculiar shake of his head, and snowflakes that had settled in the nooks of his black scales fluttered in a cloud and drifted away. “Long was your journey, birth to present, til you found yourself at destiny’s call. You do not know what that destiny is, do you?” Another long silence, followed by a dumb shake of the head. “No, though perhaps, you felt estranged. Tell me, mortal boy, when my priests came to your village, when they took you, how did it feel as your mother let you be taken?”

Something in the boy’s stomach twitched, and the wideness of his eyes changed shape. His mouth slowly closed, and his eyes became hot.

“Tell me, was there ever a moment that you felt you belonged? A time that you knew you were meant for a greater purpose?” He quietly hung his head, now staring at the stone altar covered in cracks. “My priests gossip and whisper like chambermaids. Of course, they did not need reason to obey my command. But now, I shall enlighten you, child.” The boy lifted his head. At last, was it time for answers? “My Lord-Father, known to mortals as Akatosh, sent a message to our sisters, the Jills. We heard tell on the winds, their song, that we are given a task. A new brother was to be sent to us, after millennia of quiet. But our new sibling was not of the Dov, the dragon, no. A mortal, like none even I had ever seen.” Alduin looked down on the boy, eyes sharp, needling, and voice cold. “A mortal child, born of dragon blood, my father told. They shall come to us, this new little brother, the Dovahkiin, Dragonborn. And so, it was with great haste and… concern, that you were brought here, to us.”

Silence fell upon the windless mountain peak. The boy stared, awestruck expression replaced with shocked softness. The gravity of the dragon’s words hadn’t quite sunk in yet, until Nahkriin stood from the line of priests behind him rather suddenly. He was surprisingly young, the boy thought, though still much older than his own mother. At this distance, in this light, while he couldn’t tell much of the colour of his hair, but he could see how elegantly narrow the priest’s eyes were.

“My lord, I pray forgiveness.”

Paarthurnax looked down at the priest, head slowly tilting. “You are surprised, kiir, I understand. We too were shocked, but it is not our place to question the will of Bormahu.”

Nahkriin bowed his head. “My apologies… if our Lord Alduin declares it so, so it is.” The World Eater growled, and Nahkriin sank back down into the snow.

“Lir, your understanding of the will of gods goes neither noticed or needed. The boy’s blood burns as mine and Paarthurnax’s does, of that there is no doubt…” Alduin’s chest puffed out, a heavy sigh seeping from his nostril and tendrils of steam. “Still, a demonstration shall be in order.” He looked down at the child, eyes glowing. “I have a gift for you, kiir.” Alduin raised his wings, and for a moment, they seemed to swallow the sky in black, before he took off from his perch in a single flap. The snow around them flew from the mountain top, and the boy yelped as he was knocked hard to the stone platform.

He blinked in surprise, watching from on his back as the dragon swooped high above, and down again in an arc. He stopped above them, wings beating, and flames flew from his terrible jaws. The boy didn’t dare move, for a moment thinking he was about to be cooked alive, then realised the fires had swallowed the wall, and vanished with clouds of steam and smoke. Alduin made yet another swoop through the air, and landed back atop the wall once again. “Stand, child, and receive my gift to you.” Trembling, the boy gradually managed to roll over, wiggling his arms free of Ahzidal’s cloak and hands finding the ground, staggering to his feet. He thought his heart would burst from his chest, but when he glanced at the priests, none of them had moved an inch. He turned back, staring up at Alduin, then slowly to the wall. Engraved into the stone were runes, sizzling away, melted into the rock. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of anything, anything at all. He looked back up at the dragon, who raised his wings again. Suddenly, winds began to whip around him, curling around his tiny body, warm, and whispering, but dying down as quickly as they had begun. “There, mal zeymah. Now, learn.”

The wall had begun to hiss and murmur, and as he looked back at the singed runes, they began to dance. The boy had never learned to read a word, and so the wall whispered its secrets into his ear. “Now, speak.”

“Yol Toor Shul.”

He stumbled back a few steps as flames burst from his mouth, a fireball flying from his lips, and bursting across the wall and Alduin’s belly. He was so startled he fell back onto his arse, panting and smacking his lips, willing the burning to stop. He scrambled towards a heap of snow the dragon’s wings had swept to the the corner of the altar, caught at the base of the wall. He grabbed fistfuls, and smashed them into his lips, whimpering. Above him, the black wyrm rumbled.

“I name this child as my lord-father intended. Dovahkiin, brother and blood of dragons.” He looked up at the creature, then back to the priests, and found them all staring at him. Shock, fear, awe, all these things and more flew across the faces of the grown men, and the boy did not know what to do. “You, child, shall be the bridge. The guide the wretched mortal men must look to, to rule them that they know the way and my will,” the World Eater said as the boy picked himself up.

At last, the boy found his voice.

“My lord,” he replied, barely above a whisper. “I-I can’t rule anyone… I-I’m ten, I can’t read…”

“You will learn, child. Grow and learn. That will be the gift my priests give unto you.” Alduin lifted a wing, as if it were a hand gesturing leisurely to the Nord men lined up like tin soldiers behind the boy. “A year you will spend with each of them. They will teach, you will learn. All that you need know, all that you wish to know. Their knowledge is at your beck and call.” He lowered the wing again, and looked as smug as a dragon could have. “You crave that, do you not? Knowledge a peasant life could not possibly offer. Is that not correct, boy?”

“My lord,” the boy said desperately. “I can’t go and live with my lords all of a sudden, I’m nobody. They don’t even know who I am! Since lord Rahgot and lord Vokun found me, I have been ‘boy’ and ‘child’. Not one person has asked my name. I am Sa-“

“They do not ask because it is unimportant, mal zeymah. Your mortal name is no longer tied to you.” Alduin dipped his head, coming eye to eye with the Nord child. “You, my new little brother, will now be Miraak, from this day until your last breath.” The child’s mouth fell shut, shaking in his boots. How in the world was he supposed to argue? Alduin rose once again, casting his gaze over his priests, who immediately fell back into an emotionless worship. “Morokei.”

The bluish priest quietly stood. “I am ever at your command, my lord.”

“You shall begin the child’s education. Teach him to read, to write, to speak our tongue. Teach him of the many magiks. All that you are master of. You will return him here a year from now, and your student will be passed to a new teacher.” Morokei bowed deeply, holding his hand over his chest.

“Your will be done, great master. I will teach the boy well.”

“See that you do.” There was a threat in those words, but the boy supposed every word a dragon spoke held threat. “Go now, dii kiir. Your greatest test to me begins.”

With that, Alduin unleashed a fountain of flames into the air in finality, and took off in a gust of wind that blew the child back a few steps. This time however, he fell back against a smooth, white snout, rather than the hard ground. Paarthurnax nudged the boy back upright, looking down on him with a strange resignation. “Wahl mu kah, Miraak. Zu’u hind hi pruzah.” The white dragon turned, tail drifting far above the boy’s head, and slithered to the edge of the mountain peak before taking off without a sound. He stared after the creature, until he vanished, into the clouds and mist of the night, and only came out of his stupor when Morokei stepped beside him.

“He asks that you make them proud, and wishes you well,” the bluish priest told him quietly. The look in his eyes had changed. No hint of amusement, not even a glimmer. In its place, there was an undeniable sense of apprehension. “I do hope you will take those words to heart.”

The boy looked back out to the skies around them, now dizzy from adrenaline dying down in his veins. “Will I learn to speak like that? So I can understand them?”

“Most certainly. It is one of the most important lessons all Brothers must learn.” Morokei took a moment, looking thoughtful, and anxious. “Come now,” he murmured, pressing a hand to Miraak’s back and gently guiding him from the altar. “Let us descend, back to the monastery. We’ll see about the meal and bath Ahzidal suggested.”

Chapter Text

In silence, the priests replaced their masks one by one, and started down the slope once again. Once they were clear of the wall and all it represented to the brothers, they turned to one another, glancing about, then up at the boy as Morokei guided him down carefully after them.

“You look shocked, boy.” The child looked up, eyes glancing between the identical masks, until he picked out Rahgot by his red cloak. “Surely you didn’t think your life was not about to change when we brought you all the way up here.”

“Enough, Rahgot,” Morokei hushed him with a wave of his hand. “No more taunts, not today.”

“I do not taunt, my lord.” The red priest shook his head. “I am just as shocked as the little one.”

Morokei inhaled a little sharply, then looked down at the boy. “Come, we must take Brother Miraak down again… Ahzidal, perhaps you would carry the young lord?”

The boy frowned, his stricken look of stunned confusion vanishing for a moment. “I don’t want to be carried.”

“It is night, my lord,” Morokei replied somewhat more firmly. “You had enough trouble coming up the mountain in fading daylight. You are quite clearly tired, and you do not know the path as well as we do. It wouldn’t do for you to slip and fall in the dark.” The boy still frowned, but bowed his head when he realised how his legs wobbled and his eyelids drooped. Morokei looked up, motioning for the kindly priest to come.

Ahzidal tromped over, and knelt before the child again. “Chin up. The handmaids will cook something delicious for you.” He turned, glancing over his shoulder and reaching behind himself. It took a moment, but the boy understood and climbed up onto Ahzidal’s back with a little hop. Up he went, clutching the priest’s shoulders, and the brotherhood made their way back toward High Hrothgar in relative quiet.

Otar stomped on ahead, muttering gibberish, getting faster and higher, then slower and lower. The others followed together, while Ahzidal drifted behind, and Vokun walked beside him. The boy’s muscles at long last got the rest they sorely needed, his own weight off his feet. The priest had a good hold of him, so he let his mind wander. He looked up above them, at the stars winking down at him. He was still trembling somewhat, but now that the moment had truly sunk in, he began to feel a little giddy.

Dragons! He had met dragons. The creatures from fairy tales and legends old men told children by the hearth. He recalled the games he would play with the other children, in that little village. The one he and his ma had left in the middle of the night. He remembered the games of Knights they’d play from sunrise to sundown, running around and smacking one another with sticks. It was best in winter time, when the air was frosty. They would run about huffing great puffs of air from their mouths, pretending the clouds were fonts of fire, burning each other alive.

Down, down they went. The boy realised the two priests had fallen behind quite far, sloughing through the frozen snow at a leisurely pace without a word between them. He couldn’t see the others. Was it just too dark, or were they that far ahead? But now, without them to hear and without Rahgot to jeer at him, he felt a little more comfortable. “My lord?,” he whispered.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Ahzidal replied, glancing back at him a moment. “I thought you’d drifted off.”

“No, my lord. I was just thinking.”

“Indeed. You have much to think about, I’m sure.” They came to a slight drop, and rather than walk around it to follow the path where the steps were presumably buried, Ahzidal and Vokun decided to simply hop the short drop, landing with satisfying icy crunches. “Do you need something?”

“What will happen now?” The boy stared into the swallowing darkness ahead of them, and tried not to imagine a frightening beast barreling out of it towards them. “I’ll go to live with Lord Morokei?”

“That is our Lord’s command, yes,” Ahzidal replied. “Does that worry you?”

He was quiet for a long moment, which possibly answered for him. “I don’t know him.”

“No, and he does not know you.” There was a smile in the priest’s voice, fond, but not beaming. “… you don’t need to be afraid. He will have much to teach you, and you will not be alone. His servants will take care of you, and his lady-wife too. He has two sons, I believe one is around your age. Is that right, Vokun?” Ahzidal looked over to the dark priest, who nodded. “Perhaps you will become friends.”

The boy was quiet again, staring when Vokun leaned to look back at him, and silently shook his head. His arms were going numb, all the blood running down into his elbows as he hung onto the priest’s neck. “… is everyone going to call me that name now?”

“Miraak. Yes, they will. It took some time before I got used to my new name…” The gate leading down to the courtyard at long last came into sight. The others had already passed through, so the storm had closed up behind them. “Pardon, Vokun. Would you?”

The dark priest walked on ahead, standing before the gate. Somehow, as he opened up the wall of wind with a mighty shout, Miraak thought that gate was the end of his opening chapter.

.

Morokei sat with his hands folded together, elbows rested on the grand stone table, drifting between half listening to the stunned silence, and deep thought. Rahgot had found wine. Where, he had no idea, but there it was, and he was drinking with an air of cynical disbelief. Hevnoraak was pacing, scowling at the floor, back and forth. “The soul of a dragon in a mortal boy… is that even possible?” He stopped to turn to Morokei, scowling at him. Hevnoraak was a stocky man, shoulder length black-brown hair scraped back over his head and chestnut brown eyes. They could almost be called pretty, but no one would dare tell him that.

“Our Lord told that it was his own father that willed the boy into the world. I could not tell you if it were technically possible or not, my friend. Gods do what they please, not what is possible,” Morokei replied. Hevnoraak let out a sharp huff, looking away to scowl at the floor once again. “After all, we all saw. A boy of ten spitting fire after a quick glance at the words. A thu’um that took me five long months and countless disappointments and raging heartburn to perfect.” Morokei’s eyes were unfocused, casting the room into a discoloured fuzz. He needed to send word to his lady, have her prepare. They certainly had the room.

“Shouldn’t we agree on who teaches the boy what?,” Krosis piped up at last, pitiful voice irritating Morokei enough to openly sigh in annoyance. “You are decidedly the most inconvenienced here, Morokei. At least the rest of us will have the time to prepare for the boy’s education.”

“We should not refer to him as ‘the boy’,” the blue priest replied, rubbing at his face. “He is our brother now, we must remember.”

Rahgot scoffed while Krosis nodded. “We should each decide what we have to offer Brother Miraak’s education,” the old man corrected himself, only glancing at the red priest nervously.

“Quite…” Morokei sat up straight, glancing about his seven brothers that had gathered in the council room. All but one. The moment they had returned to the monastery, Otar had flown into a screaming, foaming fury none of them could calm or quite make sense of. Something about lies, children, demons, and then off he’d stormed, right out the front doors without hesitation. Morokei took a slow inhale. “At a later date, I believe it would be wise to discuss with Lord Paarthurnax that Brother Otar be excluded from Miraak’s training.”

“Agreed,” Hevnoraak replied immediately, and the rest all nodded in tandem.

“Following that, I would propose to teach the young lord about the arcane arts,” Morokei continued, resting his folded hands down on the table. “Along with reading and penmanship. My Lady Zenobia will see to those, though I would encourage those that receive him hereafter continue to build on the skills he has already learned to the best of their abilities.” Rahgot laughed quite suddenly, but Morokei barely glanced at him. “Rest assured, he will be more grammatically adept once he reaches your keep, my lord.”

“I should certainly hope so. If I hear him use ‘me’ in place of ‘my’ a year from now I’ll have him whipped through the streets.” Now, Morokei turned to look at Rahgot.

“You will not,” the blue priest told him.

“I hope you’re drunk,” Ahzidal spat, glaring at his red brother. “To joke about punishing a child like one of your criminals.”

Rahgot waved the two of them off dismissively, shaking his head. “Apologies, beloveds. The last several hours and my wine are not agreeing with me.” Morokei turned his head down with a sigh. At the very least, he could agree with Rahgot for once.

“So then, my proposal. If I find the time to teach him anything else in the next year, I will be sure to seek your approvals first. Brother Ahzidal.” The enchanter broke the scowl he held on Rahgot. “May I rely on your libraries for any material I may not already have in my private collection?”

“Certainly. Send a raven. Whatever I can provide, it is yours.”

Morokei nodded. “Then, we must plan, brothers. Come.” He took his quill from its well at the head of the conference table, and waved for Hevnoraak to pass him a sheet of parchment. He began the list with himself, detailing the beginning of Miraak’s formal and arcane education. “Now then,” he said. “My Lord Krosis, what will your offer?”

The eldest of the brothers looked thoughtful for a moment, then sat up straight. “I believe I could give the young lord insight on the important aspects of politics and strategy. While each of us will of course have input on these, I would gladly take it upon myself to teach him in full.” Morokei nodded, glancing around to see their fellows were in agreement, and wrote it down. “And, while Lord Morokei could be no better mentor in the world of magiks, I would show him the world of science.”

“Very good,” Morokei commended him with a curt nod, not quite looking at him. “Both are important, and I certainly would not have the time to teach both at once. Rahgot.” The red priest tapped a finger against the edge of his goblet, staring into the black surface of the table, looking almost as though he were trying to ignore him. “Hevnoraak, I believe Rahgot has been caught in a drunk stupor, slap some sense into him for me.”

Rahgot raised a hand sharply when the gruff priest took a step towards him. “Patience, brothers. I am in no mood to be rushed.” He lowered his hand, still looking at none of them. “Toxicology and pharmacology,” he said at last. “Perhaps a language or two.”

The blue priest nodded, and let him sulk. “My Lord Ahzidal.”

“Enchantment, of course.” The young priest smiled slightly. “I don’t believe that will come as a surprise to anyone.”

“Not at all. Anything else?”

“History. I have more than enough tomes to see to that.” Another nod and the scratching of the quill.

“Nahkriin.”

The shortest of the priests had been unusually quiet in his seat to Morokei’s right. He gripped the arms of his chair, staring at his mask laid before him on the table. His grip on his seat loosened a tad, and he glanced Morokei’s way. “… I believe I am qualified to teach the young lord the ways of our brotherhood, and the rituals and rites of our lords and the gods.” Morokei nodded. “… and I’ll teach the boy to count.”

“Very good. I thought to have Zenobia add that to her curriculum but if you will see to it, then you have my gratitude.” Nahkriin nodded once, then folded back into his seat. “Hevnoraak.”

“Krosis can teach the boy politics, I’ll teach him to rule,” the gruff priest replied, still refusing to sit and crossing his arms. “If he lives long enough to become a man, he’ll be given his own keep. It would crumble to the ground on Krosis’s sentiments alone.” The balding priest was ruffled at that, but before an argument could fully break out, Morokei gave Hevnoraak a sharp stare.

“Anything of substantial value, brother?” He was met with a sharp glare.

“… I can offer the boy my teachings, but he may not be capable. If the art of my mind-bending is out of his reach then I cannot change that, but regardless, I will teach him psychology.”

“Another form of mind-bending, one way or another.” Hevnoraak nodded, then turned away. Bickering sufficiently avoided, Morokei moved on. “Volsung.”

The tallest priest sat in his eerie silence, mask still hiding his face. He sat upright, almost entirely unmoving. “Biology,” he gurgled in his ever monotonous, robotic voice. Morokei paused, then looked back down at the list.

“Then Krosis needn’t concern himself with that aspect of the sciences. Shall I presume this will extend to your personal talents, brother?” Krosis and Ahzidal looked immediately concerned, glancing between Morokei and Volsung. The frightening priest nodded once without a word, and Morokei quietly wrote it down. “I see. Then, we shall encourage Lord Paarthurnax to send Miraak to you only after he has become… adjusted to more squeamish matters.” Volsung nodded once again, then fell back into his statue like composure. “Then, finally, dear Vokun.”

The dark priest lifted his head. He seemed to have been in deep thought all this time. Like Volsung, he hadn’t removed his mask, sitting in the farthest corner of the council table.

“What might you offer our young lord?,” Morokei asked with a deep sigh. Vokun looked away again, down to the table. “You must have some idea. Surely you’ve been considering what you might teach your own newborn.” Vokun’s posture went from reserved, to softened. “… might I suggest a more practical training course. Perhaps you could share your talents for observation?” A silent nod to that, so he scribbled it down. After a long moment of silence, Morokei rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Send a raven once you have properly decided, Vokun.” Another nod, and Morokei returned the quill to its well one last time, and stood. “Very well. The bare bones of Brother Miraak’s educational curriculum is here. I have no doubt you will all take the time to develop your teaching skills in this time.” He left the paper where it sat to allow the ink to dry. “Now, if you have anything you would like to add, feel free. But please do so before I leave with Miraak in the morning.” Morokei stepped away from the table, and made his way towards the hallway. “Good day, brothers.”

.

Miraak fidgeted and tucked his chin in tightly as his skinny arms and legs were scrubbed at harder than ever before. The bath chamber of the monastery was sweeping, with a high ceiling and an enormous hearth at the far end of the room. It pumped out a sweltering heat, which he greatly welcomed. He had been dunked into a warm, herbal smelling bath almost immediately upon returning to High Hrothgar. The maids poured water over his head from pitchers, and scrubbed odd smelling oils in his hair. None of them spoke a word to him beside the largest, oldest one. She snipped at him to stand up straight, turn this way, turn that way, and he did his best to obey her. “You smell like you rolled in dung. Where in the world did they pluck you from?,” the portly woman barked as she scrubbed away with a wet, porous squishy thing.

“Raahan, miss,” he replied softly. “I didn’t roll in the dung, miss, only shovelled it for a silver piece every day.” She gave him a strange look, almost as if she didn’t believe him. She certainly couldn’t believe something about the situation. Once he was cleaner than he had ever been in his life, he was plucked out of the wooden tub and swiftly dried down with towels by the open fireplace. The large headmaid then stood him on a wooden stool, wrapped him head to toe in towels, and left him to stand there while she scrubbed at his clothes in a washbasin.

She glanced at him once or twice while she worked, a younger maid bringing buttered bread for him to eat whilst his supper was being cooked. “… you are much too small to be a lord,” the large woman told him at last. “Much too little a thing to be master of a keep somewhere.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a keep, miss,” he replied, holding a cup of warm milk in his hands. “I’m going to live with the other lords. One after the other. They’re going to teach me to read and write and speak proper like what they do.” Her brow furrowed, snapping his trousers out after wringing them within an inch of their life. She hung them on a line in front of the hearth. He looked at them curiously. Had his clothes always been cream and brown, or had she magically turned them from the greyish-sludge colour?

“Who will you live with first?,” she asked, taking the towel wrapped around his head off and rubbing his hair dry with it.

“Lord Morokei,” he replied. “I don’t think any of them are very happy about it.”

“For how long?”

“A year, miss.” She started brushing his hair. Whenever the brush snagged on a knot she just couldn’t detangle, she’d produce a pair of scissors from her apron and snip it out. Eventually, his messy blond mop had so many chunks cut out of it, she apparently decided to just cut the lot and be done with it.

“These lords are not kind men, little thing,” she told him as she snipped and snipped. He held perfectly still in alarm, glancing at the young lady beside him. She gave him a slight smile of encouragement. “They are priests of the Order of the Dov. They will not be gentle with you. You are lucky enough they will be taking you into their homes, so their lady-wives can watch over you.”

“Yes, miss.” She ruffled the short, neat fluff of his head to get rid of any loose cuttings, and he turned to her, licking milk from his upper lip and looking for all the world like a blond little dandelion. The maids all laughed softly, and the headmaid gave him a firm look.

“You’re a very good boy. Be sure to stay that way.” She lifted him off the stool and back onto the floor, then shooed him to the small table by the fire where his food was waiting. He stared at it in awe. A cutting of roasted goat, vegetables and two fat blood sausages covered in thick, brown gravy. His mouth practically overflowed as he sat in his towels, and wolfed the meal down in almost one go. The girls brought him more warm milk, and took his plate once he was done.

“Would you like pudding, young master?,” another maid asked, and he nodded eagerly.

“Please, please!,” he beamed in excitement, and the maids smiled back warmly. He was brought a boiled creme treat, and a bowl of white pudding with a blob of snowberry jam in the middle. He took a bite of the pudding first, curiously.

“Do you like it, young master?,” that same maid asked. “It’s made from rice and milk.” His eyes bulged, and he nodded wildly while shovelling it all into his mouth. She laughed, wiping his face for him while he smacked his lips. “We will prepare it for you whenever you visit us here then, my lord.”

He was smiling from ear to ear for the first time in so many days, picking up his creme treat as the headmaid thundered back from wherever she had vanished and pulled him to his feet and back onto the stool. He munched on the sweet thing while she dressed him in a warm nightgown that had clearly been hastily thrown together.

“Now,” she said, hoisting him up into one arm and marching from the bathing chamber. “To bed with you. Lord Morokei wishes to leave with you at first light, so you must make do with the few hours of sleep you’ll have.”

“Yes, miss.”

He was brought to a small, but very tall room, where a bed covered in blankets and furs awaited him. The headmaid tucked him in, letting him finish the treat, and poured a cup of water to sit on his bedside. “Thank you, miss.”

“Haelga, little thing,” she told him with a firm look. He smiled.

“Thank you, Haelga.” She nodded, and blew out the candles in the room. “Good night.”

“Good night. Dream of sweeter things than this place,” she huffed, nodding to him before leaving, and closing the door behind her.

He’d never been in such a comfy bed before. He snuggled himself down, staring at the carved patterns in the rock of the wall. It took almost no time at all, finally being warm, clean and full, for Miraak to fall right to sleep.

Chapter Text

When morning sunlight began to peek through the shutters of the guest chamber window, Miraak’s eyes snapped open. He had taken it upon himself to force himself awake at first light when he and his mother first came to the village. He would rush from the tent and help the ox farmer’s daughter with her morning chores. Mae, her name was. She would hand him his shovel, the one with the handle that had snapped in half, and he would start to shovel the shit until the sun was fully raised. He would pet the two animals, right on their wet, soft leathery noses, and talk to the girl as she milked the bullock. And once the manure had been moved, and the troughs filled with hay, she would reward him with a tarnished silver Septim, ruffle his hair, and send him back to his mother.

He lay on his side, in the comfortable bed, wrapped in furs and thick woollen blankets in the warm chamber, smelling the grassy scents of the oils and soaps all over him instead of the stink of ox shit. The little Dragonborn stared across the dark stone floor, and swallowed a solid lump in his throat when he thought of how his mother’s bedroll should have been just an arm’s length away. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Haelga said Morokei would come for him at first light, yet here was first light, and Morokei was nowhere to be seen. He heard distant footsteps and voices, but none of them were getting any closer. It occurred to him that, while he was used to springing from his bed so early in the morning, no one but the maids might be awake at this hour. So he decided to simply lay there, so comfy and cozy he could have fallen right back to sleep, if he hadn’t already let upsetting thoughts swim into his head. Miraak watched the light creep bit by bit across the floor instead, getting brighter, until it was around the time Mae would have sent him home. He sat up, blanket still firmly wrapped around his little shoulders, and blew out a huff between his lips. He glanced at the door, then back to the foot of the bed. There was nothing for a young boy to do in the tiny chamber. No toys or games, not even a sharp stone to scratch pictures into the smooth black stone floor.

At the far end was a small hearth, a table, and a chair. After a moment of empty staring, Miraak got up and padded over to the table. A quill lay beside an ink well, but there was no parchment for him to draw on. He frowned, staring the pen down for a long, long moment, before he grabbed it and the ink. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the table, still cloaked in his thick blanket.

He fiddled with the stopper of the bottle, finally prying it open and setting it on the floor. He dipped into it with the quill nib, squinting at it. Was that it? That’s how he’d seen the elder in the mountain village use a quill. He craned his neck back, and made an experimental mark on the underside of the table. The ink immediately bled into the grain of the wood. It looked a bit like a tiny little insect. Miraak sniffed thoughtfully, then sat up on his knees and began to draw. He didn’t know how much time passed, he wasn’t paying attention to the light anymore. It was enough for him to scribble a crude, admittedly very boxy rendition of the gigantic black dragon at the top of the mountain. He was almost finished with his doodle of the smaller white one when he heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside. He grabbed the ink and shot out from under the table, smuggling the bottle and pen under the bed and leaping back onto the mattress.

Haelga swung the door open briskly, clopping into the small chamber, already with a sweat built on her brow. “Good, you’re awake,” she said brusquely. “Come on, up,” she ordered, and he obeyed, hoping he didn’t look guilty. She dropped new clothes on the bed behind him, and began undressing him. He looked at them curiously. Rich green fabrics with yellow lining and edges. “Arms up.” He obeyed, then felt all the more shy when two young girls hurried in with his breakfast just as she pulled his trousers down. He didn’t look either of them in the face, although they smiled at him.

Once he was dressed, she marched him to the table and sat him down. Slices of goldish-brown toast with rashers of bacon waited for him, along with a cup of milk. While he munched on his food, Haelga brushed through his short hair. “You’ll need to do this all yourself eventually. Unless you want to be some pompous holy man who thinks much too well of himself,” she grumbled. He chewed a little slower, squinting thoughtfully for a moment.

“I will learn, then,” he replied, sipping his milk.

“Good. Even if you don’t, at least tell your maids what it is you want, with enough time to see it through. Don’t ever assume a servant can read your mind,” she snapped, and Miraak began to get the sense Haelga had been having a bad morning. He kept quiet, finishing his breakfast, and turned in his seat to let her put on his new boots. He smiled down at them, brown and snuggly. She pressed down on the toe of one boot, then the other. “You’ve plenty of room to grown into these. They’ll last you a good while.”

“Thank you, Haelga!,” Miraak beamed, bumping his heels together. He hadn’t had new shoes in ages. She got back to her feet with a huff, and hurried him to his feet.

“Walk around a bit, see how they feel,” she said, going back to the bed and unravelling a long piece of fabric. He did as he was told, clopping about the room. He enjoyed the tapping sound the soles made against the stone floor.

“They’re very comfy,” he replied, coming back to her and standing still. He could see the fur lined little cloak in her hands. She whisked it around him and set it on his shoulders, fastening the ties in a firm knot under his chin. He felt a familiar tingle curl on the back of his neck, and spread down across his back, and he smiled.

“Lord Ahzidal himself enchanted this cloak for you,” Haelga told him in a low tone, seemingly having calmed down a touch. “Said it wouldn’t do for you to freeze half to death again.”

“Is Lord Ahzidal still here?,” he asked, but the maid shook her head.

“He left late last night. He only waited as long as it took me to sew the cloak and cast his magics.”

Miraak frowned a little. “I’ll remember to say thank you next time.”

“You might write him a thank you letter,” Haelga suggested, slipping a pair of brown mittens onto his hands. The insides were incredibly soft, he wiggled his fingers and rubbed his hands together to feel it. “Since you’ll be learning to write under Lady Zenobia, it’ll be right good practice.”

“Yes, Haelga. I’ll try.” She finished with pulling a fur lined hat over his head. Now fully bundled up in fine, well made clothes, the maid took a pause to look him over, and he looked back up from just beneath the rim of the hat. “I don’t think the cold will get in,” he said with a smile.

“No, don’t think it will.” She stood up with a bit of effort. He noted her left knee seemed to not agree with her weight. The large woman then scooped him up, tucked him under one arm, and off she marched. “I’ve packed you food. The ride’ll take a day and a half. Maybe a very long day if his lordly lump can be bothered to make the effort.”

Haelga stomped all the way to the entrance hall, where Morokei stood waiting, talking quietly with Krosis and Hevnoraak. As she came bustling out of the hall, the blue priest seemed to take a weary sigh. “Miss Haelga.”

“Milord.” She plopped the boy back down, turning him to face her and neaten him up once more. A tightly packed knapsack was bundled into his arms. “Once it’s all gone, it’s gone. Don’t just stuff it all in your gob at once.”

He sniffed at the pack curiously. It felt a little warm, and the smell of freshly baked pastries wafted past the tanned leather. He smiled at her again. “Thank you, Haelga.” She gave him a curt nod, then scooted him towards the priests, standing just behind him with her hands on her hips.

Morokei sighed again, raising his eyebrows and giving a slightly forced smile. “Good morning, my lord. I apologise for the late start. I had much to do last night so I’m afraid I came to bed rather late.” Miraak bowed quickly, eyes dancing about for a moment before settling on Morokei’s chin.

“G’morning, my lord,” he said quietly. “Are we leaving now?”

“Yes, lad, my horse is ready outside and my personal guard await us at the base of the mountain.” Morokei gestured towards the grand doors of the entrance halls. “Are you ready?”

Miraak gave a small nod, then quickly turned around to Haelga and the little band of maids that were present. He gave a deep bow and smiled.

“Thank you very much for my food, and my bath, and my new clothes.”

“Thank you for being such a respectful young lord, little thing,” Haelga replied with a sharp nod, then gave Morokei a pointed look. The blue priest heaved another sigh, and started for the door, his two brothers following suits. The boy gave one last bow, then scampered after them, clutching onto his knapsack. Readied outside were three horses. Two grey, one lighter and one darker, and a much larger black stallion. Morokei let the boy stand beside him as Krosis mounted the light grey mare, and looked down at them.

“Please do send word once you’ve arrived at the Labyrinthian, brother,” the old priest said with a deep nod. Morokei bowed to him briefly.

“Of course. May your ride be safe. Please give my regards to your good lady, my lord.” Krosis gave one more nod, then reached down and ruffled Miraak’s head on top of his cap before pulling his metal mask over his face, and set off down the mountain pass. Hevnoraak barely gave the boy a glance, just a silent, gruff nod to Morokei, and off he rode, yanking his mask down from on top of his head. As he watched them ride, Miraak felt a little sorry when Hevnoraak’s horse charged passed Krosis’ so quickly the poor mare jumped.

He looked up at the blue priest. “Are the masks cold on your face, my lord?” He was given a bemused little side glance and a smile, and Morokei strode towards the stallion, waiting patiently and proudly.

“No, their magics account for such menial things, I assure you.” He turned to Miraak, and lifted him up under his arms, seating him on the back of the saddle. A stable boy came running with a mounting block, but Morokei waved him off before he reached them. “You will have your own, someday. When, I could not tell you. Rituals must be performed, tests must be passed… and you have ten years of learning to catch up with.” He clambered up with ease, grasping the reins and waiting for the boy to fidget into a comfortable position.

“I like to learn,” Miraak said quietly. “I think I’m looking forward to it.”

“That is good to hear, lad. We have that in common, at least. The want of learning.” With a light tap of his boot to his belly, Morokei led his horse to the pass. Miraak looked back to wave goodbye to the stable hands, but only one nervously gave a slight wave back. “We must also give you opportunity to carve a reputation for yourself. Each priest has been known for one talent or another. Mine, for instance, is the use and exploration of the arcane,” he explained as they plodded along at a leisurely pace.

Miraak watched the side of the road. The blizzard had passed now, and he could finally take in the snowy tundra stretched out down and around the mountain. “Is Lord Ahzidal special because he can make things magic?”

“Enchanting, yes. That is Brother Ahzidal’s talent. He is known to be the greatest human enchanter in all of Tamriel.” Miraak spotted a hawk, perched in a tree. She watched them pass with sharp, eager eyes, and he stared straight back. “This is often misconstrued as Lord Ahzidal being the greatest mage of them all. Indeed, quite the mage he is, but he too has his strengths and weaknesses. For instance, he is not so well versed in the school of resurrection.”

“Healing magic?”

“No, no. Time enough for you to learn the differences.” The boy wondered to himself. What sort of reputation could he make for himself? He supposed being so young would count for something, at least until he was no longer a child. So what would the people of Skyrim say of Lord Priest Miraak when he was at last a man?

“Aren’t I already special?,” he asked quietly. Morokei’s head turned back a touch. “Since the dragons wanted me to come?”

“Indeed, being Dragonborn is… something quite special,” the blue priest nodded. “But the circumstances of your birth are not what define you. If they were, you might as well be known as the Peasant Priest.” Miraak’s brow furrowed at that. “You have a gift, certainly. Perhaps you might wish to hone it. But I might suggest finding something else to learn and master.” He supposed that made sense. How could he say he was the finest Dragonborn known on Tamriel, if he was the only Dragonborn on Tamriel? But to say you were the finest mage, or the greatest enchanter, held more grandeur in the claim.

Miraak nodded to himself, fidgeting a touch. “Alright then, I’ll find something.”

“Good lad,” Morokei replied. “Now, I’m afraid I must don my mask. Conversation will be trickier, so we’ll keep it brief. Put up your hood.” Miraak did as he was told, then took hold of Morokei’s robes as the stallion took off into a gallop down the mountain. As they reached the bottom, they came to a stone bridge leading over a river. Four men in armour on the backs of horses stood at the other side, and simultaneously bumped a fist against their chests as Morokei approached.

“My lord,” one spoke. He had a particularly impressive helmet, so Miraak could only imagine that indicated he was in charge. “Your council with your brethren was fruitful, I hope?”

“An interesting gathering, commander, certainly.” Morokei shifted in his saddle, to reveal the blond boy huddled at his back to the commander. The Nord looked puzzled for a moment, glancing between the child and the priest. “The newest addition to our little family. Brother Miraak will be staying with us for the time being. Lady Zenobia is aware, rest assured.” The blue priest nodded toward the set of soldiers before them. “Don’t be shy, my lord. Greet Commander Maconius.”

Miraak shyly peered up, and gave a little wave. “Hello, sir,” he said quietly. The commander stared for a long, bewildered moment, then gave a short nod in return.

“My lord… are we to return at once?”

“Indeed, commander. We shall not delay. Though it will be exhausting, I’d prefer to reach the Labyrinthian without pause.” Miraak looked up quite grimly at the priest. “Come, gentlemen.” He gave a tap of his heel, and his stallion once again began to plod along the stone road. Miraak glanced at all four soldiers as they sauntered passed, though aside from the commander, none wore a helmet that showed their faces. Only cold iron, decorated with delicate blue patterns around the jaws stared back. Miraak turned his head down.

A village awaited at the end of the bridge, and after a moment, Miraak perked. He knew this place. He knew this river. “I lived here!,” he suddenly chirped, surprising Morokei.

“Oh?,” he asked, glancing back at him. The villagers made way, scrambling from the muddy road and gawking from their porches.

“Before the little cold village,” the boy replied a little quieter, feeling curious eyes on him from all directions. “My ma took us here. We lived in a little room at the inn she worked at.”

“Where is this inn?,” the priest asked. Miraak sat up at looked around, getting his bearings, then pointed to the largest straw thatched hut in the village.

“That one!,” he replied. “The man there was nice to me, but ma didn’t like him.”

“Often a lone woman fending for not only herself, but her little one, won’t trust a man. Even one that pays her,” Morokei replied. “Although I doubt it was coin he leant her.”

“Why?” Miraak looked puzzled. “She worked there.”

“Your mother most likely provided her services to the owner in return for a roof over your heads. The things one does for love.” Morokei leaned his head back at an angle, and Miraak could just barely see those icy blue eyes peering back at him through the slits of the mask. “You should be grateful. Your mother obviously had a great love for you.”

The little boy frowned, and settled back against the priest’s back. “If that’s true, why didn’t she try to stop me from being taken?”

“A valid question. Rahgot and Vokun are quite the intimidating figures after all.”

“She used to protect me from my pa,” Miraak said softly. “He’d push me down and she’d push him back. He’d hit her. He’d hit her hard.” Morokei was quiet for a long moment.

“What was your father’s name?”

“Bjorn.” They passed the baker’s hut, and he tensed, but felt a wave of relief when he didn’t see that howling daughter. Only the familiar smell of warm bread on the icy air met him as the bakery fell behind them. “He found us here. So we ran away again.”

“And you came to the village.” Morokei nodded slowly. “I see… your mother was a brave woman, in the face of simple man. What could he do that she couldn’t expect? But two mysterious men in frightening masks and robes?” He shook his head with a thoughtful grunt. “Who knows what they could do?”

Miraak didn’t quite believe him. He didn’t believe his mother would give him up simply because she was frightened of Rahgot and Vokun, not his mother. But he did not argue, going quiet as they at last came to the edge of the village, and watched the countryside wander by. He would simply have to ask her himself when he next saw her, whenever that might be.

The journey to Bromjunaar lead them through cold, dim forest lands. Across the larger stretches of land, Morokei broke into a gallop, his men thundering behind him, and through villages and settlements they went at a slower pace. Miraak took the opportunity whenever Morokei’s horse slowed to eat, nibbling away at neatly packed sandwiches and sweet buns. They were fresh, fluffy and delicious. The best he had tasted in all his life. He took small, slow bites, trying to savour them for as long as he could.

“My lord,” Miraak said quietly after some hours. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Quite, lad,” the priest replied with a subdued chuckle. “But I had a large breakfast. I will last until we reach Bromjunaar.” The boy looked thoughtful for a moment, then unwrapped one of the tasty bread like treats with cheese baked in, and reached round to offer it. Morokei paused, staring at it a long moment, then made an amused sound, gently pushing it aside. “You are quite gracious. I am a grown man, I will be alright for the next few hours. You, however, are rather small, now aren’t you?”

“I grew a lot very quickly this year, my lord.”

“I’m sure. And you have further to grow. So eat well. Miss Haelga put much effort into those meals for you last night, you mustn’t waste them.” Miraak blinked slowly, then settled back and nibbled on the scone himself.

After many long, bumpy hours, the roads began to be blanketed with snow. The hills got steeper, and the winds harsher. Morokei’s men closed around their lord’s stallion, forming a sort of wind block, and Miraak was glad of it, tugging his furred hood tighter around his cold little ears. Finally, a long stone stairway came to view, leading up the side of the mountain. The horses carefully picked their way up the icy steps, until at last they came to a gateway surrounded by a great stone wall. Miraak sat up further in the saddle as they drew closer, marvelling at the height and overhanging lookout posts.

Commander Maconius pulled ahead of the party, halting and looking up to the watch towers either side of the gate. “Our Lord and Master, Morokei, returns home. Open,” he bellowed up to the guards. They hurried and shouted to one another, running up and down flights of stairs behind the wall. The gates were opened impressively fast, and the priest entered his city comfortably. Stone structures and huts filled the main courtyard, filled with the bustle of market life. As they went, the towns people flocked from their stores and stalls, to fall to their knees before Morokei. He spared not one a single glance. “Look here, brother,” the blue priest said quietly, so only the boy could hear, guiding his horse toward yet more imposing steps to the right of the courtyard. “This is the reverence you must strive for. We of the Brotherhood hold important roles, and there are certain expectations to be met.”

Miraak looked around, clutching the back of Morokei’s robe. “No one looks happy to see you,” he replied softly.

“Perhaps not. But they are not here to shower me with joy and praise.”

At last, they approached the monastery, and Miraak’s jaw dropped. It was as large and grand as High Hrothgar, though far more ornate. Great statues stared blindly across the snow capped city, leading to a sweeping, lofty entrance. “Now, my lord,” Morokei said, dismounting his horse and lifting the boy from the saddle. He set him down in the snow, as a stablehand appeared and lead the steed away. “I will introduce you to my wife.” He started up the steps, towards the grand doors to the temple, where a woman in a long blue gown awaited. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, her long brown hair and the gossamer headdress decorating it flying in the icy wind. She didn’t shiver once, simply the picture perfect image of an unshakable lady to a great lord.

Miraak scampered up after the blue priest, realising as they got closer that lady Zenobia was a beauty. Palid skin, almost entirely porcelain smooth, save from one tastefully placed mole just by the corner of her pouting lips. As Morokei reached the top of the steps, the servants and handmaids fell to their knees, and only a moment after they did so, his wife gracefully lower to hers.

“My lord-love, I welcome you home,” she said, clear as a bell even in the howl of the wind.

“You grace me, my dear. Rise.” She obeyed, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. “You received my letter?”

“I did, my lord, and prepared accordingly.” She turned her eyes down to the gawking little sprog at her husband’s heels. “Greetings, my young lord. It is an honour to meet you, and to offer you bed and board in our temple. Welcome to the Labyrinthian.” Miraak licked his lips nervously, and bowed quite suddenly.

“Th-thank you, my lady! I-I appreciate it very much...!” Zenobia bent at the hip to be more eye level with him, giving a polite, lukewarm smile.

“We will begin your education in two days. In that time, my husband has much to do and collect for your lessons. I have called for our tailors, we shall spend the time preparing a wardrobe for you, and assessing just how we might go about teaching you, my young lord.”

He stared back, eyes flitting over her face, lingering on how her long lashes curled so perfectly, that they almost touched her brow bone when she blinked. “Thank you, my lady... may I keep my cloak?” He clutched it a little childishly, like it might be snatched from him. Lady Zenobia smiled again.

“You may keep whatever you wish, my lord.” He smiled back a little in relief, and watched as she rose upright once again. “Come, we have hot meals prepared for both of you, and of course, you must meet our sons, young lord.” Miraak nodded, then hesitated when she offered out her hand. It was probably the most smooth and well kept hand he had ever seen. Not a scar in sight, not a chip on a single nail. He looked up at her again, met with a somewhat gentle, disarming expression. “Come,” she repeated softly, with a slight flex of her fingers. He gingerly reached up and accepted her hand, and his chest swelled as it closed around his.

Morokei made his way toward the doors, and footmen rushed to heave the great things open. As they finally came into the entrance hall, Miraak stumbled a little on his own feet to stop and stare. The monastery had blown his young peasant mind, but the Labyrinthian beggared belief. How could anyone have gotten stone up so high? Fire pits dotted between pillars, leading deeper into the temple. He watched Morokei stride over the long, spotless blue carpet stretching ahead, and it felt bizarre to him to realise how at home the priest looked. In a structure that could very well have been considered a palace, Morokei marched at a comfortable pace as though he were sidling into a countryside cottage.

He realised with a start that Lady Zenobia had stopped beside him, still holding his hand. He looked up, finding dark grey eyes watching him with a measure of bemusement and curiosity. “Is something the matter, young lord?”

Miraak shook his head vigorously. “N-no, my lady. I think your temple is very nice and pretty.” The light of her eyes changed to a worried glint. Then she smoothed it over with that practiced smile once again, and curtsied.

“You are kind, young lord. The Labyrinthian has stood for centuries at a time, and will stand for centuries more. It is the centre of worship for your order, you will visit us here many a time, even long after your academic year with us.”

He nodded bashfully, and began shuffling along with her once again. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Good,” Zenobia replied. “Doubtless, we will always receive you gladly.” There was an edge to her tone he couldn’t place. It wasn’t the disdainful tone Rahgot’s voice leaked with, or the icy uncertainty Morokei’s did. But it was a sharp. “Now then, let us see the both of you gentlemen fed.”

Chapter Text

There was a time in Miraak’s short life where food had been scarce, by his own experience. Back in the town where he was born, shuffling about in the dusty, cold stone shack by the lake and the farms, when his mother would carefully cut a loaf of bread to last them as long as possible. His father was the most irritable when bread was all that lay on his plate. When they came to the mountain village, living in the little room at the back of the inn, he believed the steaming bowls of leak and potato soup the innkeep gave him were the grandest meals. Warm and filling.

Now he sat before a table, in a chair so big it swallowed him, piled with more food than he had ever seen at the markets in the Rift. Vegetables, pies, a boar’s roasted head, puddings and fruit lay in front of him, and Morokei and Lady Zenobia ate without a thought to it. Miraak stared at the cuts of meat slathered in rich gravy on his plate, silver knife and fork in his hands. His stomach growled hungrily, but churned at the overabundance of smells filling the room. The food Haelga and her maids fed him had been delicious, but simple. It simply smelled filling and hardy. The spread in front of him now smelled sickeningly rich and sweet. He swallowed thickly, and glanced at the two adults again. Morokei looked over to him as he took a sip of wine.

“Too much to eat on the journey, lad?,” he asked, setting the goblet down. Miraak fidgeted and shook his head. “Come then, your food will get cold.”

“I don’t know if I could keep it down…,” he admitted quietly, hanging his head and putting down his cutlery. The priest stared at him, chewing slowing until he seemed to come to understand the problem. Lady Zenobia looked puzzled.

“Do you feel unwell, young lord?,” she asked. “Come, drink some water, it will help.”

“The trouble my dear is the food will make him unwell,” Morokei said with a slight snort. “Our little brother has had a rather unprivileged lifestyle so far, isn’t that so, Miraak?” The boy didn’t reply, just sitting with his hands in his lap. “So much food might upset his stomach.”

The Lady frowned thoughtfully, then stood from her seat, holding the skirt of her dress out the way as she reached across the table. She retrieved the bread basket, and placed a few apples into it as well, then came around the large, round table to Miraak’s side. She placed the basket down and took his cutlery, cutting the slices of meat in half and scraping away the gravy. “We will start with this. You must eat meat while you are so young, so eat as much as you can manage. If you begin to feel ill, drink water and eat your fill of bread. Do be sure to eat at least one piece of fruit.” He gave her a startled look, taking back the knife and fork and staring at his plate. Zenobia stepped back, looking expectant, and so he speared one of the slightly smaller chunks of meat with his fork. He lifted it and began tearing at it with his teeth, until his heard a muffled chuckle. He looked up to see Morokei smiling down at his food, not quite looking his way, then looked to a rather annoyed Lady Zenobia. “Table manners shall be applied to your educational curriculum, I think.” He looked bashful, going to put the fork down. “No, no, carry on as you are for now,” she huffed, returning to her seat.

Morokei gave a light shake of his head, clearly amused. “Tomorrow, little lord, you will meet my children, thanes and my guards. You will tour the city, be sure to memorise landmarks quickly. You will not be venturing down there often, so you will likely get lost if you do not.”

“Yes, my lord,” Miraak said, barely above a whisper. The pork hit his tongue with so much flavour his mouth didn’t know how to react. It watered fiercely but he gagged slightly, attracting Zenobia’s attention once again. She looked vaguely concerned he might vomit on the dinner table.

“You will also be measured for a new wardrobe. Rest assured, more will come over time, thanes often gift their lords lavish cloaks and clothes, but we shall make enough to last you quite some time. You will also be given your own ceremonial robes.” The blue priest paused mid-bite thoughtfully. “Mm. I suppose we shall have to refit you for those once you outgrow them.”

“As young children are known to do, my lord,” Zenobia replied. It sounded almost as though she meant for the comment to be sharp, but her command over her tone made it sound perfectly gentle. Morokei licked his lips and nodded.

“That they are, my dear. Have you selected a handmaid you feel appropriate for our guest?”

Zenobia nodded, and rose again, giving a clap of her hands. “Ariadne,” she called out. From a door at the far end of the dining room, a girl hurried in. Her worn, heeled shoes clicked against the stone floors, then made soft thumps as she reached the rug, and came to stand beside her Lady, hands folded in front of her and head bowed. Wild, curly black hair was pushed back with a white headcloth, falling down her back to her shoulder blades. “My lord, this young lady will tend to your needs and whims. She shall see to your bathing, clothing and grooming. Should you find a hole in your clothes or shoes, inform her and she will mend them. Do you understand?”

Miraak stared in bewilderment, looking between Zenobia and the girl.

“Greet your master, Ariadne.” The girl turned and walked quietly round, then lowered in a neat, quick bow and raised again, head still turned down.

“An honour, my lord. I hope to be of service.” She had such a sweet, rich voice, it made the boy’s heart swell.

“Very good,” Morokei nodded. “Miraak, are you finished with your meal?”

“Um,” he stammered suddenly. “N-no, just a minute!” He proceeded to cram as much bread into his mouth as possible. Zenobia heaved a tremendous sigh, rolling her eyes and rubbing at her brows, and Morokei seemed to fight the urge to laugh.

“Miraak,” he said, and the child froze, cheeks puffed and straining. “I did not mean for you to hurry, lad.” He stared for a moment, then forced his teeth to chew as fast as they could, swallowing a little too soon and coughing. The maid beside him, looking startled at the feral little thing at her Lord and Lady’s dinner table, hurried to fill his cup with water, handing it to him. Morokei shook his head again, clearly amused while his wife was not. “Alright, alright. See to it our little lord is made ready for bed, girl.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ariadne replied at once, bowing again. She lowered to her knees, taking a cloth from the pocket of her apron to dab gently at the messy corners of Miraak’s mouth as he clapped his chest and came down from his choking fit. “Please, young master, come this way.”

He looked up at her, blinking away damp from his eyes, then shyly slipped out of the enormous chair. The girl stood, head and eyes turned down again, and turned to lead him from the room. Miraak stared after her a moment, quickly glancing back at the priest and Lady, before scampering after his newly appointed handmaid as she held the door for him.

Once it fell shut, Zenobia released the passive aggressive sigh she had been holding back for much too long. Morokei went back to eating. “Such sounds do not suit one fair as you, my Lady.”

“A boy of ten, whether raised in one of Rahgot’s slums or an icy hovel in the middle of nowhere, sits at our table scoffing bread, and you tell me honestly that our Lord Alduin called upon him personally?” Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh, closing his eyes briefly, then looking his wife in the eye. She stared back at him sternly. “Morokei, you must be joking.”

“My jokes are far more tasteful, my dear, I’m sure you’ll agree.” She scoffed at him. “I assure you, I would not insult our halls if this had not been placed upon me by our overlords.”

Zenobia’s frown deepened, watching her husband as he finished his meal. “You said in your letter, the boy has been blessed with the blood and soul of the Dov.” She reached for her goblet of wine, holding it just short of her lips. “You saw this with your own eyes?”

“I wouldn’t have trusted my own eyes, not if what I’d seen had happened anywhere else.” Morokei stared into the silver of his empty plate, hand tapping against the base of his cup. “He spoke the Language in an instant. Lord Alduin only wrote the Words for him, and the boy spit fire like I’d never seen, Zenobia.” Now the Lady paused, slowly sitting forward in her seat with interest. Her husband did not meet her eye, and poured yet another cup of wine for himself. “A peasant. A peasant learned the Words to the breath of the Dovah at a glance. How long did it take for me to learn to spit fire? How long did it take Nahkriin?”

“Nahkriin took five months,” Zenobia replied. “Ahzidal took a year.”

“Only because he was so freshly new to the ways of the Brotherhood,” the blue priest took a long, deep breath, and continued to drink. “You could see it on Rahgot’s face. He was seething.”

“Rahgot is always seething at something.” Zenobia set her goblet down, pressing her hands down flat to the table, staring into the spread before them blindly, trying to make sense of it all. “And the others?”

Morokei shrugged. “Hevnoraak couldn’t decide whether to be scandalised or furious. Krosis dithered about worriedly as ever, like a chicken looking for her egg… Volsung and Vokun, pah,” he threw his hand up dismissively. “Who knows, who would want to?” His fingers drummed across the edge of the table. “I thought nothing might take me by surprise ever again, then the Great Lord-Father drops a peasant boy into our laps and declares him his flesh and blood. What for?”

“What for indeed.” He looked back at his wife, watching her clever eyes watch her wine as she swirled the cup in her hand. “So rarely do the gods take to flights of fancy. I would propose that the full puzzle has yet to be presented to us.” Morokei took a slow breath, then took hold of his own drink.

“I suspect you may be right.” He raised his cup to her, and she raised hers back. “Well… ’til we are given all the pieces… to our new little peasant lord…!”

“To our Lord Miraak.” Their goblets clinked, and they drank together.

.

Miraak stepped on his own feet over and over, shuffling and fidgeting at the side of the room, shyly looking down and occasionally stealing glances at the servant girl. Ariadne poured another pitcher of boiled water into the bronze tub, and ran her fingers through it before flicking them dry. She looked back to the little lord, and their eyes met for a moment, and the boy immediately snapped his head back down. “… are you partial to lavender, master?,” she asked in that sweet voice, and he nervously glanced back up again.

“… I guess so,” he mumbled. She got up from beside the tub, moving to a small cupboard by the enormous fireplace where she’d been heating the water. She rummaged around and brought out a bottle, coming over to him and crouching an arm’s length away. She uncorked the bottle, and held it out to him.

“Do you like the smell?,” she asked. He leaned a little closer, sniffing at it. It definitely smelled of lavender, and something else he couldn’t quite identify. He looked thoughtful, then nodded. She took the bottle back, and went back to the tub, pouring the flowery smelling oil into it.

“I already had a bath yesterday,” Miraak told her quietly, and supposed it would’ve been polite to tell her that before she drew his bath.

“I see. Although you had a very long ride with Lord Morokei today, master. So you will definitely need a bath.” Miraak pouted, and scuffed his foot against the floor. “You do not want one?” He shook his head, at what, unspecified. He ambled sulkily over to the tub, standing a little way from her. “What is it, master?”

“I don’t smell that bad.” She stared at him, trying to make sense of that statement. “Why do I need a bath two days in a row?”

She looked all the more puzzled. “To be clean, my Lord.” She looked him over, turning to face him in her crouched position. “The maids in the High Temple bathed you, yes?” He nodded stubbornly. “When did you last bathe before then?”

He pursed his lips, looking upwards thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “A while ago. In the innkeep’s basement. It was nice and warm, it wasn’t like at home. Ma would bring water from the lake and tip it over my head and it was cold.” Ariadne’s brow furrowed, dark eyes flitting back and forth over the boy’s face. “It didn’t smell nice either.”

“You bathed in lake water?,” she asked, and he nodded. Her face gave away a moment of realisation, but she held her tongue. Perhaps no one had told the servants that the new young lord hadn’t come from a pampered life of leisure. “… we must bathe you every night,” she told him gently. She turned, dipping her hand into the water. “Tell me, is this too hot for you?”

He shuffled closer, reaching over and feeling for himself. He shook his head. “No, it feels fine.”

“Then, we must hurry and get you clean.” She moved a little closer and he froze perfectly still as she began to undress him. She folded each piece of his clothing perfectly, setting them aside. Once he was naked, she brought a stool beside the tub and helped him in. He plopped down quick as he could, huddling up in embarrassment in the water. The smell of the lavender wafted into his nose. It was nice. Ariadne picked up a sponge and began to wash him, starting at his arms, then his back, then chest. The silence was almost unbearable, until she reached under the water for his leg. He jumped, splashing water over the sides and making her jump.

“I-I’ll do it!,” he insisted, holding his hand out for the sponge. She stared at him for a long moment, then wordlessly handed it to him. She got up again, heading back to the little cupboard. He didn’t quite know what he was doing, scrubbing at his legs with the squishy thing, but he got himself as clean as he could without lifting his legs out of the water.

The handmaid came back with another bottle. She sat, picking up a small pitcher and scooping some water from the tub. She placed a hand against his forehead, tilting his head back and tipping the water over his hair, soaking it through. He licked his lips, staring at the ceiling. “Why can’t I meet Lord Morokei’s children today?,” he asked stiffly. He was much too eager to finally see other children.

“They are asleep at this hour, master,” Ariadne replied. “You’ve returned quite late. You must be tired.” He frowned a little, but didn’t argue. His head was aching for sleep. “The oil will help settle you.”

“Ma used to put bits of lavender on guest pillows at the inn,” he said as she massaged slick white liquid into his hair. It sudsed up quickly, and smelled like lavender too. “Is that why?”

“Yes, master. Lavender is wonderful for helping with sleep. Chamomile too.” He frowned thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It is a flower, master. Little white ones.” She rinsed his hair out, then repeated the lather. They fell quiet again, so the sound of Miraak’s stomach growling came extremely loud. They both paused. “Did you not eat enough?”

“I ate a lot today, actually…” He’d eaten everything in the pack Haelga had given him. He found himself missing her a little. Ariadne licked her lips, rinsing his hair again.

“I could bring you warm milk and honey before bed,” she offered gently. “It might help.”

“… thank you, I’d like that,” he squeaked, going red in the face. She watched him, a look of soft confusion on her pretty face. She really was ever so pretty. She rested her arms on the edge of the tub, just watching him for a long, silent moment, as another moment of realisation dawned on her, and properly sunk in. That the child was just a boy. No lord’s son, or prince, or nobleman. This was just a boy. A shy, nervous, and quite clearly lonely little boy. Ariadne swallowed a lump in her throat, then got up. She fetched a large towel, and held it out.

“Come,” she said. He clambered out stiffly, still trying to hide himself, and she wrapped him warmly in the towel. With a smaller one, she began drying his hair, still watching him, taking in every detail. “Where is your mama now?”

Miraak looked up at her, sea blue eyes glittering as a few tears built up. “At the village… I think… Lord Rahgot and Lord Vokun… they came and took me away…” Ariadne’s eyes widened, her sympathetic expression the kindest, gentlest thing he’d seen in days. His ten year old little heart leapt at it. His lip began to tremble, and his face screwed up. “They left her in the snow… she didn’t try to stop them, they just took me, and we watched each other go, and- and-!” She dropped to her knees in front of him, a hand on his side and another on his cheek as at long last, the dam broke, and the child priest began to blubber.

“Hush, hush…,” she whispered sweetly, wiping the tears from his slightly freckled cheeks. “Oh, there there, hush now…” He cried for a good long while, and she stayed with him, listening to his sobs until they turned to wet little hiccups. “I’m sorry… oh you’ve had quite a time, haven’t you?” He nodded miserably.

“… the big dragon said I’m meant to stay here,” he told her sadly. “That I’m their little brother and I have to learn to be a priest, that’s why Morokei brought me here.”

Ariadne dabbed at his face with the small towel in her hands, neatening his tussled hair a little. “… perhaps you will see your mama again some day.”

“… I want her now,” he whimpered, and her eyes welled up sympathetically.

“I’m sorry.” He carried on sniffling, and she finished drying him. She brought him bed robes and dressed him, brushed his hair and held a hankie to his nose for him to blow. She waited until he looked up at her, then held out her hand. “Come. There’s nothing for it but to sleep.”

He nodded, and took her hand, letting her lead him from the bathroom into a large bed chamber. The bed was enormous, and a hearth crackled away at the far end. The maid pulled the covers back and beckoned him in, but he stared dumbly. “It’s huge,” he said quietly, looking up at her.

“In fact,” she replied. “It’s the smallest of all the main bed chambers.” Miraak blinked, then sheepishly clambered into bed. He sat up against the large duck feather pillows, and watched his handmaid disappear back through the door they’d come through. He looked around the dimly lit room. It was long and narrow, but larger than the guest chamber in the mountain temple. Two tall windows sat in the wall alongside his bed, dark drapes he couldn’t quite determine the colour of in the light hooked at the sides. A desk sat between them, pressed up against the wall, with an inkwell, quill and candle holder. He felt so tiny in the large room. So uncertain of whether he was meant to be there, even though the maid had brought him there herself.

Ariadne reappeared, coming through the door with a tray in her hands. “Here now,” she said gently, setting it on the bedside table. A delicate looking cup sat, full of steaming milk. She scooped a good helping of honey from the pot beside it, and stirred it in. “Careful now, it’s hot.” He accepted the cup, and sipped. It was indeed hot, but so sweet and delicious. He gulped it down, licking his lips stickily. She gave him a gentle smile, tilting her head. “Do you feel any better?”

“… a little bit… but not really,” he admitted, sitting with the empty cup in his lap. She brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Please get some sleep, master. Tomorrow will be better. What would you like for breakfast?” He looked thoughtful for a minute, remembering his breakfast that morning.

“Bacon, please,” he said, looking up at her. She smiled again, and nodded.

“Bacon. Very good, master.” She took the cup back from him, and had him lay down. She tucked him in, much gentler than Haelga, and blew out the candle. “Goodnight, master. May sweet dreams come to you tonight,” Ariadne whispered, taking the tray to the door.

“Good night… thank you, Ariadne.” She looked back at him from the doorway, a look of mild surprise on her face. Then she nodded again, and closed the door quietly.

Miraak fell asleep rather quickly. While his dreams could be considered sweet, he thought they were much more thrilling. He dreamed of a great hawk swooping down and scooping him up. They flew together over the tops of the mountains, and towards the sea. Where that hawk took him from there, he did not know, as the day of stress and travelling caught up to him, and drew him into a deep, heavy sleep.

Chapter Text

Fine fabrics, fresh and new, had a particular smell to them. Rolls of them, stacked on top of one another, bound together with strong straps, built a clean-musty scent in the room that mingled with the left over smell of his breakfast. As promised, Ariadne had brought him eggs and bacon when she woke Miraak that morning. She brushed out and neatened his hair while he ate, wiped his face with a hot wet cloth, and opened the door for the tailor and his assistant when they knocked. He was stood on a wooden stool in the middle of the room, the assistant lifting his arms and measuring with a long tape, while his boss set about spreading the fabrics and patterns about the place.

Ariadne stayed close by, busying herself helping the tailor or tidying the near spotless room, until another knock at the door had her hurry over. Lady Zenobia came in, dressed and primed, looking down at the young priest. Ariadne curtsied, eyes down, and Miraak was tempted to look at his feet too.

“Good morning, my young lord,” Zenobia greeted him, coming to a stop just in front of the stool. “Did you sleep well?”

He nodded, shuffling about in his nightgown. “Good morning, my lady. I did. And I had a nice breakfast, and I ate it all.” She nodded approvingly, then began to step round him, watching from a short distance as he was continuously poked and prodded.

“That is so very good to hear,” she went on. “You do remember your schedule for today?”

He licked his lips and nodded. “I get clothes made for me, then I meet your children, then I see Bromjunaar.” He saw her nod yet again in the tall standing mirror set down in front of him.

“Very good. You must make a habit of remembering the most important parts of your day to day schedule. However, if you forget anything, your handmaid is responsible for keeping you on track.” She gestured to Ariadne briefly, who simply stayed perfectly still beside the mirror. “Now, it is important you begin your education on the history and workings of our capital. I presume you have never visited our fair city before?”

Miraak shook his head, then squeaked when he was suddenly stripped of his nightgown. Ariadne looked up suddenly in alarm in case he had been hurt. He just stared at her awkwardly, shuffling in his loincloth and looking very much like he wanted to be anywhere else. She offered a comforting smile, and turned her eyes back down.

Zenobia tilted her head a touch, and went on. “Bromjunaar, like many settlements attributed to your Order, is a word rooted in Dovahzuul, the language of our lords and masters, the dov. You will, of course, come to learn this language fluently, in order to commune with our grand kings with the respect and reverence due to them.” The tailor moved the chair from the desk, setting it down for the Lady, and she seated herself gracefully. “Now, traditionally, names given in Dovahzuul will be comprised of three words. They lend the recipient meaning, and reputation. Bromjunaar is comprised of Brom-jun-aar, translating to North-King-Servant.” The tailor and his assistant began wrapping Miraak with fabrics, sizing and snipping away with scissors, then taking the pieces away to be measured more accurately at their make-shift work station. “Can you repeat that to me, my lord?”

He licked his lips again. “Brom-jun-aar,” he said quietly. “North-King-Servant.”

“Very good. Now, why might you think our capital is named such a thing?” His chest was once again wrapped in the pieces of fabric, and the tailor nodded approvingly at the fit. Then came to his arms. “From this translation, what do these words lend themselves to in regards to the master of Bromjunaar?”

His brow furrowed, staring half at his musty reflection, and half at Ariadne as she patiently awaited to be called on, and thought hard. “… because… we’re in the North?”

Zenobia raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Bromjunaar is a central city in Skyrim. Have you seen a world map before?” He shook his head timidly at her in the mirror. “I see. Skyrim is one of the Northern most continents of Tamriel. That is part of why she has snow most of the year. Worry not, we will see to your geography as well.” He thought that would probably make sense, if he was going to be doing a lot of travelling in the foreseeable future. “The other parts, then?”

Miraak looked thoughtful. “… Lord Morokei… or whoever was put in charge of the city… would be considered the king of it… in the North… the King in the North,” he began slowly. “… but he’s a servant to the dragons… a servant-king… so… he’s in charge of everybody in the city, but the dragons are in charge of him.”

“Correct,” Zenobia nodded. “It is a name that serves a constant reminder that your Brotherhood rules in order to serve. A fact one should never forget.” She raised her hand, and Ariadne bloomed to life. She hurried to the dresser, where a pitcher of water sat, and filled a cup for the Lady. She hurried back, once again curtsying as Zenobia took the cup and sipped. “The ruler of Bromjunaar has been named Morokei for generations. You are already aware that once a Nord man has been honoured with the mantle of a priest, he relinquishes his worldly possessions, including ones own name and properties. Lord Morokei has lead the Brotherhood since the early days, though he was not the first name to lord over them.”

A simple long sleeved piece had been brought together with pins, fitting him snuggly while prickling him. He tried not to fidget, until the tailor had apparently decided it was correct, and handed it to his assistant to begin copying down the precise measurements. Meanwhile, he began on Miraak’s trousers.

“You will learn of the beginnings of your Order in due time. Now, as Bromjunaar is the seat from which Skyrim is primarily ruled, it is where most all of your Brothers convene to discuss matters of politics, worship, and on occasion, celebration. For those, we must see to your table manners, my young lord.” She gave him a particular look in the mirror, raising her eyebrow sharply as she sipped from her drink. Miraak bit his lip, and smiled a little sheepishly back at her.

“I will do my best, my lady.”

“I have no doubt.”

Finally, the tailor began constructing a crude shoe around Miraak’s foot, having the boy rest his hand on his shoulder to keep steady while he measured and affixed. The child watched without really taking note, then plucked up his courage. “My lady,” he squeaked. “Can I ask a question?”

“You most certainly can, and you may,” Zenobia mused, resting comfortably against the backrest of her seat. “You may ask me whatever you wish, at any time.”

He nodded a little. “Will I see the dragons again soon?”

“You must not address our lords quite so crassly, young lord. If you must refer to them as a whole, call them ‘the dov’, in reference to all of dragonkind. If you wish to reference a singular dragon, but do not know their name, use ‘dovah’. Understand?” He nodded quite enthusiastically. “Yes, you will most certainly be presented to Lord Alduin once again, given your most unique status. When, I could not tell you, but you certainly will be of utmost interest to our Lord.”

“Are all ‘dov’ that big?,” he asked, while the tailor moved to his other foot.

“No, my lord. Lord Alduin is the eldest of Akatosh’s many children, you see. His siblings rarely ever reach his size and grandeur.”

“So he’s the big brother.” Zenobia slowly licked her lips. The bluntness of children most stemmed from a desire to understand, to compare a new concept to something they already know well. The boy was ten, she reminded herself, so long as he continued to be curious and receptive, curtesy would follow suits. And with it, hopefully, some tact.

“Indeed,” she sighed, nudging her long hair back over her shoulder with a small toss of her head. “Which, I suppose, would make you the baby brother.”

Miraak fidgeted on the spot, his feet encased in soft scraps of leather. While he wasn’t sure it was the intent, that phrasing did give him a slight tingle in his belly. What a nice thought, suddenly having acquired so many powerful older brothers.

“My Lady,” the tailor finally spoke, coming to bow before Zenobia. “I believe we have all we need to produce an appropriate wardrobe for Lord Miraak. Edwin shall finish with the piece we have begun here this morning, and two more by day’s end. I shall return to my studio and begin production of the rest at once.”

“Very well, Xavier. Your service is appreciated.” Zenobia stood, and handed Ariadne her cup. Xavier bowed even deeper, then returned to Miraak and offered him a hand down.

“My lord,” he said, head turned down. Miraak looked at him strangely, and his hand. He hopped off the stool himself without any trouble, looking up at the tailor.

“Thank you for my clothes. Can I get dressed now?” He looked between the notably unshakeable tailor and the Lady, then his handmaid, who winced at him in response. Had he done something wrong?

“Yes, I believe your nightgown will do until your new cloths are finished,” Zenobia decided. Xavier retrieved the gown from the desk, redressing Miraak neatly. He bowed once more, gave Edwin a stern look, and excused himself from the bed chamber. “Now my lord, sit.” She gestured to the chair she had left open, and he obediently clambered into it. “For future purposes, you must learn the common greeting used between your Order. Repeat after me; Drem-Yol-Lok.”

“Drem… yol… lok,” he copied slowly, making sure he pronounced each word as she did.

“Good. As before, this phrase is comprised of three words. Drem, peace. Yol, fire, and Lok, sky. It is the most common greeting among the Dov. ‘Peaceful Fire and Sky’, is a wish most befitting their eminence. Their souls, your soul, is intrinsically linked to the both of them. Though they may call upon whatever element they wish, or perhaps have preference to, fire is what runs through their blood. Often, a Dovah will greet his brother with a breath of flames, as a show of respect and appreciation.” She stood tall and straight, her arms folded behind her back as she looked about the room, rather than staring him down in his spot. She paced only slightly, two steps one way, then three steps the other. Lady Zenobia commanded an intelligent elegance, reciting complex knowledge with such professional confidence. She certainly befit the role of a teacher. “The sky, like fire, is integral to their being. If fire is their blood, the sky, and flight, is their heart. Beating and pumping their fire-blood through their veins… such a thing, unfortunately, is unattainable to mortals such as ourselves.”

He rubbed his little bare feet together. The boy just could not rightly sit still. “I would like to fly… I think I’d be afraid though.”

Zenobia finally looked back down at him, looking amused. “Yes… I think I would too. The promise of falling would be frightening indeed.”

“… should I greet all of your family this way?,” he asked thoughtfully.

“No, my lord, not unless you wish to. You must greet your Brothers so, but myself, and my children, you do not need to.” He nodded, and looked back down at his feet.

It took some time, filled with him asking questions and finally getting the satisfaction of having them answered. At long last, Edwin knelt down before Zenobia and Miraak, with his head bowed. “Lord Miraak’s suit is finished, Lady,” he whispered. His voice was much lighter than Miraak had been expecting.

“Then…” Zenobia looked to Ariadne, and she quickly bowed and helped Miraak off the chair. She scooped him up under the arms, setting him back on the stool. Edwin handed her each newly sewn piece of clothing to dress the boy, quickly and efficiently.

When she was finished, she took a step back looking at him in the mirror. Zenobia came round his other side, considering him, tugging hems and checking edges. “What do you think, my lord?,” she asked. “Does it chafe anywhere?”

He didn’t know that word, but he shook his head. “It’s… heavy,” he replied honestly. “And warm.” She nodded thoughtfully, a delicate hand coming to her chin.

“They are simple, certainly, and will suffice. Although… I am not overly fond of the colour,” she hummed, lifting the edges of overcoat in her other hand. “Deep blues may be our Lord Morokei’s representative colours… but I do not believe they suit you, young lord.” He looked at himself again in the mirror, pulling a peculiar, awkward expression.

“… I don’t know,” he replied rather dumbly, unsure what to say to that at all but feeling she was waiting for a response. “I… I like green.”

“Green, you say.” She smiled a touch, amused once again. She barely glanced back at Edwin. “Do tell your master Lord Miraak prefers greens, boy.”

“As you wish, my Lady.” Zenobia dropped the hem with a soft huff, shaking her head.

“It will do for now. Come, my sons will be awake and ready by now.” Ariadne lifted Miraak back off of the stool, once again neatening his hair for him. “Carry on and tidy up here, boy,” Zenobia threw over her shoulder to Edwin as she swanned toward the door. The handmaid hurried ahead, opening it for her.

Miraak went to chase after her, then paused and looked back at Edwin. “Thank you for my clothes again!,” he smiled. He didn’t know a thing about proper and appropriate dress, but new clothes were new clothes. Edwin wasn’t quite as composed as his mentor, and looked surprised for a moment. He almost smiled, and bowed.

“Come, my lord,” Ariadne whispered a little loudly, ushering him after the Lady. He ran after her, the satisfying clop of his brand new boots echoing in the stone hallway. She turned very suddenly to see him, and he skidded to a halt. Zenobia fixed him sternly.

“There shall be no running in these hallways, my lord. Understood?”

He bowed and stared down at her feet bashfully. “Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady.” Zenobia let a quiet hang between them, until Ariadne caught up, walking at a brisk pace. She turned, and carried on, carrying herself with dignity. Miraak glanced up at Ariadne, and smiled nervously. She smiled back a touch, and nodded after the Lady.

Miraak looked around fervently as they walked deeper and deeper into the temple. There were certain intricacies to them that he could memorise, but it became increasingly clear that he would become hopelessly lost by himself. He would wager his best bet would be to have Ariadne teach him. Who would known winding corridors better than a servant?

At long last, they came to a grand hall. The ceiling was so high he could barely see the engravings carved into the masonry up above. Passage were visible from the ground, forming bridges between doors on different levels above them. Servants hurried about, cleaning and tidying, going about their daily routines, and only pausing to bow to Lady Zenobia as she entered. At the far, far end of the hall, he saw the two boys stood side by side. One taller than the other, both with the same mouse brown hair as their mother. The taller boy seemed to be bickering with his handmaid as she tried to neaten his robes, until Zenobia strode towards them, and he straightened up.

She came to a stop, giving both boys pointed stares, before turning to Miraak. “My young Lord Miraak, it is my honour and pleasure to present the sons of Lord Morokei and myself. My eldest, Hahdrim, and my youngest, Kron.”

The two boys bowed a little stiffly, Kron looking up at Miraak with his father’s blue eyes. Miraak smiled a bit back at him, and bowed back.

“H-hello,” Miraak said quietly, glancing between them and their mother. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Hahdrim tucked his chin in a little, and Kron simply stared while twisting a little at his hips. Zenobia cleared her throat, and Hahdrim fidgeted irritably. “Hello,” he said quite suddenly, looking him in the eye. “You’re very young for a Lord.”

“Indeed he is, Hahdrim,” Zenobia replied coyly, tilting her head. That was a challenging tone she took on. “Yet a Lord he is, my dear. And how do we greet members of your father’s order?”

Hahdrim screwed up his face a bit, then bowed again. “Greetings, my lord,” he tried again stubbornly, then shoved his younger brother a little. Kron bowed too, but didn’t say a word.

“Better.” The Lady breathed a sigh, collecting herself. “My lord, Hahdrim is around your own age. I apologise if he does not appear as respectful as he should be.”

Miraak fidgeted, looking down at his feet, trying to hide his smile. “That’s alright.” He didn’t mind the thought of someone not speaking to him so prim and proper.

“He will learn, in time.” Zenobia shot the boys another sharp look. “Now, you will take your reading and writing comprehension with the two. Lord Miraak is only just beginning his education with us, you are to help him with any questions or troubles he has.”

“He can’t read?” Hahdrim smiled. No, not quite a smile, more of a smirk. “Why is he a lord when he can’t read?”

“Perhaps you would like to ask that of our Lord Alduin, next he visits,” his mother replied curtly. The smirk vanished instantly, and Hahdrim paled, looking away. “I thought not. As I was saying, you will have lessons with our sons, lead by me, and you will have separate lessons with Lord Morokei.”

Miraak nodded quietly. “For magic.”

“That’s right.”

Hahdrim suddenly stared at his mother, looking like he so desperately wanted to cry out at her. What for, Miraak only wondered, but kept quiet as Zenobia continued. “Where is Lord Morokei this morning?,” she asked one of the other handmaids. One curtsied in response.

“Lord Morokei takes tea in his study at the moment, my lady. He bids you join him once introductions have been done.” She nodded, then took a slow breath.

“Well then, come, my lord. Come, boys.” She was off again, striding towards yet another door. Miraak once again hurried after her, her sons and the little army of handmaids following suit. As they walked, he noticed Kron still staring up at him. He smiled at him again, still a bit nervous.

“Hello…,” he tried again. “It’s nice to meet you.” Kron’s little feet did a skip every now and then, trying to keep up with the older boy, and gave him an odd half smile.

“He’s shy sometimes,” Hahdrim supplied, keeping up a bit easier. The noble boy’s legs were remarkably skinny, Miraak noticed. Perhaps he should slow down. Hahdrim already seemed to be little sulking. “Kron, say something.”

“Something.” Miraak smiled more warmly, whilst Kron’s older brother glared at him.

Chapter Text

Miraak considered a study to be a somewhat organised, yet comfortable room, where a scholar or probably a mage could work away at their papers and scrolls in quiet. That, at least, was what came to mind when Morokei’s study was mentioned. However, the door they came to, with footmen standing either side in preparation, was so grand he wondered if they were entering a banquet hall. Instead, it was opened to yet another sweeping, tall hall, filled to the ceiling with bookshelves. Miraak actually stopped in his tracks, looking this way and that at the labyrinth of furniture. Was Morokei’s office beyond this room? Ariadne gave his back the lightest of taps, urging him in, as Hahdrim waltzed right past him.

“It’s messy in here, so don’t step on anything. Father gets cross when you step on his things,” he told the young Dragonborn. Miraak took note, and did indeed watch where he put his feet. At last, they found Morokei, lost amongst the stacks at an enormous carved stone desk that almost looked like a coffin. A large pendulum swung by the wall, the quiet sound of rumbling just behind the stone, and an hourglass sat upon the Lord’s workspace. Zenobia came to a stop, folding her hands and looking patient. Her sons stopped, the maids stopped, and so Miraak hesitantly came to a halt as well. He looked around at them curiously, then up at Ariadne. She placed a finger against her lips to hush him, and he nodded a little.

He turned back to the desk, and watched the hourglass. It did not hold sand, but smoke. Blue and glittering, it poured all the same as sand, and Miraak realised the top portion was almost empty. That was what they were waiting for. So, Miraak toyed with the leather belt of his new clothes nervously, winding it round and round his finger until it was just too tight, and let it free again. He managed this twice, before the bottom of the hourglass filled, and Morokei closed the book in his hands with a final thud.

Morokei stood, dressed in looser robes, maskless, rising to his full height and looking down upon his visitors. The maids bowed immediately, then his sons, and finally his wife. Miraak looked about nervously, and quickly went to bow as well.

“No, no,” the elder priest said, raising his hand with an amused snort. “Not you, my lord. We bow in one another’s presence, but not in the presence of servants and family.” He came around the end of his desk, gesturing for his wife and sons to rise with a slight flick of his hand. He came to a stop before them, and ushered Miraak forward. “Good morning, young lord. How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” the boy replied quietly. “I like my room very much.”

“I am glad to hear. If you ever tire of it, do not hesitate to inform Lady Zenobia. We certainly have spares available.” Morokei reached down, straightening Miraak’s collar a touch. “And your new clothes, do they please you?”

“They are very warm… Lady Zenobia doesn’t like this colour on me, so I asked for green ones.” Morokei snorted again with a nod.

“Ah, indeed. This blue is unique to Morokei’s name. Someday, once your own mask has been completed, you will be granted your very own colour.” He gestured across the study, to the grand display where Morokei’s mask sat spotlessly upon a stone bust. “But certainly, far more prizes are littering your future, young lord.”

Miraak nodded a little, staring at the mask. Those sleepy eye slits hadn’t quite managed to not be creepy to him just yet. 

Evidently, Hahdrim had been to the point of bursting behind him, as the boy suddenly leapt forward a step. “Father! Why is he learning magic with you?!” Zenobia snatched the boy’s ear and pulled him back harshly, getting a yelp and a whine from him as he grabbed her wrist. Both the young and old dragon priests turned to look at them in surprise, and Zenobia bowed.

“My sincerest apologies, my lords. I will have him disciplined.” Miraak frowned worriedly for a moment, then became uncomfortable as Hahdrim began slapping and scratching his mother’s arm. The handmaids immediately pulled him away, letting him bite at their arms as they held him.

“Now, now,” Morokei rumbled, raising a hand. The maids released the boy, and he stomped a few steps from them, then scowled at his mother. “Hahdrim.” He hesitated, looking petulantly down at the floor, then slowly up to meet his father’s gaze. “You will not raise a hand to your mother again.”

“Yes, father.” Miraak stood perfectly quiet beside Morokei, looking between them every so often. Kron had shuffled behind Ariadne and another maid when his brother’s tantrum began, keeping out of firing range. 

“Lord Miraak is a member of our Brotherhood,” the blue priest went on, voice firm and even. “The court wizards are unworthy of taking him as their pupil. Do you understand?” Hahdrim’s brown eyes turned wet, and his lip quivered, and Miraak tensed for another show of flailing and biting. Instead, he bowed his head and nodded bitterly. “Say it.”

“The court wizards aren’t worthy,” he muttered, kicking at the stone floor.

“Only a priest such as myself shall be worthy of this task. This boy may be no older than you, my son, but he is your lord nonetheless.” Hahdrim replied with a wet sniff. The son of a nobleman had probably never met another child face to face and been told they were his better. It probably stung all the more for his own father to tell him so. Miraak licked his lips and toyed with his belt again, not looking anyone in the eye.

With that unpleasantness settled, Morokei let out a long sigh. “Very well then. My lord?” The boy looked up. “Shall we take your tour of our great city?”

Bromjunaar was far bigger than what he had seen when they entered. Once again, he rode on Morokei’s saddle, clutching his robes as they waded through the streets in a small procession. Morokei had adorned his mask, Lady Zenobia followed behind on her mare with Kron in her lap, and Hahdrim plodded along on his own young colt with Commander Maconius at his side.

He was told to remember each of the dome like structures. They all served as back rooms to market stalls, or as the storefronts themselves if they were a smaller business. During harsher weather, the stall owners would huddle inside the huts, and pray for business nonetheless.

“Should you need anything at all that we do not already possess within the temple,” Morokei said over his shoulder. “Send your handmaid here to the market.”

“May I go with her?,” he asked, peeking out from under his hood slightly, only for the priest to tug it back down.

“I am afraid not, my lord,” Morokei replied bluntly. “It is neither safe nor appropriate for you to mingle amongst the people so commonly. Certainly a maid could not sufficiently protect you.” He frowned, but didn’t argue. Miraak looked across the rivers of people, parting for Lord Morokei’s horse. Women rushed to offer Lady Zenobia flowers and bread, but with a frigid dignity, she brushed past them all without a single glance. Little Kron eyed the food eagerly, but didn’t reach for any. An impressive show of restraint for a little one.

He could see fruit and vegetable stalls, butchers, mead and wine. A wagon with a rack of rough fabrics, furs and hats sat nestled in an icy corner. As they climbed to the higher levels of the market, far more expensive produce presented itself. Jewels and jewellery, far finer fabrics, even a smithy off in the distance. Miraak was so in awe at the busy city, he jumped when he realised they had come to a stop. The Commander dismounted his horse, taking Kron from his mother, then helping the Lady from her mount easily. He came to Morokei’s stallion next, scooping the young lord under his arms and setting him on his feet. The priest climbed down after, straightening his robes and looking down. “And this, brother,” he said lowly. “Is the Sanctuary.”

Miraak hadn’t realised the largest dome in the city had been any different from the others. Certainly it was larger, more impressive, but it wasn’t nearly as ornate as the temple. Morokei looked to the Commander, who bowed, and took a stance beside the entrance.

“Here, only we of the Brotherhood may enter outside of anointed ceremony or celebration. It is within this small council room that we priests convene to honour our lineage and kingdoms.” Morokei began walking inside the dome, and Miraak gave a quick glance to Maconius, then Lady Zenobia. He hadn’t been specifically told he could enter.

Zenobia watched from beside the horses, her hands on Kron’s shoulders and Hahdrim skulking behind her, scowling into the market. She nodded to him, ushering him in with a hand. Miraak scurried after the blue priest, and found himself blanketed in warm air. He looked about the hallway, following the curve of the roof. The Sanctuary was well kept and cleaned, with luxurious tapestries hanging from unlit sconces. “The Brothers of the Dov do not concern our masters with the humdrum of the common worms,” Morokei’s deep voice echoed against the stone as they came to a door, leading into the centre. “Yet, should we require their guidance or permission, we may also commune with them from here as well.”

A row of empty busts, much like the one in Morokei’s study, stood to attention like a faceless choir. In the centre was an ornate statue of a dragon’s head, glowering across the room into Miraak. He swallowed slightly, looking about. Treasures and arms were neatly displayed around the room, glittering and glorious in the angled beams of light in the cold winter sun. He blinked slowly, taking it all in. “There are no doors.”

“No,” Morokei replied, walking further towards the busts.

“Why hasn’t anyone stolen all this treasure?” Morokei removed his mask, and placed it upon its place. He turned to the boy, pale face shaded still by his fine hood.

“None dare,” he simply replied. “After all, what fool would steal from a shrine to the Dov?”

Miraak was quiet for a moment, blue eyes skittering over Morokei thoughtfully. “… a very, very dead one.”

Morokei let out a light laugh, and Miraak felt quite proud of it. “Yes indeed. And besides, this Sanctuary is guarded along with the upper marketplace. No one would be able to enter, or leave, with or without treasure.” He gestured for Miraak to come closer, and he obeyed. He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and turned him to face the shrine. Upon the step, lay a wooden mask, finely carved and polished. “This mask is the key to communicating with our masters from this lowly place. Such magics are… complex, and certainly not something for your first lesson.” Morokei paused. “Second lesson. But it shall serve as a suitable experience, an introduction to the power the Dov bestow upon us, rather than the power you alone hold.”

He rested a hand on Miraak’s back. “Put it on.”

Miraak looked up at him, briefly alarmed, then slowly looked back down to the wooden mask. Surely it couldn’t be so terrible. Hesitantly, the boy reached down, gingerly picking it up. His eyes skittered over it in his hands, as it seemed to stare back into him. He turned it over, and slowly brought it to his face.

Miraak gasped, vision briefly going dark. When his eyes were allowed to open, he was still in the Sanctuary, and he thought perhaps that was a little anticlimactic. As he looked around however, Morokei was gone. No sound from the market could be heard, and his skin tingled. It was neither warm, nor cold. In fact the structure couldn’t seem to decide what temperature it would like to be. The treasure was nowhere to be seen either, not a gold coin in sight.

After a long moment of confusion, he turned back to the shrine, and gasped at the tall, dark figure that appeared before him. He froze, like a rabbit in the snow, staring at the giant before him. They wore a mask much like Morokei, made of gold, curved tusks curling from under their jaw.

They stood in silence, until the enormous priest slowly lowered to a crouch before him.

“Heill, ungr dov. Lopt ok vindr takþúr vel,” they rumbled, voice warped and distorted. “Þú eru kind. Vér erum sterkr, sem einn.”

Miraak swallowed slowly, eyes trembling. “… I… I…” His voice was barely a squeak, so small and dry. “I… don’t understand,” he managed, and the figure nodded.

“Minn tungerr gamall sem lopt. Þú eru ungr.” Miraak licked his lips under the mask, heart pounding in his chest, but the figure didn’t seem to mean him any harm. “Þú munu líðnúr. Þú skulu eigi munu hí.” The large priest lifted their hand to hook a finger under the chin of the mask.

“W-wait,” Miraak whispered, and much to his surprise, the priest obliged. “Wh… who… what is your name?”

The tall figure stared into the boy’s eyes, and further to his surprise, a pair stared back at him from beneath the golden mask. One brown, one grey. The priest nodded deeply, as if to bow.

“Konahrik, dovahkiin.”

Miraak gasped, staggering backwards with the wooden mask in his hands, only for Morokei to catch him before he fell.

“There now,” the blue priest assured him, lowering to one knee beside him. “Well done. You fared much longer than I thought you would.” Miraak stared ahead at the shrine, where the giant priest had been, panting hard. “It will have seemed far longer to you.”

The young priest looked up at his elder, hair a tousled mess and a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Morokei glanced over him, wondering briefly if perhaps that had been a step too far too early. He ruffled the boy’s hair back into place, taking the mask from him. “Come. That will do for today. My Lady wishes to give you your first lesson in table manners at lunch today.”

“Who was that?” He looked back at the boy, confused. “They were huge!”

“You saw someone?” Morokei’s brow furrowed. “Someone huge?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, that tiny fright momentarily replaced with a trembling excitement and a bright shine in his eyes. “Their head nearly touched the roof!,” he exclaimed, standing up on his own. “I didn’t know what they were saying, but they were talking to me! Is it a ghost?”

Morokei reeled for a moment at the jarring shift in his mood, setting the mask down on its step and turning to the young priest. “There are… something akin to spirits within time wounds,” he said quietly.

“I think they told me their name,” he said, cheeks flush pink with his excitement. “They said, ‘Konahrik, dovahkiin’.”

For the first time, Miraak suddenly felt a touch of control. In an instant, the colour drained from Morokei’s face as panic gripped the priest for a moment. Miraak stared back at him, his smile lessening, but not completely fading. In fact it became a rather different smile all together. The blue priest watched that smile, and it was enough to pull himself together, although it was much too late.

The boy didn’t know how, or why, but he knew that for a moment, he had done something to frighten Morokei.

“I see,” the blue priest replied, standing back up to his full height, looking down on the boy. “A curious vision. No doubt a sign.”

“A sign?” Miraak watched his elder return to the shrine, with his back carefully placed to the younger as he retrieved his mask from its place with slightly shaking fingers.

“Perhaps from the same origin our great lords received word from before they sent for you,” he replied lowly, turning back to Miraak, hidden away beneath Morokei. “God-King Akatosh himself, perhaps. The Widow-Wife Kyne, it is not my place to say.”

“I don’t know if it was a man or a woman,” the boy admitted, looking thoughtfully at Morokei’s boots. “Their voice sounded strange.”

“As often sound does in a dream. It is, after all, not your ears that are hearing the voice.” Miraak looked back up, and the blue priest pulled the large, fluffy hood of his green cloak back over his head. “… come,” he said quietly, and lead the Dragonborn back out to the marketplace.

Chapter Text

“Can you reach?” Kron stretched as long and as high as his little legs would let him, giving a little hop and a swipe at his brother’s hand. Miraak tilted his head, and lay down on the stone slope beside where Hahdrim crouched at the edge. “You’re too short,” the elder brother said. “You’ll have to stay down there.”

“No!,” Kron snapped, jumping at the face of the slope and whining. He quieted when the young priest lay flat on his belly, and reached down even further than his big brother.

“Come on,” Miraak said, flexing his gloved hand. “Hold on tight, and push with your feet.” Little mittened hands grasped at his and he started to heave. He grunted, and his shoulder hurt, but Kron was halfway up the slope now and Hahdrim had reached to grab the front of his little brother’s coat. They could see the roof of the temple still, down the ice slope and cliff face. They didn’t intend to climb any further, but Miraak had wanted to get to the trees growing from the ledge they had reached.

His learning had been going steadily over the passing months. His handwriting was still messy, and certain spellings still confused him. Silent letters, special sounds for combinations of letters, he wondered whoever thought of these things. Who thought to write these down?

Lady Zenobia had advised him to set a goal for himself. To finish reading a book within two weeks, then one, then a few days. Much to her surprise, the boy took to reading very quickly. He deeply enjoyed storybooks and riddles, darkening the halls of the library, re-reading his favourites over and over, determined to hammer his learnings into his head. She reasoned that the boy’s penmanship could come later, once his spelling and grammar had improved. Even more surprising was the goal he had in mind for his writing comprehension.

“I want to write some letters.” Zenobia gave Miraak a stern look, watching him fidget on his stool. “I’d like to write a thank you letter, to Lord Ahzidal. For my cloak, for making it magic. And Miss Haelga at the mountain temple.”

“One of those we most certainly can do,” she said with a slight huff. “You do not need to thank servants.”

“But I want to,” he frowned. The child was an ideal peasant. Unassuming, polite, grateful for what little he had, or was given. He would be far too soft to be a leader at this rate.

“We shall focus on your letter to Lord Ahzidal first,” the Lady replied, turning on her heel to retrieve parchment and a quill for him. “It will make good practice for your handwriting skills.”

He smiled all the same, dipping his quill in the inkwell, sitting up in his seat, and momentarily stopping to stare at the page. “My lady,” Miraak said quietly. “How is Lord Ahzidal’s name spelt?”

The teaching of Dovahzul fell to her husband. This, oddly, came rather easily to him. Morokei supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, having watched the child swallow Lord Alduin’s Words in one glance before he could read a word in Nordic. As language, conversation and discussion were fundamental to the culture of the Dov, perhaps speechcraft was a natural talent of a Dragonborn. He had decided to teach the boy in parts. The full brunt of the fire breath shout had seared the boy’s lips and tongue and knocked him back on the mountaintop, he was lucky he hadn’t mutilated himself in the process. There wasn’t much to be done at that point about the recoil. The Dragonborn was ten, he would be thrown off his feet regardless. So instead, they started small.

“Yol, boy,” Morokei said as he stood over the charred remains of the wooden target. “Fire. You took in Lord Alduin’s understanding of the element. It was his gift to you, his sibling. A rare thing, you must study on it. Know it like you know breathing, like your heart knows beating. Do not see it as a mere spell, it is a language. To the Dov, language is as important as their wings.” Miraak had thought to point out that he didn’t have wings, but stayed quiet in the end. He repeated the word over and over with no flames, not until Morokei believed he was ready.

It had taken a few months, but the Dragonborn and Lord Morokei’s boys had begun to get used to each other. Gradually, Miraak had been accepted, first by Kron, then Hahdrim slowly followed.

From the early hours of the morning, Hahdrim and Miraak would sit in silence in Lady Zenobia’s lessons until midday, when Miraak would leave for Lord Morokei’s study for his arcane education. There was certainly jealousy to the way Hahdrim played in the hours between their lesson time. Where Hahdrim would play as the king of their furniture castles, Miraak would always be the knight. When Miraak won a race, a temper tantrum would follow. And so the young priest had simply given the Lord’s son his way, for the most part. What choice did he have? He wasn’t allowed to play with the children in town, none of the servants were allowed to play with him, and Ariadne had chores that needed to be done. Giving Hahdrim what he wanted was far better than being lonely, in his opinion.

One evening, after his lessons with Morokei had finished, Kron had taken his hand and shushed him, taking him to a tall stone wall of the back of the temple’s courtyard where Hahdrim was waiting, crouched in a bush. The elder brother pushed the foliage back to show him a sizeable gap in the stone perimeter, and Miraak felt the first genuine rush of excitement he’d had in some time. “Where did that come from?,” he whispered. Hahdrim made a cheeky grin.

“I made it,” he said proudly. “There was a big crack by the bottom. So I stole the gardener’s trowel and chipped at it until it started crumbling away.” The boy then got onto his hands and knees, and with only some effort, wiggled his way through the tight gap. Miraak dropped onto his belly in the snow, peering through to see Hahdrim beaming back at him. “You can’t tell anybody! It’s our secret, alright?”

He swore secrecy, and the three small boys started having their adventures, wiggling their way through the wall, and out into the snowy tundras around Bromjunaar.

They wouldn’t go far, and the two elder boys made sure at least one or the other was always holding Kron’s hand. They had gotten a little braver over time, going further and further up the slopes and cliffs that swallowed the larger part of the temple into the ground. When they finally ventured upwards along a craggy hill pass that cut a trench through the jagged rocks of the mountain, leading away from the city wall, they spotted some trees up on the cliff face. Miraak immediately got excited. He hadn’t gotten to do any tree climbing since the Brotherhood took him, and of course, his playmates wanted to follow him up.

At long last, he took hold of the narrow trunk, and began scrambling and pulling himself up into the branches. The brothers stood by the roots, watching him, mesmerised. “What if it breaks?,” Hahdrim asked a bit nervously. Miraak licked his lips. This tree was definitely flimsier than the trees back in the mountain village, or even the lake town. It was harder to climb too.

“I won’t go that high,” he replied. “I can’t get a good grip on it anyway.” The eldest noble boy fidgeted. He wanted to climb too, but his fingers were already sore from climbing the rocks, and Miraak had needed to pull him up anyway. He put it down to the blond haired boy being a peasant. He was used to running around and roughhousing with other children, while Hahdrim was skinny and pale. 

Kron liked Miraak, he thought he was fun. He gave him piggybacks, and could pick him up easily. His little brother had started to follow after the peasant boy. Hahdrim frowned up at Miraak in the tree. “This is boring,” he spat irritably. “And Kron is cold.”

“Am not,” the little one replied, pressing his hands against the trunk and pushing up on his toes.

“You’re not going up there. You couldn’t even climb the rock.” Miraak looked back down, seeing the little face peering up at him from the roots, and he grinned. Kron grinned back, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I’m coming down now. I don’t want to kick you, step back a bit.” Hahdrim pulled Kron away from the tree as Miraak shuffled back down, and landed with a thump. He looked back up at the pine, and huffed. “It wasn’t very good after all.”

“I told you so,” Hahdrim sniffed, looking back over the slope. No, he hadn’t, he’d only said it was boring. Still, Miraak said nothing, instead going to sit on the edge of the ice slope.

“We should go back now, they’ll start looking for us.”

It took some effort for three boys in a bustling temple to escape for some adventure. Someone always knew where they were, at any given time, but because everyone knew that, no one looked for them. They all assumed that someone, somewhere in the temple, knew exactly where the young master and the Lord’s boys were. Pushing it wasn’t wise, or they would get in trouble.

“We haven’t been gone that long,” Hahdrim replied. “We can play a bit longer.”

“Not up here, though.” They looked around at the icy rocks, not safe for anyone’s feet, let alone theirs. Hahdrim licked his lips and nodded. “Come here, Kron.” Miraak held out his arms, and lifted Kron to sit on his lap. He bum-shuffled closer to the slope bit by bit, and slid back down to ground level with the six year old giggling all the way down. He got up, standing the younger boy on his own feet and taking firm hold of his hand, looking back up at Hahdrim.

The dark haired boy frowned, mooching about at the top, hesitating. He didn’t want to sit and slide on the snow. His trousers and coat would get wet and then he’d be shivering all the way back. Instead, he opted to try and shuffle down the slope backwards on his hands and knees. He could hear Kron giggling at him, and it made him puff up his cheeks. He felt hands on his back and realised it was Miraak letting him know he had reached the bottom. He stood up with a huff, stomping past them in a grump, and Miraak sighed. He took hold of Kron’s hand again, and they followed Hahdrim to their little den further down the hill. They played for a while, batting at each other with sticks. Miraak could take a few smacks to his legs and sides, but he would only poke the brothers. Hahdrim would gasp and whine if he hit him, and he wouldn’t have wanted to hit Kron anyway.

Time passed, and Miraak realised the sky had changed colour to show it. It was afternoon now, he realised with a wince.

“We should go back,” he said, getting a sharp slap to the arm with a stick. He yelped and rubbed at it, scowling at Hahdrim. The dark haired boy had cheered up again. He looked up at the sky and nibbled his lip. It would be dinner soon, after all, and then the servants really would be looking for them. 

“Alright,” he decreed, tossing his stick-sword away. “Come on, Kron.” The youngster scampered to them, dragging a branch that was bigger than he was, still with its minty smelling leaves attached. The older boys laughed. “You’re like a dog! What are you even going to do with that?”

“Woof!” They laughed at him again, and he held Miraak’s hand as they started back to their secret exit.

They could see where the cliff slope met the face of the city’s wall, and followed the crude trail down the hill. As they trudged along, Miraak looked upwards towards the peaks of the cliffs. He imagined a dragon swooping overhead, landing and peering down at them. He didn’t say it out loud. Hahdrim was afraid of dragons, which he supposed was sensible. After all, he had seen them, and had been seeing them since he was very small. Miraak wondered if he was so scared because they were so much bigger than him, or because his mother used them as a threat when he argued with her. He didn’t like it when they argued.

Lost in thought, Miraak almost didn’t notice the flock of birds, nestled in a nook on the cliff’s edge. He watched them with a slight smile as they ambled past. Then he frowned when their feathers puffed, all of sudden they all bursting from their nest into the sky with a clatter of wings. Miraak blinked, and slowed to a stop, turning to watch them go.

“Birdies?,” Kron asked, looking up at him.

“… birdies,” he replied. “Birdies run away.” He turned back to the path, watching Hahdrim march along ahead with that little limp he got when he was starting to get tired. Kron tugged on his hand a little, but Miraak’s brow furrowed, staying very still and holding the little one’s hand firmly. “… Hahdrim?,” the young priest called to the dark haired boy.

“What?,” he shouted back, turning midstep, and then he froze. Hahdrim’s face went white, and it took a moment for what he could see to come into view for Miraak. A large, lumbering shape shuffled out from between an outcrop of rocks and foliage. It was huge and wide, with shaggy white fur, long arms and three big black eyes. Miraak clapped a hand over Kron’s mouth so tight it hurt his soft cheek, going statue still. The frost troll sniffed at the air, grunting and grumbling, and Miraak helplessly watched Hahdrim’s mouth fall open. The dark haired boy screamed at the top of his lungs, which prompted Kron to scream around Miraak’s hand, and the troll roared, its hot breath streaming from its mouth.

Hahdrim turned on his heel and ran for the city wall, squealing and howling. Miraak barely thought, grabbing Kron and running back the way they came.

The troll chased Miraak. Perhaps it had already realised the people place was dangerous, and chose the prey that ran away from the city. Maybe it hadn’t seen Hahdrim run at all. Maybe it thought he was too skinny looking. Miraak didn’t know, he just ran. Ran faster up the slope than he had ever run before. Kron clung onto his shoulders, wailing and screaming, and he could hear the troll closing the gap much too fast.

He darted to the rocks, sliding between a tight gap in the cliff face, and crawling out the other side to a flatter part of the hill. The troll’s arm rammed in after him, roaring and swiping and grabbing, then pulled back. He didn’t stop running. He heard it slam against the rocks in frustration, then the crumbling and rattling sound of it climbing over the top. He didn’t know where he was. They had never explored this side of the rock formations before. He was hugging Kron so tight he could hear the boy gasping. The troll was still coming.

He looked around wildly, and spotted a large slab of rock resting on top of a round boulder. He dove for it, crawling underneath as fast as he could, clutching Kron between his knees and covering his mouth again. He looked him in the eyes, shushed him, and hugged him close. The six year old clutched at Miraak’s green cloak, tears streaming down his face.

He heard the thud of the troll’s feet hitting the ground. He could see the two toed hooves, making that side-ways shuffle across the snow covered grass. It growled and sniffed, searching around. Miraak tried holding his breath, but when his chest started to tremble he let it out as slowly and quietly as he could. Then Kron let out a hiccup. Miraak shook his head desperately, for all the good it would do. He watched the creature’s feet shuffle by, then away, and disappear.

Quiet fell under the rock lean-to. Kron’s wheezing had stopped, but his little heart still hammered away in his chest. Miraak didn’t dare move. Barely breathed.

All at once, the slab of rock over their heads lifted with chunks of earth and moss tearing around them, and the troll roared as it tossed it away. The boys screamed again, grabbing at each other. The troll brought its paws down onto the boulder beside them with a crack, and reached for them. Miraak’s brain barely responded, but his chest ripped to life instead. “Yol!”

The troll reeled with a howl, clutching at its eyes as the belch of flames boiled them in its skull. Miraak wheezed, unceremoniously hauling Kron up again, and running back to the rock face. The creature cried, but it also got angrier. He wasn’t sure if perhaps he had missed an eye, but it tore after them as soon as he reached the gap again. It hammered against the rock, and once again started to climb up over the top.

As Miraak squirmed his way between the rocks, panting hard, a memory swam at the back of his mind. His father had very little to say to him, even less to teach him. But somewhere, somewhen, the echo of his voice grumbled in his mind.

‘Frost trolls are tough bastards.’ His father had a barrel like voice, thick with a Nord accent. ‘You can shoot ‘em with an arrow, and the hole will be closed almost as soon as it yanks it out.’

He burst back out onto the path, and flew down hill, throwing himself into the momentum. He heard the troll roar, heard it land, and heard it galloping after him. Kron shrieked in his ear again, blubbering nonsense, and Miraak’s vision almost went white. What did he do? Could he throw Kron far ahead enough to give him a running start? Would Kron even run, or sit there in the snow and cry? He felt the creature’s breath blow through his hair, and he wanted his mother so much, when the thing howled in pain again.

“Run, milord!,” Commander Maconius yelled, running towards them, several of his men firing arrows into the troll in quick succession. Miraak didn’t need to be told, his legs couldn’t stop if he tried. The Commander sprinted towards them, arrows flying over his head as he drew his sword. He ran past them, leapt up, and drove his blade down the beast’s throat.

The guards grabbed for the boys, the largest scooping Miraak up around his middle, lifting him off his feet as he was still moving and bringing him back to the ground, holding him in place. “Hold, milord,” he told him. “The beast’s dead, it’s dead.”

Miraak gasped and wheezed, half from terror, half the run. He stared up at the guard blindly, and slowly turned back to see the troll’s carcass slump into the snow in a heap. Commander Maconius removed his blade from it, wiping it down on the fur, and sheathing it. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, looking back to his men. “Are the young master and lord alright?”

“Yes, commander,” another guard called back. “Very frightened.”

“Not frightened enough.” The commander marched back to them, catching his breath easily. He looked down at Miraak, still clutching Kron tight. “… you were running for your damn life, young lord.”

Miraak’s mouth opened and closed. His eyes welled up and all he managed was a slight squeak. Maconius nodded, and looked up at the walls. “Brave creature, coming this close to a settlement… braver lad for giving it the run around. Come along.” The large guard picked Miraak up into his arms, letting him hold onto Kron, stuck to his front like a spider to its web. “That’ll be a life lesson you won’t soon forget.”

They tromped back through to the rear gates of Bromjunaar. Miraak’s head spun, Kron had started crying again. He heard Lady Zenobia’s shouting as the temple doors were opened, and Hahdrim sat on the floor howling and crying while his mother paced back and forth like a sabrecat. “Why do you think we keep you within the walls?! To be cruel?! To ruin your fun?! What should I do, lock you away to never see daylight again?!” Her delicate voice was hitting a brand new pitch, and her perfect hair was strewn wildly about as she clawed and tossed at it. “Your brother could be dead! You and that peasant boy-!”

“My Lady.” She whirled around, Commander Maconius taking a knee along with his men. “It is with great relief I return your son and the young lord.”

“Mama!,” Kron shrieked, jerking from Miraak’s arms and flinging himself at his mother. Zenobia dropped to her knees and clamped her arms round him, eyes wide, shoulders shaking from the force of her heartbeat. She clutched and felt at him, checking he was in one piece, no blood anywhere. The large guard carefully set Miraak down on his feet beside the commander.

“Kron!” Hahdrim ran to his brother, hugging him round his mother’s arms, the two of them echoing together in the front hall with wailing sobs.

Zenobia swallowed, slowly looking up at Maconius. The commander gave her a nod. “We found them running from the beast. The young lord didn’t let go of our little master once, my Lady.” She let out a weak breath, almost a scoff, looking down at Miraak. He stared dizzily, legs trembling like jelly. “I think he’s certainly learnt his lesson.”

“I should think so…,” she breathed. “I… well, thank you, my Lord… for my boy’s life.”

Miraak blinked slowly, nodded once, and promptly vomited on the floor. Silence filled the hall, the guards staring at the puddle of puke for a long moment. “That was surprisingly delayed,” Maconius laughed, tousling Miraak’s hair.

Ariadne appeared, hoiking her skirt up as she ran from down the hall. “My young lord!,” she cried. Miraak looked up, taking one step towards her, before his knees gave up beneath him. The guard caught him before he fell into the puddle, holding him up until the handmaid reached them. She pulled his arms around her shoulders and lifted him up round his waist in one arm. She felt and dabbed at his face worriedly. “Oh, my lord, you’re so pale! And you’re shivering!”

Zenobia stood slowly, cradling her youngest against her like he was made of thin ice. “… Ariadne, take Lord Miraak back to his chambers… prepare him something special tonight,” she murmured quietly.

The maid looked back to her Lady, and gave the best curtsy she could with a young boy in her arms. “At once, my Lady.” Zenobia turned, brushing past the nurses that tried to take Kron from her, and drifted off into the temple. Hahdrim followed at her heels, holding the back of her dress like a little mammoth calf.

Ariadne carefully carried Miraak back to his room. She sat him on his bed, and wrapped him in all the warmest blankets she could find. He was slowly coming down from the shock, blinking his way back to reality, when she had run him a steaming bath. She wiped at his face with a wet, hot cloth. That felt good, it woke him up a bit more. “My Lord?,” she asked softly. He blinked at her.

“… I puked,” he croaked out, and she smiled a touch.

“Yes, I saw. I’m not surprised… what a fright.” He took a slow breath, looking down at his hands. He flexed his fingers. “You were very brave, protecting Master Kron like that.”

“… I don’t think so,” he rasped. “I don’t think there was anything else I could have done.” Her brow furrowed, gently pressing her thumb to his lips.

“… my Lord, your lips are burnt!,” she gasped. “What in the world did that?!”

“… I blew fire.” Ariadne stared at him. “Like the big dragon showed me…”

“… like Lord Morokei?” He licked at his lips a little, and nodded. She was lost for words, but she dabbed at his lips with the cloth again. “You mustn’t lick them, you’ll make them worse.”

“But it hurts.” She looked thoughtfully at his mouth, then set the cloth aside and picked him up again.

“I will bring you some cold milk,” she said, carrying him through to the bath chamber. She undressed him, and lifted him into the tub. “Your legs will hurt something fierce in the morning.”

“They hurt now,” he admitted, sinking down to his neck, far too jelly-boned to be self conscious. Ariadne wetted his hair, and went to fetch his milk. Miraak stared across the room, listening to the crackle of the hearth. He had been more frightened today than ever in his life. Even at the tip of the mountain, with the black dragon dipping and swooping through the air, breathing fire, he hadn’t been so pants-pissingly scared. What did that say, he wondered? That he was far more scared of a hungry frost troll than a fire breathing dragon? Perhaps it was because the dragons could talk. Eating him didn’t seem to be the only thing on their mind, he reasoned. But the troll only had one instinct. He sank down lower, dipping his fast drying lips under the water level.

What’s more, Lady Zenobia had thanked him. That was possibly the nicest thing she had ever said to him. He wondered if bringing Kron back was enough for her to forgive him for being partly responsible for him being out there in the first place. Miraak did feel very guilty. Poor Hahdrim had arrived first, and alone, and had managed to send help. It wasn’t surprising his mother had expected them to be dead already. He could barely believe he survived himself.

Miraak thought maybe Lord Morokei should hear he had managed to breathe fire again. The shock was petering away now, and a sense of pride was beginning to take its place.

Ariadne returned, holding a wet looking cup of milk, and a tiny glass jar. He sat up in the tub, and accepted his drink, sipping and licking it around all the corners of his mouth. Once he had finished, she took his cup and sat the tiny jar into her palm. She scooped up a sticky looking substance onto her finger and beckoned him closer. “Come,” she said softly. He held very still, and let her smooth the strange substance over his lips with the pad of her finger. “This is made from beeswax, and some special butter,” she explained quietly, making sure the sticky stuff soaked into his skin. “It will help keep your lips from cracking and bleeding while they heal.” He sat back, giving it an experimental lick. It tasted funny, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I add a little honey to help the taste, but not by much,” the maid smiled, and went on to wipe and massage at his arms and shoulders. 

Once his bath was done and he was dried and in his nightgown, Ariadne sat him in bed. She brought him his supper on a tray, and let him eat there. She set his ankles in her lap, gently massaging his rubbery legs and feet. “You have blisters,” she noted in concern. “Do your shoes not fit right?”

“I think because I was running in snow,” he replied, quite contentedly chewing at a honey nut treat. Ariadne hummed, working into the soles of his feet with her thumbs.

“We will soak them in the morning. It will help with the ache as well.” If he ached any more than he did now, he was going to feel like death come morning.

.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, so he was rather surprised when his eyes cracked open, tucked up in bed. As promised, he felt a terrible ache in his legs and hips that made him whine. Ariadne came with his breakfast. Porridge topped with honey and freshly made apple juice. She rubbed his legs and soaked his feet in a basin of hot water, then brushed his hair and got him dressed. It all felt surreal, yet utterly normal.

“Lord Morokei and Lady Zenobia have sent for you, young lord,” his handmaid said as she finished buttoning his fine clothes. “We’re to meet them in the Lord’s study before your lessons.”

“Oh.” Miraak frowned at her and dipped his chin down. “… do you think they’re going to shout at me…?”

Ariadne looked puzzled, tilting her head at him. “Why would they shout at you? I think they want to say thank you!”

“It was me and Hahdrim that took Kron outside the wall… it’s my fault too.” He toyed with the hem of his clothes, looking down at his feet. “Are they going to hit me?”

The maid was quiet for a long moment, then brought a warm hand to Miraak’s cheek, easing him to look up at her. “My little lord, has someone hit you before…?” He nodded a little, eyes turning away from her.

“My Pa smacked me when he said I was bad. And he’d shout at me. Then he’d hit my Ma and shout at her even more when she told him to stop.” Her thumb grazed his round cheekbone so very gently it made Miraak’s eyes swell with tears. His blue eyes met her caring deep brown.

“That’s very cruel, he should never have done that. You won’t be hit, little lord, I promise.”

“And you won’t be either?”

Ariadne smiled softly at him. A warm hearted child in a den of cold blooded politicians. “I’ve never been hit while under Lord Morokei’s service. Scolded, certainly, but never struck.” Miraak nodded a little, and looked down at his feet again.

“Good…” She held his freckly cheek in her hand for a moment longer, before getting up and offering him the same hand. He took it, looking up at her.

“Come, we mustn’t keep them waiting.” They made their way through the labyrinthine temple, deep into the halls, hand in hand, until they reached the Master Study. Ariadne knocked, waiting for another servant to open the door for them.

They found Morokei sat at his desk, mask adorned, and his Lady stood waiting dutifully by his side. Ariadne finally released Miraak’s hand, and took a step back, but not behind him. The boy swallowed thickly, and looked up at Morokei with his chin tucked in. “… you asked to see me, my lord?”

“I did, little brother.” Morokei didn’t sound angry, and there wasn’t that malicious undertone to his voice either. Miraak felt a bit safer. “I have been informed about your adventure yesterday. I’d have gone to see you sooner, but I thought a night’s sleep would be better for you first.”

Miraak looked down once again, toying with his clothes. “Yes, my lord.”

“I will tell you now, the opening in the temple wall has been resealed. There will be no more gallivanting in the wilds for you or for our sons. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I do not entirely blame you. You are young boys, after all. Exploration, breaking rules, it is all part of growing up. Until some frightening consequence occurs, like yesterday. Though, I would have hoped that life lesson would have been far less death defying for the three of you.” Morokei sat forward, bringing his hands together on his desk. “My little brother, I owe you a debt of gratitude for your actions yesterday.” Now Miraak looked up, eyes wide, taking a quick glance at Ariadne. She smiled back at him. “You took on a great responsibility, protecting my son. For that, I would like to offer you a reward.”

Morokei stood from his seat and opened a drawer behind his desk, taking something out and coming round to stand before Miraak. He held up a small black box, and a sheathed dagger. “These were made by the finest smith in our proud city. A fine steel blade, and a silver bracelet. Now, I would like you to choose whichever you like, brother.” He unsheathed the dagger to show him the lovely craftsmanship of it, waves engraved into the metal all the way to the tip, then he opened the box to show a simple yet beautiful silver bangle, inset with tiny green jewels. “I believe you said you liked green, yes?”

Miraak looked between them in mute awe. Such beautiful gifts, he couldn’t choose, until he saw the sparkling little jewels.

“I would like the bracelet, if that’s alright, my lord.” Morokei nodded, closing the box and holding it out to the boy.

“Of course it is, it was offered to you.” The young priest accepted the jewellery shyly, hugging it to his chest. “My Lady Zenobia also has something for you,” the blue priest continued, returning to behind his desk.

The Lady strode towards the boy, poised and perfect as ever. Miraak bowed his head accordingly, then peeked up at her. She held out an envelope with a deep green wax seal to him. “For you, my lord. It seems Lord Ahzidal replied to your letter.” The child’s eyes lit up, and he accepted the letter much less shyly. “Your lessons will start shortly. Off with you now.”

“Thank you, my lady. Thank you, my lord.” Miraak bowed a bit clumsily, then turned to take Ariadne’s hand again. His handmaid curtsied to her master and lady, then lead Miraak back through the study.

Zenobia turned back to Morokei with a slight sigh. “A bracelet. I’m surprised a young boy chose jewellery over a weapon.”

“I imagine he has seen plenty of daggers in his short life, finely crafted or not.” Morokei placed the dagger back into his desk drawer. “Jewellery on the other hand is perhaps an uncommon thing to peasants.”

“I suppose you may be right, my lord.”

Miraak practically pulled Ariadne all the way back to his chambers. He bounced in through the door, running to his bed and leaping on to it, staring excitedly at his letter. “My lord, you must open it properly,” the handmaid chuckled before he could rip it open. She hurried to his desk, and brought him the letter opener. He fiddled with it against the paper, making a bit of a mess of the crisp envelope, but he opened it up.

The letter itself wasn’t nearly as grand or elegant as the penmanship Lady Zenobia or Morokei had shown him. Each line was perfectly level, but Ahzidal’s handwriting was simple and easy to read. No elaborate curls or swirls. Miraak’s brow furrowed as he concentrated, reading carefully.

‘My dear Brother Miraak,

I hope this letter finds you well. You are very welcome for the cloak, I am pleased you’ve made good use of it. Bromjunaar is a very cold place, after all. When the time comes for you to receive my guidance, I will gladly teach you the enchantments for warming clothes, and many more. I hope Brother Morokei and his Lady are treating you well. Do feel free to write to me again as you please, and ask anything of me. If it is in my power, I will gladly lend you a hand.

Regards,

Ahzidal.’

Miraak was smiling ear to ear. He tapped the heels of his shoes together giddily, reading the letter over and over. Even Lord Ahzidal’s writing was kind and friendly.

“Are you pleased, my lord?” Ariadne watched her master fondly, glad he was full of that happy energy she had come to expect once again. Miraak nodded eagerly.

“Lord Ahzidal says I can write to him again! Do you think Lady Zenobia will let me?”

“You have parchment and ink here in your chambers, my lord. If you wish to write to the Lord again in your spare time, I’ll gladly see to it being delivered.” Miraak’s eyes lit up even brighter, and he bounced on the bed excitedly.

“Thank you, Ari!,” he cheered, and her heart swelled. “Oh yes, come here, I need your hand!” He suddenly scrambled up onto his knees, reaching for her. She gave him her hand without hesitation, then gasped as he took his new silver bracelet and slipped it onto her wrist.

“My lord, this is yours,” she chuckled lightly.

“No, it’s for you!” He beamed at her, still holding her hand in both of his. “I asked for it because I thought you would like it!” She stared at him wide eyed, then glanced between him and the bracelet.

“I… no, my lord, I can’t-“ She shook her head. “That is very kind of you, but the Master would be furious if he saw me wearing it.”

“Then hide it! It can be a secret. I wanted to give you a present, because you’re so nice to me.” Ariadne was quiet for a long while, just watching the child priest’s hopeful little face waiting for her to reply. She looked down at their hands, his small fingers just as calloused and rough as hers at just age ten. She took a slow breath, and accepted defeat.

“Thank you, Lord Miraak. I will treasure it always,” she smiled, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. The boy was thrilled all over again, releasing her hand and bouncing on his knees on the bed. She brought her wrist to her other hand, touching the bracelet gently. Her little treasure box hidden under her wooden bed just gained its most expensive trinket.