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Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

Talvas and I had managed to drag Miraak’s body to Tel Mithryn without any other surprise attacks. By the time we arrived, I couldn’t tell if the blood covering both of us was mine or the First Dragonborn’s. The Riekling spear must’ve been poisoned because the incision burned all the way down to my bones and the bleeding had not stopped. The Telvanni wizard had been agitated as expected, but even Neloth saw the gravity of the situation and kept his quips to a minimum. Of course, he did ask who Miraak was and I lied, saying the First was a traveling companion of mine that had gotten badly injured during our last adventure. We’d been overrun by Rieklings in our weakened state and Talvas had happened by at the best time and saved the day.

The wizard’s stare told me he knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth, but instructed me and Talvas to hoist Miraak’s limp form onto one of his research tables so Neloth could work on him.

“What about you, Skye?” Talvas gestured to my back. “You’re badly injured, too.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Not as bad as he is. Do you have any potions or mead I can down to stave off this pain until Neloth can get to me?”

Talvas looked like he wanted to say more, but he knew how stubborn I could be and went to find what I asked. My eyes traveled to Miraak’s prone form and Neloth standing over him, the wizard's brow furrowed in thought.

“His wounds aren’t from anything I’ve seen on Solsthiem. And this mask is shaped oddly, made from rare materials.” Dark red eyes found mine, gaze knowing. “You didn’t kill him?”

It didn’t take long for him to figure out Miraak’s identity. I sighed in agitation, my anger worsening from the pain of my shoulder. “It’s a long story. Can you help us or not? I don’t know how much longer he’s got left.”

“Out of pure curiosity, yes, I can help you. However, I am quite the more interested about how you managed to escape Hermaeus Mora’s realm with his champion in tow.”

I held up a hand to silence the wizard. “I’m happy to tell you all the gory details after you heal us. Right now, I need rest and a stout drink.”

Neloth tsked. “No, right now you need to help me disrobe the man since you so thoughtlessly sent my apprentice away to fetch your ‘stout drink.’ Come now, hurry up.”

I groaned out something about me being in worse condition than any normal apprentice but moved to help the Dunmer anyway. No matter how hard Mora tried, he would not get the privilege of stealing my kill. We went about peeling Miraak’s robes from his torso. I winced every time the fabric glued to his skin tugged loose, splattering blood across my knuckles. Neloth worked on the golden fastening over Miraak’s waist and then he severed any pieces of cloth destroyed by Mora’s tentacle. I unwrapped the material covering his chest, slipping the carved pauldrons from his broad shoulders.

I tried not to let my gaze linger on the long, jagged scars that ravaged his hide. As I spread his robes over the table, my hands brushed mutilated welts over his skin. Only dragon fire could sear like this. I knew Miraak had rebelled against his dragon overlords back in the Merethic Era, but nothing prepared me for the violent history his skin had etched into it. I eyed the fresher gashes I’d made from our conflict in Apocrypha, thinking of the similar injuries he’d inflicted on me.

“Once you’re done admiring this specimen, I need you to remove his mask so I can check for cranial injuries after I stabilize this monstrosity of a wound.” Neloth had caught me taking pride in the attacks I’d landed on the First.

Remove his mask.

For some reason I hesitated. It felt like an invasion of Miraak’s privacy. He’d been so adamant about concealing his face from me, to reveal the man’s appearance while he was unconscious seemed wrong. I’d wanted to know what he looked like since we’d first met, but not like this.

“Are you hard of hearing or just dense?” Neloth’s irritation snapped me out of my reverie.

I briefly watched him work on Miraak’s midsection, slightly envious of how easy Neloth’s restoration magic made healing look. I was relieved that the ghastly black and red sludge seemed to be slowly dissolving with the white light from the wizard’s healing staff. The wound itself still looked incredibly life-threatening and I remembered how hard Miraak had hit the black stone of Apocrypha when I’d severed Mora’s appendage. I steeled my resolve. The mask was coming off.

I brushed the green cloth back from his neck, focusing on the golden stitching instead of the blackened veins running through Miraak’s jugular. My fingers curled under the edge of his mask and lifted. I unveiled a short black beard cut through with scar tissue, down-turned lips, and a triangular jaw. Next came a strong, slightly humped nose from being broken before and sharpened cheekbones. Long, dark lashes feathered from deep-set eye sockets and a pronounced scar split his brow lined from years of frowning. Finally, his hair came loose of the mask, inky strands half up and braided at the sides. Miraak’s skin was deathly pale, and I spied murky veins winding underneath.

“Hermaeus Mora cannot take my blood.”

My jaw tightened with fury. Miraak had lied to me when we fought. Mora’s taint defiled the First Dragonborn’s blood and I felt my wrath toward the daedric prince renew. How could he reduce such a powerful dragonborn to this? I turned away, sudden enough for Neloth to glace up from his work and ask, “Where are you going, Dragonborn? I am not finished with you, yet.”

I didn’t answer the wizard, just kept stumbling to one of Tel Mithryn’s side rooms and collapsed on the shabby cot Neloth barely used. I knew Talvas couldn’t be too far and wanted to leave the rest to him. The sting of my wound was becoming too much to bear, and I knew I needed to do something before it drug me under like Miraak. My eyes found a water basin used for bathing and I managed to stagger to it, using a measly flame spell to heat the liquid. I flinched as I stretched my damaged shoulder to take off my ruined tunic. Thoughts of modesty crossed my mind, but I figured Miraak’s critical condition would keep Neloth and Talvas busy enough until I finished my bath. After stripping fully, I submerged my weary body under the steaming water.

The feeling was as close as I’d ever get to Sovngarde. Eyes half-lidded, I watched the clear water shift to red and brown, glad to be rid of the caked blood and dirt spoiling my creamy skin.

“Skye, where are y—oh! Sorry, I didn’t know you were bathing. Master Neloth said to fetch you…” Talvas’s stuttering grated away at my patience, but I wanted to know why Neloth needed me.

Was Miraak okay?

“I enlisted the old crone’s help- not the other way around.” I paused, noting the dark elf’s shadow stayed in the doorway. The water murmured as I turned. “Is he alive?”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to hear the answer.

“That’s why Neloth wanted me to get you. He’s stable, but your wound hasn’t been treated.”

I smiled. “Since when does Neloth run a restoration shop?”

“I don’t.” The Telvanni wizard rounded the corner, careful to keep his eyes away from the tub I occupied. “However, I made a strange discovery while patching up that companion of yours and I had the funniest feeling you could relate.”

Cloth, salve, and a runic staff were placed to the right of my bathing basin. I barely registered Neloth’s approach, aware that I should cover myself. If not for the hinderance of my wound, I would have stopped the magical Dunmer’s hand from grasping my naked shoulder. I hissed in pain though my teeth, but Neloth kept his hold firm. I had no idea why this mere spearwound felt so excruciating.

“My, my, Dragonborn…” Water rustled gently from my movement. “It appears the daedric prince you believed you escaped has other plans.”

Ignoring the hurt in my back, I twisted to look Neloth in the face. His red eyes almost seemed… sympathetic?

“I assume you’ve not gotten to look at your back.” Neloth’s gray fingers tapped my shoulder. “This mark is from Hermaeus Mora. I can practically smell the daedric contamination seeping from it.”

My eyes widened in disbelief as I craned to get a better view of my shoulder. A large, black tattoo adorned the white skin of my shoulder. Two tentacles wriggled down my shoulder, one branching down and curling toward my breast and the other cutting under my armpit and wrapping around my back. The center of my wound had transformed into a single eye where the slit was made and more tentacles slithered outward from its middle. My stomach dropped and I suddenly felt sick with dread. Miraak had been right about one thing- Hermaeus Mora was notorious for getting what he wanted. The prince had marked me, an attempt to claim me as his own. My fear bleed into hatred.

Dragonborn were never meant to serve a daedra. Thinking back to Miraak’s corrupted appearance made my heart quicken. Mora was powerful, but there had to be a way to stop his influence over our bodies. Realizing Neloth and Talvas still lingered I asked, “Does Miraak have a similar mark?”

“I didn’t inspect him as thoroughly as you, but no, none that I could see.”

I ignored Neloth’s comment. I felt partially relieved, yet still concerned for any future encounters with Hermaeus. The foul symbol burned and I knew it was effecting my body in some way, but I had no way of knowing exactly what would become of me.

Likely sensing my consternation, Neloth sighed, saying, “Well, you seem as normal as can be expected for now so don’t let it keep yourself from rest. I will treat what remains of your injuries and get Talvas to make accommodations for the both of you.”

The dark elf dipped his cloth in the scented salve he’d placed next to my tub and rubbed it over my shoulder wound. I tensed, expecting more pain, but the ointment worked wonders neutralizing my irritated skin. The soft light from Neloth’s staff was slightly warm and the light’s reflection in the water cast wavering nebulas across the walls of Tel Mithryn. If I concentrated, I could sense the pull of Miraak’s soul in the other room, strangely comforted by the fact he was still alive and far away from Hermaeus Mora.

“That should do it.” The Dunmer wizard motioned for Talvas and instructed he fetch a towel and bandages for me. “You have put me behind on my research, Dragonborn, and I need to return. I trust you’ll be fine alone?”

“Growing soft in your old age, Neloth?” I chided, thankful he’d rid me of my agony.

A thin smile cracked the wizard’s lips. “Hardly. I just want to make certain my test subjects don’t die yet. I may very well be the first and only Telvanni wizard to ever have the chance to study not one, but two dragonborn instantaneously. It is quite thrilling, really.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Just don’t make a habit of examining us injured and vulnerable.”

The elf only hummed in reply, and I briefly considered thanking him for repairing me and Miraak but figured it would fall on deaf ears anyway. Neloth left and his presence was shortly replaced by Talvas’s nervous energy. I instructed the anxious apprentice to just leave my supplies next to the water basin and go. After I finished scrubbing, I exited the tub and dried off before slipping on the robes Neloth had provided. It felt good to wear something clean, even if it was a bit big on me. I gathered my damp hair into a loose bundle and draped it over the side of my shoulder. My gaze found a couple bottles of Ashfire Reserve next to cooked horker meat and cheese Talvas had set next to my bath.

I uncorked a bottle of alcohol, figuring I’d eat to stave off the headache later. I swallowed a couple of gulps, reveling in the sting at the back of my throat. It felt like ages since I’d been able to sit and drink without constant paranoia of being attacked and my mind drifted cynically to the fate that had been thrust upon me. Being dragonborn had never been my choice and the responsibility that followed my title was crushing. Hazily, I wondered if Miraak had ever felt this way about his blood, too.

Probably not, I thought after a burp. The Atmoran was far too proud of his own ability to dislike being dragonborn. Enviously, I wished I could have embraced the dragonblood like he seemed to. But would I have also ended up the power-hungry tyrant he’d turned into? My thinking became more muddled the more I drank, and I somehow found myself teetering up to the table Miraak still lay on. Neloth was more exhausted than he’d let on because the pieces of the First Dragonborn’s robes were still scattered about, and the bloody rags used to haphazardly clean Miraak’s body with were piled together on the floor.

As I approached his form, I noticed a thin sheen of sweat covered the First and his breathing was erratic. The man’s muscles twitched like he was under torsion, and he expressed pain in his features. He must be having an awful nightmare. An idea of where Miraak was and why he was fighting so hard came to me and my hand reached for his face of its own accord. His skin was hot under my touch and sudden images of an endless library concealed by blackness flashed across my vision.

A gurgle of anguish ripped my sight from swirling pages to the grotesque spectacle of Miraak chained to the unbreakable pillars of Apocrypha by Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles. His clothes hung off him in tatters. Deep puncture wounds littered the First Dragonborn’s body and they all oozed black. His limbs were being pulled in every direction, contorting the joints to the point of dislocation. A thick appendage gagged Miraak, his spit mixing with whatever vile fluid Mora was made of and dribbling down his chest.

“What is this?” Hermaeus Mora’s drawl filled the space between me and the First. “Has my reluctant champion come to save you again, Miraak? Or maybe she simply wanted a show, hm?”

Strangled laughter erupted from the void, but no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t see Mora’s eye. Miraak’s head snapped up, biting back the gag, and his dark eyes locked with mine. His stare was absolute torment; tears stained his cheeks as the man thrashed his head back and forth, begging me not to come near him. Hermaeus quickly restrained Miraak, wrenching his neck back. I watched in horror as the priest’s flesh ripped further and Mora whipped him with spiked limbs.

“Stop! Stop it! He’s going to die!”

Mora only laughed harder at my pleas. “I am only giving him what he deserves. Miraak has taken the power I gave him for granted, and now I use him as an example for you, my new champion.”

Miraak was brought closer to me, his battered body ridden with marks. I averted my gaze, not wanted to see him in this state of torture.

“Look at how repulsive you are to her, Miraak. How she won’t even meet your eyes.”

A wave of defiance washed over me after hearing Hermaeus’s words, and I lifted my head to meet the First Dragonborn. Miraak was being forced to look at me by Hermaeus Mora. I could not read his expression, but I did know one thing- all of this was a dream, a nightmare that felt real. Shoving my fear deep into myself, I reached out and cupped his cheeks, disregarding the blistering ink that touched my skin.

"Miraak, all of this is not real. You just need to wake up. I’m right there- you’re free, no longer do you have to endure this suffering! Wake up!” The black tentacles restraining him whipped at me, but I did not let go. “It’s a nightmare. Wake up!”

...

 Before the biggest appendage came down on my head, I was hauled back to reality with a gasp. My eyes darted around wildly, still anticipating being attacked by Mora’s tentacles. When I noticed his gaze on me, I jumped.

“You saw.” Miraak’s voice was gravely, angry. I felt like a child caught stealing after intruding on the First’s dream and decided to remain silent. Miraak propped up on his elbows and glanced down at his naked stomach, Neloth’s slave giving his pale skin a shine.

“You invade both my mind and body.” If he’d not been so beat, it would have been a growl. Those dark orbs found mine and I was suddenly reminded of all the times he must have looked at me like this under his mask, but he did not hold my gaze. “Los til fin filok nol dii paak? Tarrodiis Dovahkiin.” (Is there no escape from my shame? Treacherous Dragonborn.)

He seemed to be mumbling to himself and I couldn’t quite catch all he said in Dovahzul, but that last word didn’t sound nice and I was too drunk to take more lip from the First. I planned to lean menacingly closer to him, but the room started spinning and I clutched the tableside instead- sort of hunkered instead of glowering. “Listen. I did what had to be done to save your ass- Sithis- save both our asses, okay?”

Miraak’s eyes narrowed; I knew he could smell the alcohol on my breath, but I didn’t care.

“To willingly poison yourself when you’re in need of healing… Irrational, Vahdin. You’ve shown better tact than this.” He certainly seemed to care. “This behavior is beneath you.”

He was quite possibly the most arrogant human I had ever met. I cocked an eyebrow along with on side of my lips. “Looks like you’re the only thing beneath me at the moment.”

Miraak’s POV

Damn her grinning lips and sparkling eyes. When Skye had leaned closer Miraak smelled ale coming off her breath, hence her rather graceless behavior. A strong drink would do wonders to take the edge from the nightmare Miraak was trying desperately not to bring up. From the beginning, he’d secretly wanted to impress the Last with his power, make her see how much stronger she could have been. Yet, it seemed like all she’d seen so far were his shortcomings: his deal with Mora, his inability to fend off their strange blue attackers, his failure to best her in combat.

He met her stare. Skye looked back at him and her gaze was not full of the typical emotions he’d come to expect from every other mortal. Her cerulean eyes expressed no fear, no distrust, no hatred like Miraak expected. How could she behold his face, twisted and tainted by Apocrypha, and not turn away in disgust?

“How was I able to do that, earlier? Get inside your head?”

He refocused at the sound of her voice, taking but a moment to tap his vast knowledge stores. “I’ve witnessed the Dov communicate through their hadrim, their minds. Perhaps we are similar…”

Why was he intentionally trying to get close to the very being he’d wanted to kill? Was it really all just for an escape route?

Still entranced by the Last Dragonborn’s unblinking eyes, Miraak reached slowly toward Skye’s wrist. She did not remove her hand when he covered it with his own. The look crossing her face mimicked surprise (she kept her expression more guarded than most drunks) as Miraak conjured his mental focus into the words he wished Skye to hear.

It seems we can speak by haalvut (touch) and focusing our zul (voice). Unt tinvaak, mal Dovahkiin. (Try speaking, little Dragonborn). His attempt to sound condescending came off as almost curious.

Skye’s POV

I was still trying to grasp what Miraak meant about us communicating through our minds when he trailed off and gave a small squeeze to my hand. The priest’s rumbling voice was suddenly all I could hear, though his lips did not move.

I waited for his words to stop overtaking my mind. I think he told me to “try talking” if I recalled past conversations with Parthunaux. I concentrated on our connected hands and reached out, stringing together words I knew from Dovahzul.

Drem yol lok, wuth dovah. (Greetings, old dragon).

Miraak purred again, answering so only I could hear. I will have to teach you Dovahzul so we may have more interesting conversations in our native tongue.

I glanced at Miraak, finding his eyes closed and a modest smile on his lips. The very fact he’d just uttered that statement, meant his trust in me must be growing. At the very least, Miraak had stopped his bad temper.

You teach me something? I think you just like the sound of my voice when I speak in the ancient tongue.

Those black eyes opened, glinting mischievously at me. Perhaps you are right. I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing a female dovah speak and it intrigues me. The intensity behind his stare was fervent, but I managed to look away, breaking the spell and slipping my hand out from under his before the First could unnerve me further.

I went about helping Miraak up from that uncomfortable looking table, saying he needed to rest on an actual bed after having nothing but hard ground to rest on since he’d escaped Apocrypha. My mind returned to the vile scene I’d witnessed in his nightmare and I wondered if I should inquire about it. Was that how Miraak was always treated by Hermaeus Mora? As a slave to be punished? When I watched him lower onto the cot, I recalled how Miraak had completely shut down any reference to the dream and I decided now wasn’t the best time to bring it up.

Instead, I fetched the horker meat and cheese and the other bottle of Ashfire mead for Miraak. My head was feeling less woozy, but I still needed to eat. The ancient dragonborn idly stroked the furs atop the cot he sat on until I approached with food and drink.

“Here. You should eat, and this might help you relax.” He looked at me in disbelief.

“It’s not poisoned.” To prove my point, I took a big bite out of the meat and followed it with the hard cheese.

“No sweetrolls?”

My attention snapped to him. I cocked my head, wondering where he’d even heard of a sweetroll before. I did not think they existed in the Merethic Era. A smile spread his lips and I realized he was trying to joke with me. I quite enjoyed how open his expressions were, and I attributed it to him wearing a mask for so long.

“No, sadly. Have you ever had one?”

He reached for the bottle of alcohol and broke off a piece of cheese. “I have not. I hear they are delicious.”

I nodded, still wondering who he had heard this from. I washed the food down with another swig of ale, finally at ease. Miraak’s presence had gone from incredibly annoying to somewhat of a reassurance. The invisible attraction I felt had morphed into something mirroring companionship. Funnily enough, Miraak had been my longest traveling companion and I hadn’t sensed the all too familiar fear or caution most people treated me with from him. He understood what it was like being dragonborn.

We finished our meal, and with satiated appetites and clouded thoughts, we finally slept.