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Solstheim. Grey ash fell in a steady drizzle, obscuring my vision of the looming volcanic island while approaching on Gjolund Salt-Sage’s boat. I didn’t want to come here, but those infernal cultists left me no choice. The first few attacks were strange and even though I found the note talking about the “true dragonborn” off-putting, I did not pursue it since there were likely several people that wanted me dead. It was after I’d filched another note from the cultists that had the strangest name on it did I take it to Paarthurnax to see if he knew this Miraak, the true dragonborn. As far as I knew, no dragonborn had ever existed at the same time as another, yet here the writing was telling of one.

The wizened dragon bristled at the name, explaining how he knew it. “Miraak was he who rebelled, gruntill (traitor). He was rumored to have been beaten by Valok, the jailor, but under the influence of the daedric prince, Hermaeus Mora, Miraak escaped. It was unknown until now whether or not he still lived.”

Miraak’s influence had surpassed that of Mora’s realm. I could literally feel some sort of strangling presence as soon as my ship docked at Raven Rock. Normal travelers would blame the suffocating sensation on the ash from Red Mountain, but I understood strong magic was at play here. When I asked about Miraak, everyone said his name was familiar, but there was always a haze surrounding any details pertaining to the figure himself. It was as if the name conjured a distant memory or dream that these people simply could not place.       

“There’s a big old structure called Miraak’s Temple north of here. You can’t miss it. That’s about the only Miraak-related thing I can tell ya.” The innkeeper gave my toned frame a once over, as if sizing me up against the wilds of Solstheim. “There’s a fairly capable mercenary called Teldryn Sero if you are thinking about heading that way.”

My icy gaze met the Dunmer and I finally said, “I work best alone.”

The dark elf quickly dropped his eyes back to the tankard he was polishing. What I said was the truth. Ever since realizing I was dragonborn people viewed me differently. I still remembered the tremendous power flowing into me after downing my first dragon. The scaled beast disintegrated before my very eyes and fiery blue and orange wisps of soul rushed toward me. I was afraid of the sudden rush of energy that hit me. It brought me to my knees and I couldn’t keep my limbs from trembling as such raw might awoke the Dovah within me.

“Incredible!” The guards I’d been battling alongside approached me, but kept a noticeable distance from my figure that wasn’t there before. “You took its soul. Could she be dragonborn?”

The dark elf that was the Jarl’s protector scoffed. She stated there hadn’t been a dragonborn in thousands of years and some commoner like me couldn’t be it. She never said anything else about my draconic heritage after first time I shouted. Some kind of lump had wedged itself in my throat and the only word roaring through my mind was Fus. It repeated louder and louder until I had to shout to make it stop. “FUS!” As soon as the foreign word left my tongue, a blast of invisible force staggered my onlookers and the ground rumbled. I met the guards’ eyes, shock apparent in my own.

It was shortly after that I received summons from the Greybeards, masters of the Way of the Voice. I trained with them, passing their petty tests flawlessly, and later meditated with their Dovah leader, Paarthurnax. I grew more comfortable with my powers, dare I say, almost at ease with being Dovahkiin. How foolish I was then.

As I exited the inn, I tried to ignore the stares and whispers following my form; I needed to concentrate on the task at hand: track this son-of-a-bitch pretender down and teach him never to mess with the dragonborn again. How silly you were to think you still had a chance to fit in, make normal friends, get married…. My teeth ground together, and I fisted my hands at my sides, not really paying attention to where my feet carried me, just irritated at having to be everybody’s savior.

          Here in my shrine.

I immediately looked up from the path I was walking on at those oddly uttered words.

          That they have forgotten.

I approached a large dark stone erected in the center of a shallow pool of water where Dunmer seemed to be constructing a statue around it. The sight wouldn’t have been too strange (after all this was Tamriel we were talking about), but the workers appeared to be locked in a trace, chanting a mantra over and over again.

          Here do we toil.

I approached the tireless workers, expecting the regular stiffening or cautious glance, but no one seemed to notice I was there.

          That we might remember.

“Hello. Can you tell me about this structure you’re building?” I attempted a polite greeting, my tone as nonthreatening as I could muster. “I am also curious if you’ve heard of someone I’m looking for?”

The clink of the Dunmer’s hammer never faltered and more chanting resumed.

          Here we reclaim. What faithless minds have stolen. Far from ourselves.

 I was beginning to lose my patience. Time to be savior again. I stepped closer and tapped the elf on his shoulder. No reaction. I attempted to grab his hammering arm and the dark elf fought my arm with all he was worth. We wrestled briefly until I slipped the tool from his hand. Its handle was bloodied and I noticed the skin on the elf’s hands was ripped, oozing puss and blood, like he’d not had a break from his work in days.

          He grows ever nearer to you.

The Dunmer looked me directly in the eyes as he said this, and I felt a sense of creeping dread wash over me. He was in a trance, under some controlling force moving him to labor ceaselessly while restating these strange words. I decided to question the mantra, still keeping the hammer away from the unflappable Dunmer. “Who is he? What is it you must remember?”

The elf didn’t even blink and I gave up my game of keep away. I watched the mangled hands of the elf struggle to hold the tool and return to the slab he’d been working on before my interruption. I chewed my lower lip in distress, thinking of how to break this strange spell. My eyes found the odd, glowing stone and I strode up to it, each step adding to a sudden desire to touch the rock. It was like I was no longer in control of my own body. I observed my arm extend and my palm met the cool, wet surface of the stone. Immediately, my vision blurred, black dots threating to consume me.

          Your eyes once were blinded. Now through me do you see.

A deep, resonant voice enveloped any other thought I had. At first, I gave in, closing my tired eyes and letting myself be swept up in the monotony of the chant.

          Your hands once were idle. Now through them do I speak.

The only focal point I could muster was timing my hammer strikes with that of his voice. Wait… Why did I have a mallet? Where did I find it and why was I using it?

          And when the world shall listen. And when the world shall see.

The world is not listening, none of these workers can see. Not even I could see clearly outside of the area I continued to hammer away at. My next strike faltered.

And when the world remembers. That world will cease to be.

“No,” I breathed. My fingers unclenched, dropping the mallet and I stumbled away from the structure with a gasp. It felt like someone had released me from a stranglehold I was unaware of. The voices of the Dunmer continued to chant the same words that had just played through my head. I looked at the stone, connecting two dots- someone or something was controlling the dark elves and that stone was the source of its power.

Solstheim was in worse shape than I first believed. I decided I needed to make my way to Miraak’s Temple as soon as possible and set off in that direction.

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I had never beheld so many dragon skeletons as I approached the odd structure being constructed by more Dunmer. The closer I got, the more frequent the carcasses became. I knew Miraak had been involved in a great rebellion against his dragon overlords, but the carnage put me on edge. I’d struggled fighting two dragons at once and couldn’t imagine facing an army of the winged beasts by myself. The bones were stripped clean. He’d consumed them all.

My heart beat quicker at the prospect of encountering another dragonborn, a mortal who could absorb the very essence of dragons and use their power in otherworldly ways. Miraak must have been powerful… But he wasn’t invincible. And he’d likely never faced another being like himself.

For the first several years of my life, I’d had no idea of the power lying dormant within me and I had grown up the daughter of a female farmer and a male smith. My mother taught me how to work the land and forage, and those skills had given me an advantage living as a fugitive later in life. My father let me help him around the forge and I ended up fairly good at the trade, proud the weapons I now carried were created by my own hands. I was formidable in my own right, having an unnatural affinity for the Voice and being a self-taught sword and shield wielder.

Though Solstheim’s predicament had pulled me from my mission of tracking down and vanquishing Alduin, I had still managed to fell several dragons, accumulating enough soul energy to grow my abilities so even the island’s strange ash creatures lost to my blade forged from the bones of the beasts I’d devoured. As I reached the summit of Miraak’s dilapidated temple, I wondered what his past life must have been like to prompt such devastation. I strode past Nordic workers clad in heavy furs chanting the same mantra as the elves at the Earth Stone. All save for one.

A blonde-haired woman scampered around yelling at the others just as I’d done with the elves. Judging by her accent, I’d say she was of similar descent as I. When she noticed my approach, her stance turned defensive.

“Hold there. Who are you and what business do you have here?” Angrily, she spat, “Are you working for him?”

I held up my hands to show I meant no harm unless she instigated. “I am not your enemy, and no, I am here to stop the one influencing these people.”

Her ridged posture softened. “You’re not under the spell like everyone else. Who is doing this to my people?”

I approached her slowly, keeping my hand near my sword. “I don’t know for certain, but I think he goes by the name of Miraak, an ancient Nord who started the Dragon Wars before the First Era. I’ve been tracking his activity and it’s led me here.”

The woman studied me. “You sound like an outsider.”

I explained I wasn’t from Solstheim and gave as little detail as possible about how I ended up here. Frea seemed to accept my account and decided she would help me travel through Miraak’s Temple. I didn’t trust the blonde; she was blinded by her ideals and closed off to any other avenue of thought. It worried me to think what she’d try when she found out I was dragonborn. She fought well, but when it came to a match between the two of us, I knew she had no chance to best me.

The deeper we got into the temple, the more secluded I felt from the outside world. I tried not to stare too long at the dilapidated conference room or the torture chambers, and after Frea and I defeated those persistent cultists and draugr, I couldn’t help but be a little impressed at the scope of Miraak’s Temple. He’d somehow brought entire dragon skeletons inside and displayed them as trophies throughout the sanctuary. It was a complete mockery of the power the dov held over Miraak.

“What do you think happened here?” Frea continued to comment on nearly every room we entered. “I can’t imagine watching the atrocities that took place in this ruin.”

I silently agreed. The skeletons in hanging cages and stuck through walls made me uneasy. Miraak had a point to prove… but such blatant displays of death also made me consider another motive. A powerful leader that revolted from the cult he once ruled had to trust all who rebelled with him. After all, the deserters had already betrayed their masters once. Who was to say whether they would do it again? Miraak was intelligent and he knew not to trust certain mutineers. I averted my eyes from the bones run through with iron bars. Still, his examples seemed extreme to me.

We came to a room full of sarcophaguses wedged into the walls. It looked like a dead end, but when I rounded the corner I felt a tremendous pull toward a Word Wall. Without thinking, I strode up to the jagged words in dragon tongue and closed my eyes, listening to the voices whispering power into my brain. All praise glorious Miraak. Most powerful servant of all Dragon Priests, whose strength was granted by the gardener of mankind.

I latched onto the word strength, but in my mind, it sounded as Mul. Just like the first time, I felt the word repeat over and over, building to a point where I felt like I needed to shout to release the pressure. The understanding flooding my head felt different from when I’d read other walls. It felt as if a human was explaining the word’s significance to me instead of a dragon. It felt unnatural, yet I welcomed my body’s reaction, shutting out any resignations of Frea discovering I was dragonborn.

“Mul!” When I shouted, a surge of energy left my tongue, leaving me momentarily breathless. The energy surrounded my arms, encasing them in what looked like swirling orange and blue scales. Tendrils of soul spiraled up through my fingers, twisted around my forearms, and dived back into my biceps. I felt incredibly strong, as if my hands were the claws of a dovah.

“What in the All-Maker’s name was that?” Frea’s voice was full of distrust and that familiar bubble of anger appeared in my throat. “Was that a shout? Are you-”

The lids to the sarcophaguses cracked and plummeted to the ground, throwing up dust and silencing Frea. We suddenly faced five draugr, which would usually have me on edge; however, my shout had imbued me with such power, I embraced the challenge, ripping my sword from its scabbard and charging toward the first corpse. My swing lodged itself in the chest cavity of the draugr and its glowing eyes faded to black as quickly as they’d appeared. I parried the next draugr’s swing with my shield, not even buckling from the impact. Faster than it could dodge, I stabbed through it’s heart and kicked the thing off my sword. A grunt to my left and I knew my assailant was about to land a hit. “Yol Tor Shul!”

Flames spewed from my mouth, much hotter than usual, and the shout didn’t wind me like it normally would. Why hadn’t the dragons ever used this powerful shout on me? I heard Frea yell. I whipped around to see she’d taken out another dragr, but the last had wounded her and was about to strike again.

“Faas Ru Maar!” The force of my voice sent the draugr’s ax flying and bought me enough time to slay it.

I sheathed my sword and dropped to my knees next to Frea. “Are you alright?”

She scrambled away from me, a disgusted look on her features. “Do not come near me! You’re like him- Dragonborn!”

I withdrew my hand, still feeling the energy coursing through it, and wondered how I must look to Frea. She’d just witnessed me down four of the five undead with my dragonbone weapons and Voice without so much as a groan of exertion. Now here I stood over her leaking power, representing something that had enslaved most of her nomadic clan. Again, I was reminded that I had no place of belonging among the regular populace. I would always be feared because of my blood, my birthright, and there was nothing I could do to convince some people otherwise.

I waited for Frea to treat her wound, pretending not to notice the scornful looks she shot my way. The last dragr had dropped a key that fit a loose panel of its coffin. We entered into an ancient dining room and it didn’t take long for me to open another hidden passageway that led to a room with hordes of books and grotesque statues.

“So many books,” Frea commented. At least she’d stopped eyeing me like I’d kill her. “I wonder if any of this tells Miraak’s story.”

My eyes traveled over the ruined covers, thinking the man read a lot. “I’d say he was power-hungry, but smart. Probably extremely arrogant if you listen to how his cultists praise his name.”

Frea nodded, scouting ahead for more traps. “Well, he was the First Dragonborn so I’m sure his power almost seemed god-like to the eyes of those unaccustomed to watching a man strip a dragon to its bones.”

I wondered if he was treated with the same watchfulness I was. I imagined Miraak gave normal humans a reason to fear him instead of trying to convince them otherwise like I did. Frea and I traveled further underground, and I noticed more daedric imagery adorning the walls. This is where Miraak must have communed with Hermaeus Mora. It was sealed off and well-guarded by draugr so I assumed Miraak didn’t want anyone knowing of his dealings with the daedric prince of forbidden knowledge. We slipped behind a multi-eyed effigy and down another tunnel. It opened into a dusky inner sanctum. Elaborately wound black metal trellises took the place of windows and the center floor where a raised podium stood. A toothed pod sat gaping atop the pedestal and a single black book rested beneath it.

Chapter Text

“There’s a dark magic surrounding this place,” Frea stated, looking as suspicious as ever. “I feel it most from that book.”

I didn’t respond. My eyes studied the book and I wondered why Miraak would have the tomb hidden so well. I went to pick it up, flipping open the ancient cover. The words sounded like gibberish and as I stood trying to decipher them, black appendages jutted out from the pages and encircled my neck. I struggled, but my strength was no match for the tentacled pull and I felt like I was falling through midair. Frea’s panicked voice faded into the background and I found myself suspended in the air, surrounded not by the temple walls, but by towering stacks of books and aged stone structures. The sky was colored light green and the air smelled thick with old parchment.

...

“The time comes soon when- what?” That enunciated rumble was instantly recognizable to me. “Who are you to dare set foot in here?”

My gaze had been ripped from the tentacled floating beasts and serpentine blue dragon at the sound of his voice. He quickly struck me down with lighting and I barely caught myself before hitting the ground. The man’s voice had haunted my every waking moment since arriving on Solstheim. “Here in my temple…Do you toil…Far from yourself…” The accented, echoing baritone addressed me after a long pause.

“Ahhh, you are dragonborn. I can feel it. And yet…” I knew he was sizing me up. It hurt to strain my neck to look into those awful slitted holes of his mask, but I did not break my stare. He approached me slowly until he towered over my small frame; I finally dropped my gaze- the man’s height was unnatural. He was of an ancient Nord race, Atmoran if I recalled Paarthurnax’s description correctly. Gloved fingers under my jaw broke my respite as he lifted my face to his with firm pressure.

“I was not expecting a woman. Can the soul of a dovah really be contained by a body as weak as yours?” 

Miraak’s POV

Her icy blue gaze bore into his. Her jaw felt slight and angular under Miraak’s fingers. Though kneeling and covered in plated armor that looked strangely like dragonscale, he could tell her frame was smaller than a normal Nord female. The man didn’t understand why he even graced her with an approach, but it was as if some unknown force pulled Miraak to her. The former dragon priest’s inner dovah rumbled from the electricity of their contact and Miraak felt a sudden jolt of liveliness not granted to him in millennia. There was no question- she did have the capacity to resist his pull before.

Miraak remembered how the portion of Apocrypha dedicated to controlling the Earth Stone had lit up when she touched it. He had felt a cool breeze from the outside world; thinking he had made a breakthrough, Miraak had rushed to the point of connection that allowed him to glimpse at the progress being made with the stone. He could only stare in wonder as the woman did not repeat his mantra with the strikes of her hammer. She had been the first to refuse him in years and his curiosity of her had become insatiable.

 She now kneeled before the First and Miraak understood. She was like him- Dragonborn, the last of their kind. The Nord must have heard the quick breath he inhaled because her eyes widened fractionally before narrowing into what she likely assumed to be a menacing glare.

“You must be Miraak,” she practically spat. He quite enjoyed her display of disgust. “The arrogant bastard enslaving the minds and bodies of Solstheim’s populace and sending peons to murder his competition!”

She thought him arrogant and a bastard, did she? He cracked a thin smile under his mask as he calmly replied, “All play a part in my return. You are simply too shortsighted to understand.”

“I’m here to put a stop to your plans.”

Her heroic ideals amused him. It was time he put the Last Dragonborn in her place. “You think to stop me?” He scoffed. “You have no idea of the power a true dragonborn can wield!”

Miraak slipped his is hand from the Last Dragonborn’s jaw and stood. His mouth formed the words of the dragon aspect shout he’d created so long ago. “Mul Qua Diiv!” Miraak relished in the sudden gust of energy that surrounded his frame, encasing his body in ethereal dragon armor. The Atmoran straightened to his full height, turning his gaze to the woman kneeling before him. To his mild disappointment, Miraak noticed the Last Dragonborn did not cower in awe of his power display, but she quirked a strangled smile instead.

“Are you supposed to be a peacock? Awfully pretty showing off that blue and orange plumage aren’t you, Miraak.”

She was teasing him. The First Dragonborn had murdered people that mocked him when he’d been a priest of the dragons, but he had escaped that life. And this was another dragonborn he was dealing with. The attraction he felt toward her was undeniable; however, Miraak would show no such weakness. Instead of giving her what she wanted, he would put the woman in her place. Not one to let his followers see him humiliated, Miraak decided to flaunt another shout only he knew how to use. He turned to the foul, floating Seekers and his corrupted dragon, preparing to shout.

“Gol Hah Dov!”

A thousand neural nerve signals connected with Miraak’s; his mind acted as the control mechanism for them all. Singling out the soul sucking void of the Seeker’s minds, the Atmoran commanded, “Be gone of me!”

 The floating tentacled beasts pivoted and shimmered out of existence, doing exactly what Miraak wanted. His eyes flicked to meet those of his dragon. “You will hear my call when I am ready. Leave me now.”

"Geh, Thurii. I shall await your summons.” Sahrotaar spread his wings and took flight, the dragon’s roar echoing inside the vastness of Apocrypha.

Skye’s POV

I wanted with all my being to move, break free of his immobilization spell, but nothing I conjured made my body respond. This former dragon priest did have considerable power, and his pride only added to it. I did my best to appear unimpressed with his blatant display of dominance over me, but after feeling the crushing strength his spectral dragon form gave off and watching those disgusting creatures and a dragon obey Miraak’s commands, I strained to keep my composure. I only knew the first word of that shout. My mind reeled when I realized he must have created it. How could a man possess the knowledge and ability to design a shout that drew from the very soul energy we had inside our bodies?  The battle I fought with myself almost became unwinnable when the First Dragonborn turned his attention back to me.

“Still believe you can stop me, Dragonborn? Or has your better judgement told you to give up and allow fate to run its course.” The man strutted toward me again. By the gods, he was strong. I desperately searched my mind for something that would help me survive but continued drawing blanks instead.

Soon, Miraak was before me again, resplendent against the murky backdrop of Apocrypha with blue and orange soul energy swirling around his form. I braced myself against whatever invisible force pulsated from his body.

“You’re an opponent I’m going to enjoy beating,” I grit through my teeth. “The arrogant ones always make the sorest losers.”

Miraak knelt to my level, a dark chuckle escaping his hidden lips. “So, you do still think you can defeat me, yet you call me conceited.”

I was acutely aware that he could kill me. In fact, I was waiting for him to.

When he leaned in past my personal space, I involuntarily stiffened, furious because I knew he could sense me do so and it showed weakness. His voice rumbled in my ear, and I shut my eyes as if that would block it out.

“Here you are, just as I asked. You are merely a pawn in my scheme to return and rule Tamriel. You can never vanquish me.”

I was trembling, whether in fear or anger, I couldn’t say. Miraak’s gloved fingers traced my face once again, another show of supremacy.

“I lament it has to end this way. You are such a unique specimen.” His voice was soft, mockingly so. “But destiny has decreed this is the only way to win my freedom and become master of my own fate once again.”

I caught the faintest sense of remorse in his statement and my mind went wild with possibilities. “You say all you want is freedom? And enslaving others and killing me is the only way to get it?”

Miraak’s POV

He paused. The Last Dragonborn’s question had caught him off guard and he looked into her eyes for a moment. She possessed some kind of fear of him (he figured that due to her reaction toward his presence), but why would the hero ask her enemy what he wanted and if he’d thought of another way to attain the sweet freedom he craved?

“What if there’s another way?”

He almost laughed at her naiveté. “I’ve been here for thousands of years, vahdin (woman). Long enough to have exhausted every option. It is the only way.”          

Miraak felt her tense as he leaned down to her ear again. “I shall have your soul, and the souls of the Dov you have so kindly consumed for me soon enough.”

He wanted a battle with a worthy opponent, and the Last Dragonborn could give Miraak that. She still needed to become stronger, first. He decided he’d enjoy watching her persistent little self wrestle with advancing to his equal, and Miraak did something he never thought he’d do. He let her go.

“I will send you back.” Miraak relished in the Last Dragonborn’s spectacle of emotion. He had finally surprised her. “You shall await my return with the rest of Tamriel.”

Miraak unleashed a ball of raw magicka, making sure it was powerful enough to knock the woman unconscious and weaken her enough to where Apocrypha would return her form to Solstheim. Before he summoned Sahrotaar to carry him away, Miraak considered what had just transpired. He felt relieved, almost giddy at the prospect of having a real challenger face him. And quite a stunning opponent, at that. The man huffed, thinking how frivolous his thoughts were after meeting the woman. She was beautiful, yes, but what drew him to her more was her hidden ferocity, her ability to have survived deadly dragons, the wilds of Skyrim and Solstheim, to have held her ground as she faced him… The Last Dragonborn was turning out to be a better adversary than Miraak had hoped for.

Chapter Text

I was thrust back to reality, disoriented, but alive. He let me go. Before I could even reflect on what happened, Frea’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

“You’re back! I-I could see right through you, but you couldn’t hear me… What happened after you read that book?”

I looked at her dazedly. “I saw Miraak.”

Frea’s eyes hardened. “You did? Can we reach him? Can we kill him?”

I paused, noting the bloodlust in her words. She wished to murder a man she’d never even met. My encounter with him had not been what I expected… He was arrogant and strong, sure, but I also felt his hunger for freedom- heard the longing in his voice. He surely knew how risky it was to plan an escape from a daedra, especially if you were stuck in their realm, yet Miraak was risking everything for a chance at independence.

“No,” I responded curtly. “He’s within Hermaeus Mora’s plane of Oblivion. I can’t reach him unless I acquire the same power he has.”

The power he used to command that dragon. Hermaeus Mora had granted Miraak forbidden knowledge to enslave the creature’s mind and I knew I’d have to gain the same understanding as the First to have a chance at beating him.

“Hm… Herma Mora is formidable. However, my father, Storn, is shaman of the Skall. He’ll know what to do.” Frea gaze lingered on me. “I don’t trust you, but you might be the only way to free my people from Miraak’s control, so I’ll take you to Storn.”

I sighed, stored the Black Book, and allowed Frea to lead the way. I couldn’t stop thinking about my encounter with the other dragonborn the entire trek to Frea’s village. I needed to find out more about Miraak, but I had never stumbled across a book or a scholar who revealed much about the First.

It made sense. Why would anyone wish to commemorate the traitor who started the Dragon Wars and refused to slay Alduin? They had likely never met a daedric prince. Miraak, being from the Merethic Era and the first ever dragonborn, had no explanation for his power. I could not imagine what it would be like serving the very beings you were meant to destroy and having to hide that ability from both your masters and other servants. Hermaeus Mora possessed knowledge of the dragonborn before any mortal did and I bet the daedric prince used that to coerce Miraak into becoming Mora’s champion.

“Our village is under the protection of a magical barrier maintained by my father and his inner circle,” Frea explained the semi-transparent forcefield we passed through. “They should be right through here.”

The Nord woman leveled the weight of her gaze on me. “I will be watching you, Dragonborn.”

The way she hissed my title set my teeth on edge. If I put Frea in her place, I would be no different than Miraak. I met her stare evenly.

“I have given you no reason to distrust me, Frea.”

“You have the soul of a dragon. You share the same blood as the beasts and you have the same lust for domination as they.” The Nord’s eyes were sharp. “Except you also have the cunning of a human. The ability to deceive, make false friends and use them for your own power gain.”

I tried interrupting in my defense. “Frea, not all dragon- “

“I know you’re after the same power as Miraak,” she growled, daring to step closer to me. I could see her tremble slightly. “If you turn as he, I will personally see to your demise.”

My features hardened and I clenched my fists to stop myself from backhanding Frea. Time had passed since I’d heard feelings I suppressed about my nature spoken aloud by a stranger. Her words reopened old wounds.

“Frea! Who’s this you brought into our village?” A Skall shaman that had to be Frea’s father approached us.

Frea instantly turned her attention to Storn, answering, “I have returned with hope. This woman has confirmed that Miraak is behind the suffering of our people.”

Storn’s wizened face frowned. “I feared that would be the outcome of this dark magic subduing the land. You actually laid eyes on him?”

His question was for me. I dipped my head in acknowledgement. “Yes. I met him after I was pulled into this Black Book. I think it took me to Hermaeus Mora’s realm of Apocrypha.”

Storn grumbled at the mention of Mora’s name. “Herma Mora himself, eh? That’s one of his books. They say most who read them go mad unless they possess a very strong will.”

Frea spoke up. “She is Dragonborn. The will of a beast couldn’t be broken that easily.”

Storn’s eyes took on a gleam of curiosity. I noticed he said nothing in my defense. “Then you are like Miraak. Perhaps the two of you are connected somehow.”

“What do you know about Miraak? Anything you can tell me that will help?” I was determined to uncover his past.

Storn told me Miraak corrupted the All-Maker Stones and the shaman believed that was Miraak’s established connection to Solstheim. He also asked me to cleanse the stones by traveling to Saering’s Watch and learning a Word of Power there.

I would purify the stones, but not before I tested a theory of mine first…

Chapter Text

I heard its cry in the distance. A wall of snow concealed the scaled beast from view even as I looked on from high above the valley it circled. My inner dovah answered with a roar of its own, lighting the inside of my body with fire and a lust for domination. After scouring the ruins of Saering’s Watch trying to achieve a better understanding of my enemy, I didn’t possess enough energy to decipher the Dovahzilld (dragon writing) that had been scribed on the Word Wall and was thirsty for another soul. I challenged the dovah with my Thu’um as Parthunax had taught me.

“Lok Vah Koor!” A thunderous shockwave erupted from my tongue aimed toward the gray clouds above. Gradually, the chilly flakes that melted on my skin quit dropping and the hazy sky gave way to endless blue.

My eyes squinted against the sunbeams that glinted off the dragon’s scales. It definitely heard my shout and was coming to prove its authority. I smiled thinly, ready for a battle with my distant kin to take my mind off of Miraak and his voice. I bashed against my shield as the dragon approached. My snarl mirrored the dovah’s; I wanted its attention on me so I could watch the beast’s surprise when I started to crush its resolve. It was brash, demanding a dragon’s notice, but I’d never been one to favor the cowardly ranged approach to combat. No, I wanted a fair fight with my foes, needed to return their glare, experiment with their movements…

“YOL!”

I threw my shield up and ducked, forming myself into the smallest ball I could manage as dragonfire lapped at me from behind the barrier. Snow splattered my armor; I braced against the gust from its wings. Before the dragon could circle back around for another blast, I hurried further down the other side of the mountain, aiming for an area with more cover so the dragon would be forced to land in order to face me.

“Hiding is not the true dovah’s way! Meyz arhk luft zu’ul!” (Come and face me!) Its wings stirred up flurries as the dragon landed.

“Wuld Nah Kest!”

I moved in a blur and in a second I was under the dragon’s neck. My sword raked its underbelly and the creature screamed in pain, leveraging its head to spew fire at me. I rolled out from under it, ignoring the rapidly melting snow beneath my boots. The dragon caught me with a wing and I slid farther away than I should have with the ground so wet. I felt the constriction in my throat loosen and I readied my Voice for a quick shout to refreeze the earth beneath me.

“Fo!”

I regained my footing just in time to parry the dragon’s maw with my shield. Just as it snarled, I slipped the edge of my sword between its gums and sliced downward. The dragon’s head followed my blade and I struck the side of its eye with my shield, releasing the handle so I’d have a free hand to snatch one of the beast’s horns. My hand closed around the roughened bone protruding from its skull and I swung my body fully on top of its snout.

“Fin!” (No!) It roared, trying its best to shake me off. Its fangs narrowly missed my feet, but I trashed my blade relentlessly against its maw. “Los ann mal vahdin ful mul?” (Is a little maiden so strong?)

"Krii Lun Aus!” The energy from my shout seeped into the dragon’s battered skull and its eyes flickered, feeling its last breath. I sunk my sword deep into its skull and rode the creature’s head to the ground.

My body trembled with exertion. I would welcome the fresh dragon soul’s power. Eyes watched the scales disintegrate and the very essence of the beast float up in tendrils of blue and orange. I exhaled, ready for the surge of fire. The flame and sky-colored soul energy surged toward me. I felt the heat as the soul sailed past me and into someone else.

“I thank you for your help, Dragonborn. It was invigorating seeing you scamper atop the dovah’s skull and gore it to death. This soul is strong.”

His voice mocked me with a smile. I spun to encounter the ethereal form of Miraak, observing me with his hands clasped behind his back and that ugly mask directed at my face. Over my momentary shock, I was livid. I took a fierce swing of my sword at Miraak’s shimmering form and found myself glowering at his impassive visage.

“How dare you take a dovah’s kill from her?” I bristled in his personal space, angered even more by the fact that I had to crane my neck to stare him in the eye. “Do you know the consequences of this action, Miraak?”  

He looked down at me and cocked his head to the side. “Enlighten me, Dovahkinn.”

That accent this close sent shivers down my spine. I yanked out Waking Dreams and shoved it in his chest. It passed right through him, of course.

“I will hunt you down and murder you in your sleep, sucking the soul right out of your corpse.”

He huffed. “I have the strangest idea I may actually enjoy that, Dragonborn.” A gloved hand passed through my hair, the air across my cheek whimpered with just the faintest breeze. “I can call you back to my tower as often as I like.”

He did not move away as he said this, and I felt creeping heat down my cheeks. An idea popped into my head. Maybe I use the man’s confidence to trick him into revealing his personal quarter of Apocrypha.

Ignoring Miraak’s sadistic comment, I pressed, “You say call me back, but I’ve yet to see it. I thought you were powerful.”

For once the First Dragonborn didn’t have something witty to say in response. He looked as if he were being pensive about a bad memory.

Miraak’s POV

She continued to return his need for tinvaak (conversation/talk) in full and without restraint. Summoning the Last to his current position would be child’s play since she had already established a connection with one of his controlled All-Maker Stones. He remembered how brightly her soul had shined against the darkness of Apocrypha and felt the sudden desire to reach out. But Miraak restrained his hand. He knew what the fate of those who ended up in Apocrypha was like and the Last deserved no part in it until she came to meet his challenge.

“You will see no such thing with pathetic attempts to trick me like that. I call on my terms, no one else’s.”

Bright blue turned steely gray.

“Not even Hermaeus Mora? Last I checked, he called the shots whether you consented or not.”

Miraak’s temperature had not risen so quickly in millennia. His rage was blinding, and Miraak suddenly shouted a spell that plucked the Last Dragonborn from her plane of Nirn and teleported her to his plane of Oblivion.

He stood waiting for her to fully materialize before striking at the woman’s dazed figure. Miraak’s inner dovah lit up at the touch and he forced her down against the hard, black stone he used as a makeshift drawing desk. Her eyes darted around his “room,” and the woman seemed to relax a bit in his grip after she realized Miraak wasn’t trying to dispatch her. The dragon priest was still quite cross, however. The Last Dragonborn’s words cut him deep and he lashed out in response. She had reminded him how trapped he was.

“Well, you actually did it. I’ve never heard of a spell that can move a person from one plane of existence to another.”

She sounded patronizing, as if Miraak had given into her whims.

“You forget so quickly,” he rumbled. “I have years of forbidden knowledge at my disposal. A spell like that is effortless for me.”

The woman gazed at him with her blue orbs partially narrowed; he wondered if she could feel the tugging heat like he did with their proximity. Even when he’d appeared to her in ethereal form, Miraak had still felt drawn.

“Where’s Master Know-It-All? I though his eyeballs followed you wherever you went, Champion?” She struggled in his hold, but Miraak’s fingers only dug deeper into her arms.

“Even Hermaeus Mora has blind spots of Apocrypha. These are my quarters. He can sense my presence, but not be privy to my private workings unless Mora breaks the ward I laid over this place.”

Why was he telling her all of this?

The Last Dragonborn’s eyes flashed up at him and he watched her lips split ever so slightly. “Most men ask before taking a lady to their private quarters. And they at least trust her enough to let her go. Especially if they stole something precious from her.”

That last line referenced the dragon soul Miraak was currently enjoying within his being. “Trusting my enemy is not something I do lightly, Dragonborn. Though you are foolish enough to trust yours. Remember, you are under my power here.”

Miraak released the Last, a shout ready at the back of his throat in case she made any sudden moves. His dragon whimpered at the loss of connection, but Miraak quickly shut it out. He watched the Nord rub her arms where his hands had been, mumbling something about how she’d bruise later. Her scowl reminded him of a dragon’s snarl and Miraak’s lips quirked under his mask. She had the blood of a dovah, no doubt.

The ancient priest did not understand why he let her roam around his personal lodgings. He couldn’t help but study her as she stole around the misshapen chair he’d made out of stacked books. She drug her fingers along the spines of some of his favorite volumes as she passed the shelves leading to his makeshift bed of pages and book covers. Miraak didn’t need to sleep in Apocrypha, but he still wished to feel the human need of rest.

The Last Dragonborn’s gaze came to rest on a book cover made of dragonskin and tied with a gold cord. As she reached for it, Miraak used telekinesis to pull it toward himself. Skye shot him a look of annoyance.

“This one does not belong in Apocrypha.” It had been pinned by his own hand. Miraak did not want the female Dragonborn privy to his journal.

She crossed an arm over her body and extended the other. “Then I’ll kindly return it for you. I’ve never felt a book bound in dragonskin.”

“You will do no such thing.” Miraak tucked the diary inside his robes. “It will return with me soon enough.”

Skye’s POV

I’d found it. Judging by the way Miraak protected it, I knew that bound volume would tell me something about the First. My heart dropped when he folded it into the many layers of his robe. First, he steals my dragon soul and now he denies me the thing I’d tricked him into bringing me here for. Still the question eating at the back of my mind was why he’d not tried to kill me, yet. The First Dragonborn’s head tracked my every move. He stood not ready for an attack, but rather positioned to observe me. The old Atmoran reminded me of Paarthurnax in a way.

“Going back soon, are you? Planning to kill me in secret, then… I figured your pride wouldn’t allow for it.”

“Enough, Vahdin!” His echoing baritone rang out among the silence. “I wish for a fair battle with one of my own kind. And you will give it to me.”

“So demanding, Miraak.” I pranced closer to the tall male, noticing how ruffled he seemed. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share or ask nicely? I will give you nothing; however, you did take something from me and I expect to be repaid.”

To my bewilderment, the First started laughing. It was a deep, resonant sound and pleasing to my ears.

“Dii peyt, hi los ko fin staad wa uth trukke nol zu’u. (My rose, you are in no place to command things from me) A dragon takes what he desires.”

To spite the Atmoran, I lunged for the book tucked inside his clothes. My other hand palmed his golden mask. He jerked backward, releasing his face from my grasp, but I tumbled with him, intent on stealing his journal. I must have torn through too many layers because my hand met with the heat of his skin. It was like smacking a rock and my dovah roared from the contact. Miraak’s iron grip clamped my wrist in a vice and literally lifted me off my feet. The strain on my shoulder nearly dislocated it.

“Motmahus, Vahdin. (Tricky woman) You have overstayed your welcome.”

As swiftly as I had entered his realm, I left it, vexed that I now had to return to try and steal his book again.

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

The warmth from her glowing skin slipped from his fingers and Miraak stood in silence for a moment, contemplating firstly her absence and his feelings toward the matter, and thinking secondly why she’d wanted his diary so badly. He turned and was met with his disheveled reflection from an obsidian slab he’d placed in his quarters. It was really just a still mass of the writhing, black ink Apocrypha was filled with, but it acted as a good enough mirror for Miraak to see how much the Last had rumpled his garments. A part of him hoped she’d not seen how deathly pale his skin was, for a portion of his waist showed where she had tugged his robes out of place.

Miraak had never been so forgiving of his opponents, but the Last didn’t treat him like her enemy. She had had plenty of chances to engage him in combat, yet it seemed the woman preferred bantering with him instead. It’s a lonely existence, being what you are, Miraak. Powerful enough to subdue any who oppose you. Living to strike fear in the souls of your followers. Existing to quench an insatiable thirst for your overlords’ souls; killing them all will never be enough. You will still be left wanting. His mind remembered what Hermaeus Mora had said to him all those years ago. A Dragonborn’s life was one of isolation. He’d thought Hermaeus Mora could help him stave off the feeling of rejection when his fellow dragon priests discovered his nature. The daedra had doomed Miraak to a fate worse than death. Endless servitude for the gift of… what?

Perhaps that was why he didn’t take her life. The Last Dragonborn awoke a long dead emotion in Miraak- a sense of purpose, of belonging. She was like him, except instead of being the very beginning, she was destined to be the last of their kind. A bitter smile passed the First’s lips as he fixed his robes. And here she was on some fool errand to end him for the sake of those who would never do the same for her. Miraak resumed his posturing.

“Champion… I have need of you. Come here.”

The dragon priest froze in place for a moment. Hearing Hermaeus Mora call him so quickly after Skye vanished was not a coincidence. Miraak knew he should have been more cautious when he’d cast the spell to bring her here. The First Dragonborn checked that his ward still held and then slipped behind a bookshelf to a pool of ink. It acted as a teleporter back to the top of the highest building in Apocrypha. When Miraak appeared, the wretched abyss of tentacles was floating near the center of the platform. The largest eye followed the smaller ones to his form. Against his will, Miraak pressed an arm across his chest and bowed his head, grimacing under his mask at his disgusting display of servitude.

“Master, you called and I have answered your summons. What do you need of me?”

Miraak watched those black limbs curl with pleasure at his acknowledgement.

“Yes, Champion, I have something that should be… very interesting to you.” The slow drawl of the daedra grated against Miraak’s ears. “You see, I recently felt a… presence. One strong enough to resist the draw of my forbidden knowledge because I sense it no more.”

The biggest eyeball squinted at Miraak. “The soul felt like yours… Dragonborn.”

Miraak said nothing. He knew Hermaeus Mora should have sensed her presence the first time she popped into Apocrypha, yet the prince did nothing.

“I know you met her once before. When the poor thing stumbled out from my Black Book. I watched you send her to her knees, and I believed you had finished the woman.” Hermaeus Mora’s gurgling laughter quieted. “Except, I felt her back again. A dreadfully bright soul within my realm. Why did you not… eliminate her?”

The First Dragonborn remained impassive; he had expected this question. “My Lord, do not trouble yourself with such trivial matters. I simply wanted to experiment with an idea of mine. She comes searching to destroy me, end my servitude to you, so I- wanting a challenge and a show for my Master- sent her back so she could grow strong enough to face me.”

Hermaeus Mora blinked slowly, contemplating Miraak’s answer. “Hmmmm… She does not come to merely…destroy you, Miraak. She wants to take your place by my side. Like a typical Dragonborn, she wants power and she knows I possess… limitless amounts of it.”

Miraak bristled. The daedra’s sick sense of superiority blinded him. The woman was anything but power hungry. To think of her replacing himself… it filled the First with inordinate amounts of fury.

“Champion.” Miraak snapped his attention back to Hermaus. “Since you have interacted with the female, you must have ascertained her intentions… Tell me what power she desires.”

The dragon priest ground his teeth together, dread filling his heart. If he told the daedric prince about the Last Dragonborn’s plans, their discussions, or her mention of thinking of a way out for Miraak… Hermaeus Mora would enrapture her, promising her whatever she wanted would happen. Miraak thought of her naïve ideals, those brilliant blue eyes pleading with Hermaeus Mora, his tentacles consuming her… The Atmoran nearly jumped out of his robes when he felt one of Mora’s thick appendages caress the side of his neck. Miraak hadn’t even noticed it push his covering aside.

“You are thinking of other things to say besides the truth, Miraak… Have I not punished you enough for your disobedience? Or has she swayed your loyalties?” That tentacle slithered around his neck, lifting Miraak’s mask. The Dragonborn knew resisting would only make things worse.

“Am I not satisfying you, Champion? You would follow a false Dragonborn’s instruction and not your master’s?” The tip of Hermaeus’s limb painted Miraak’s lips and then started forcing its way inside his mouth. Instinctually, the priest tried to jerk away, but Mora was ready to restrain him with his endless number of tentacles.

The black appendages stung as they snaked around the man’s chest, arms, and legs. Miraak was lifted off the ground and his robes were tugged free of their wrappings. He grimaced, wanting to gag, but unable due to the thickness of Mora’s tentacle wedged down his throat.

“You would sicken her, Champion.” His tentacles left burning trails of poison across Miraak’s pale skin. “You are a traitor of your people, a toy for a daedra’s pleasure. My power has kept your body strong.”

Miraak tensed as the limbs probed his most private parts; he was determined not to let Hermaeus hear him whimper.

“You do not cry for me like you used to... I, hm... permit you to think of her if it helps.”

All Miraak could think about was her in his place, enduring Hermaeus Mora’s filthy physical abuse. The gag tasted bitter. The feeling of slime squeezing his penis was shameful. Miraak, the mighty First Dragonborn was a slave to this daedra. The longer his exploitation went on, the more hopeless Miraak became until he was reduced to a shell of a human being. He may stand tall and intimidating in front of the Last Dragonborn, but in truth, he envied her freedom.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I’d tracked down all of the Stones and set teleportation symbols I’d connected with a costly spell scribed on a scroll. My plan was to sneak back into Miraak’s personal quarters and retrieve his diary without the First Dragonborn noticing. In order to do this, I would need to keep him distracted and away from his room. I had set teleportation spell marks beside the pools the All-Maker Stones resided in and connected them all back to the Tree Stone I now stood next to. I held Waking Dreams in one hand, tracing its intricate, yet twisted design, and pondered if this would all work out and I would still be breathing on the other side of Oblivion.

I knew I needed to use Gol on the stones to break Miraak’s magical influence over them and hopefully sever the mind-control band he put on the residents of Solstheim. Timing when I shouted would be key at sidetracking Miraak long enough for me to locate his journal, learn the Words of Power and some of his past, and escape Apocrypha before either Hermaeus Mora or the First Dragonborn knew I was there.

Miraak’s POV

As he perused several volumes he’d scrounged up about the Last Dragonborn, Miraak felt an outside disturbance that came from one of his All-Maker Stone connections. He shot up from the wall of books he’d been leaning against, too aware of alerting Hermaeus Mora to more activity in Apocrypha so soon after the prince had tormented Miraak. After setting the book down, Miraak summoned his serpentine dragon and resolved to contain the issue before the daedra intervened.

Sahrotaar flew swiftly to the disturbance after Miraak mounted the dragon. The First Dragonborn grew livid as he sensed his control of Solstheim’s populace begin slipping. Miraak vaulted from Sahrotaar’s spine as soon as its talons touched the stone of Apocrypha. The First’s make-shift shrine still stood. It was a small, raised bowl with a magical ebony jug suspended above it. Black liquid similar in consistency to the inky ocean surrounding Apocrypha flowed unceasing from it. The substance was laced with Miraak’s magic, and he had crafted a stable conduit that allowed what trickled from the container to seep into the shallow pools surrounding each All-Maker Stone. The fools of the island just needed to be in close proximity for his control spell to take effect.

Now however, the liquid sorcery had reversed its flow and the once glassy darkness started rippling out of control. Miraak swiftly conjured a stabilization spell and focused his cast on the shrine, willing it to subside. He was met with a near impenetrable wall. The Dragonborn growled. Who had the power to counter his magic like this?

“Gol!”

His eyes widened in shock. Her voice, no her Thu’um, softly echoed in his ear. If Miraak hadn’t been so flustered about losing his connection to the outside world, he would have been impressed with the Last Dragonborn’s audacity.

“Niid, Dovahkiin!” (No Dragonborn)

Miraak’s efforts to push back against her destruction of his gateway to the outside world were in vain, but the dragon priest had never been one to give up easily. The First Dragonborn poured the force of his magicka into the portal, and he suddenly broke through enough to clearly see Skye battling monstrosities from Apocrypha. She had destroyed the structure the Dunmer had been building around the Wind Stone and the Last was now hacking away at the hulking Lurker spewing poison at her. For a moment, Miraak studied her.

He thought it odd for a woman of her size to prefer a sword and shield over say a small dagger or bow and arrow. Despite what he thought would be cumbersome for her, the Last Dragonborn danced circles around her prey. She rarely missed a moment to catch her enemy off-guard and disorient them with a bash of her shield. After which she’d slice through her target brutally, intending to kill. Just before Miraak could witness her finish the Lurker, his portal flickered out and the Atmoran’s link with the Wind Stone vanished.

Miraak’s heart fell. All that time spent studying, crafting, and channeling his power in secret… wasted by the one he should have executed when he’d had the chance. While he seethed in anger, Miraak noticed another disruption in the distance… coming from the location he’d pegged to the Sun Stone. With a final glance at his ruined project, Miraak summoned his dragon and took off in hopes he’d arrive quick enough to prevent more damage.

Skye’s POV

I bounded out of the warp gate, surprised that I didn’t feel too dizzy. Must be all my adrenaline at thwarting the cocky bastard. Let’s see him steal another hard-earned dragon soul from me again. Ignoring the workers around me, I inhaled and shouted “Gol!”

The Sun Stone shimmered, the water below it rippled from the force of my voice, and the structure surrounding it imploded. Skaal hunters and dark elves broke off in a dazed run when the giant Lurker burst forth from the ground. I figured it was another safeguard Miraak had to prevent his precious mind-control devices from being obliterated. I drew my sword and readied my shield to fight.

To make quick word of the beast, I shouted, “Su Grah Dun!”

My weapons felt weightless in my hands, and I swung with practiced dexterity. My sword cleaved purplish skin like butter. Slitting the large, fish-like monster’s legs made it stumble and I managed to block the sizzling spit that it upchucked. The Lurker continued through with its arm swing, gurgling in frustration. I didn’t believe it even felt pain. Not mutated like it was into this form. I had no mercy bringing the full strength of my swing down on to its neck, severing the creature’s head and ending the scuffle.

I went to move onto the next teleporter, because there was no doubt Miraak would catch on to my plan soon (the man was too smart for his own good). However, when I tried stepping forward, I found I could go no further than plant my foot in a wide stance. A noticeable force pulled my body backwards. I lost hearing suddenly and felt his soul. It was a hand that grasped for liberation but swung just short. As suddenly as the sensation came on, it disappeared. I couldn’t let this slow me down. I breathed slowly- in and out- and whispered the incantation, warping through space to the next All-Maker Stone.

…

I finally stood at the Tree Stone, knowing it had to lead me to Miraak’s room. Instead of shouting, I steeled my nerves and finally pressed my partially gloved hand to the dark mineral. The pull was much weaker… I still heard his voice, but it was easy to bypass at this point. I let myself fall into the magic powering the pulsing darkness housed inside the stone. Crisp, mountain air was replaced by the scent of musty books; my eyes opened to a semi-familiar room surrounded by bookcases.

I’d done it.

I finished congratulating myself and quickly started searching for a book bound in dragonskin. It had been near his bed last time. Ignoring the feeling of awkwardness I got from infiltrating the First Dragonborn’s quarters, I went to search around his bed. I found a few classics like The Cake and the Diamond and King of Worms, but no journal to speak of.       

Eventually, I found it lying on his desk beside several opened books on… myself. I fingered the pages of The Book of the Dragonborn, finding it oddly ironic my enemy was studying up on me as I was him. I picked up Miraak’s log and undid the gold cord that bound it. Inside, sharp script decorated the parchment. I noticed there was quite a bit written in Dovahzul, to my ire because I couldn’t decipher it, but I stumbled across some early writing from the First that told much of his background when he still walked on Nirn.

The Overlords came again today, asking for a more capable mage as our village’s tribute to the Cause. It would make 3. Three failed attempts to please the Masters, and 3 more dead despite their talent. The dragons grew restless, but they didn’t know burning our livelihoods was not furthering any of their ambitions.

I have tired of our sacrifices and have taken up the magic craft myself. Though I know it will sadden many who look to me for guidance in town, I know it is the only way my people will have their freedom… I have progressed surprisingly quickly for one of non-gifted descent. Perhaps it is what I am meant to do.

Miraak had been a leader of his village when he decided to serve the dragons. He’d trained himself in the art of magic to protect those he cared about from more needless sacrifice to the beasts. My mind was racing with possibilities… I flipped forward a few pages, past accounts of some place he called Bromjunaar, city where the dragons ruled with priests at their side. Miraak was one of the youngest mortals ever to become a dragon priest and he wrote about how he struggled to earn the respect (fear) of others, twice his senior. I quickly skimmed over his description of some notable priests, noting little nitpicks about their style of robe or the way they’d kneel to whatever dragon they were assigned that day. It was when I got to a section where Miraak wrote about the first time he realized he wasn’t all human (muz, as he put it) did I begin to slow.

Chapter Text

Skye's POV (reading)

This squadron they’ve placed me in is highly incompetent. I wished they’d sent me alone to deal with the recent uprising in the South… I could likely end things with less bloodshed. No matter. It must be done, and I am thankful to be on the dragons’ side, though Alduin has become quite restless as of late. Some of his orders have been… Questionable. I’ve spoken with Valok and Morokei about the state of things, but they are too wrapped up in Bromjunaar’s politics to doubt the dovah’s orders.

I raised a brow at the mention of Aludin’s name, wondering briefly what it would be like to serve the dragon as a human. I scanned the first couple of days of Miraak’s battle account and slowed when I came to a point where he wrote about one of his dragon commanders being downed by a catapult.

Mirmulnir was shot through the heart after he’d razed what we believed to be the last human encampment. I ordered my men to stay back and make sure there were no survivors. I went to check on the dovah. Mirmulnir was dying, but I knew I would be reprimanded if I stood by and did nothing, so I approached the writhing beast. As I neared enough to summon a healing spell, Mirmulnir started wailing, screaming for me to back away.

I was so confused. I watched his scales begin to burn up, disintegrating before my very eyes! A great cloud of orange and blue energy drifted up from the now clean bones of Mirmulnir and flew toward me. The effect on my body was indescribable… I fell to my knees, overwhelmed with enough power that made my body feel as if it was being ripped apart from the inside. I lie there, trembling beside the carcass of my commander. For one of the first times since becoming a dragon priest, I am afraid. What is wrong with me?

My brows furrowed in melancholic understanding. I had felt similar- afraid of my body, the foreign understanding flooding my blood, the consuming desire to dominate- but I had help guiding those urges. To be the first… would have been disastrous. It was devastating if history was anything to go by. I continued reading how Miraak had come up with a not-so-outlandish story of Mirmulnir’s body being burned by the survivors in revenge and Miraak had left no trace of them. The dragon masters were not pleased but seemed to believe the story after scouting the area.

They would never know it was I that burned the bones of Mirmulnir to dust… with my voice. I couldn’t risk them discovering the body, less Alduin resurrect him and Mirmulnir would inform them I failed at my duties. At first, I thought to use magicka to burn the skeleton, but I kept feeling like I needed to shout. The word I yelled was Dovahzul- Yol. I breathed fire just like my masters… It had been empowering, yet I had never heard of such thing and doubted any of my brethren had either. I decided to keep whatever change I was undergoing a secret.

When I uttered certain words in Dovahzul, the same miracles the winged beasts performed happened for me. The more words I strung together, the more powerful magic I could create with my tongue. I found I could move quicker, breath fire and frost, turn myself phantom, and in some instances, slow down time. I wanted to know more… I noticed I was progressing quickly at my sword training, and my magicka stores now felt vast enough to compete with even the most gifted priests. Still… I never felt satisfied anymore. Last night I trained for hours, until I collapsed, but my mind still worked through my steps as I slept, perfecting each incantation, every battle stance, all of the words I whispered in the dragon language. I feel I am not myself at times since devouring Mirmulnir.

It sounded like Miraak sensed his inner dragon rising up and demanding more. He wrote about meetings with fellow priests and other errands he performed for the dragons.

The Dov are taking notice of my skill. I’ve heard talk of them making me head of the Cult. It would not be enough. The dragons would still attempt to rule over me. I’ve been thinking of what it would be like to experience stripping another to its bones and consuming the power all to myself. I have an interesting theory that the more dragons I slaughter, the stronger I will become. I am not sure how I know this, but I’ve been retaining some of my dreams. Something has been explaining this odd power to me… Perhaps we will meet soon.

That must have been Hermaeus Mora wriggling his slimy tentacles into Miraak’s mind while he slept. The daedra preyed on human desire and it had the power to make that aspiration a reality. I read on.

I have been granted permission by Paarthurnax to travel alone to Skuldafn, Nahkrin’s province, on the back of some nameless dovah. It is time to test my theory.  

Miraak murdered the dragon he rode astride when they were flying over a very remote area and experienced the soul absorption of the Dragonborn once again. This time, however, Hermaeus Mora intervened.

This… thing, I believe it was a daedra by examining its mannerisms, had the same voice as the one that whispered to me in my dreams. It asked if I wanted more power, greater knowledge. It offered nothing I could not gain for myself so I refused, knowing I would soon become leader of the Dragon Cult and would thus have more dominance to my name. It merely laughed. Before disappearing, I heard it say “You will come seeking my knowledge. I can feel the agitation of your soul, Dragonborn.”

Dragonborn… What did that mean? I’ve never heard that term in all my studies. Maybe it is time I discuss what has happened with priests I’m closest with. Those who I trust. Surely they, with their grand amount of power, are growing weary of eternally serving the Dov. Dragons believe us to be beneath them. I have a feeling I can show them they are wrong.

A distant crash echoed in Apocrypha, making me glance up from Miraak’s intricate handwriting. It sounded faintly like a shout. I smiled to myself. The arrogant First Dragonborn was probably having a meltdown trying to stop all the damage I’d done to his precious mind control stones. One thing of note with the First- he did not give up easily. Still, my time spent snooping wouldn’t last forever and I greedily turned my eyes back on the Atmoran’s journal.

Chapter Text

It was as I expected. No one in my circle has ever heard of the term Dragonborn. Otar said he had heard it before in a dream, but half the cult figures his mind is slipping so I pursued his idea no further. It was Valok, oddly enough, who asked me to elaborate when we were out scouting a few weeks after I posed my question about a Dragonborn. Of all the other priests, Valok seems the most trustworthy and I was tiring of spending my evenings in isolation, secretly driving myself mad trying to solve the mystery of my soul.

I read about how Valok didn’t believe Miraak. The First Dragonborn was clever, though. He didn’t take a direct approach demonstrating his Thu’um like I would have. Rather, Miraak answered Valok’s question with one of his own. I read what Miraak had recorded of their conversation.

“Let us say you were Dragonborn, Miraak. And you had the power to perform the wonderous miracles our masters do.” Valok looked at me with eyes full of a purpose I’d slowly been forgetting. Blind, unquestioning servitude. “Do you believe you would have the power to rule as they do? Dominate the earth, sea, and air?”

“If I told you I would do more?” I was remembering the somber faces of the people I’d left behind when the Dov demanded our offering. They deserved better than the fear they lived in now. “The Dov cannot comprehend what it means to be joor, human. I have lived in the body of a man, been gifted the power the dragons wield over us…. It must mean something, Valok!”

The conversation I look back on after recording it only adds to my frustration. Why could none of them understand? The Dov never spent time studying, caring for the needs of the people they soared over and razed… They looked at us as livestock- expendable and only here to serve their needs with no expectation of repayment.

I traced the last word on the page, feeling the indention his quill had made when Miraak had likely broken it from pressing too hard. Ink was splattered over the next few lines. He had lived a slave to dragons in the name of his people. I could imagine how many ideas of rebellion he had swarming on any given day.

I read on, surprised that Miraak seemed to have once actually cared (or at least feigned caring) for the people he ruled over. The dragons, of course, made him leader of the cult- exactly like he’d expected. I noticed the further I read into his cult days, the angrier he became. It seemed to start after realizing he was Dragonborn.

“Maybe he wasn’t such an arrogant bastard before,” I mumbled, eyes following a line that detailed a day like one I’d have before getting stuck trying to stop the First Dragonborn from returning to Solstheim.

If I’d known helping a farmhand retrieve a family heirloom stolen by pillagers would be this tedious, I think I may have declined. The brigands continue to attempt to stop me, even though they witness the power of my Voice incinerate them. What a strange world I’ve stumbled upon. These poor souls really do need a leader who is greater than the dragons. With every errand I am sent on, I feel more convinced the dragons need to be removed.

These people are ignorant of my power, providing little more than “thanks” or a few coins in return for my assistance. No normal man could have undertaken these endeavors and survived, and yet they commend the Dov for sending their head priest, asking me to give them blessings of Alduin, good fortune for their crops and sacrifices.

I came of my own volition.

They still thought the dragons stronger than me.

I flipped through the next several days and noted Miraak detailed a strange book bound in black leather he received as a gift for helping an elderly man lost in the mountains.

I feel this unending tug toward the volume. I’ve sat with it for extended periods of time, wondering if it has the answer to my nature. My dreams have grown more vivid and the voice in my head, louder. It is time I see what this book hides.

So that was how he became tangled up in Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles. The daedric prince promised Miraak power over his dragon masters, guaranteed his freedom… for more servitude. Skimming forward, I found Miraak’s notes on developing Dragon Aspect. He’d bolded the Words of Power and I committed their meaning to memory. I continued searching desperately for Bend Will and discovered the second word, but I could not find the last…

Hermaeus Mora told me he would give me the last word of Bend Will if I pledged my service to him…

I heard a deep, unnerving chuckle from above me. I slammed the book shut and scrambled backward only to be met with the mass of tentacles and eyeballs that was the daedric prince of forbidden knowledge.

“Hm, this is where you’ve been hiding… you are a clever mortal to have upset my Champion so.”

I had been so wrapped up in Miraak’s writing, I was not alerted at all when the prince manifested. In the back of my mind, I felt a bit sorry for Miraak because I’d likely helped Mora discover his hideaway by staying here too long. The largest eye hovered on the First Dragonborn’s journal I had swiftly replaced on his desk.

“You would make a fine replacement… You see, Miraak no longer appreciates the gifts I’ve given him. He harbors ideas of… rebellion against me.”

I grit my teeth against the grating drawl of Hermaeus. I did not take my attention off those waving black limbs.

“I know what you seek. Why you are here.” Hermaeus Mora narrowed his eye at me. “You wish to end him to further your own heroic ideals. However, in order to accomplish this task, you require the last word of the Bend Will shout. Only then, can you hope to challenge Miraak.”

I set my jaw against the offer I knew was coming.

“I can give it to you… for a price.”

Another faraway boom sounded from the outskirts of Apocrypha. I did not want the First Dragonborn to find me in his wrath. I had exhausted all my options trying to master the forbidden Thu'um as he had. My eyes returned to the patiently floating abyss.

“What do you want?”

Chapter Text

I’d done everything to prevent this. I had cleansed the All-Maker Stones to restore some power to the Skaal. I’d traveled to the edge of Solsthiem to a place called Tel Mithryn where I had encountered a rather eccentric old wizard by the name of Neloth. Being Telvanni, I expected Neloth may have knowledge I could use to bargain with Hermaeus Mora, but the wizard laughed, stating once a daedric prince set its price, I had only one choice- pay or receive nothing. Luckily, I ended up making friends with Neloth’s assistant and eventually, I think the Dunmer wizard warmed up to me, as well. He accompanied me to an ancient Dwemer ruin to retrieve another of Mora’s Black Books- an additional one of my attempts to try and “go around” the bargain Hermaeus had tried to strike with me.

Now I stood before the horrific sight of Storn, head of the Skaal, impaled by several of Mora’s limbs. It was sucking the life and knowledge directly out of Storn’s being. I tried to block out Frea’s haggard screams and the hostile gazes of the other tribesmen, but guilt threatened to consume me. I told myself this was the only way to save Solstheim and its people; sacrifice the few to save the masses. The sound of human flesh ripping accompanied the prince’s steady drawl.

“You have done well, my future Champion. Finally, the secrets this clan kept from me are mine at last! Here is the power you seek. As promised.”

The tentacles withdrew back into the pages of Hermaeus’s Black Book and Storn collapsed to the snow, unmoving. Frea cried out and dropped to his side. I stood and read the final Word of Power that had been etched into the shaman’s chest. Understanding flooded me, but instead of leaving me with the familiar feeling of a higher power, it felt dirty. The price of forbidden knowledge was steep and unrewarding, indeed. However, I did feel one thing more strongly than anything else- sovereignty over the immortal beings who would never submit to me willingly. I would take Miraak’s dragons from him and use them against the First.

“You got what you wanted,” Frea ground out, glaring at me from tear-stained eyes. “Now leave. Leave and destroy Miraak. My father’s sacrifice will not be in vain.”

Her blue eyes bore into me as she stated, “Remember what I said about what would happen if I found you have turned as he.”

I dipped my head, disregarding her open antagonism toward me. Frea would never be able to uphold her threat.

“I will end his control over this land. Your people will be free once again.”

I went to pick up the Black Book, noticing how the Skaal hunters backed away from me even though I paid them no mind. They had their hands shakily over their spears and daggers, but I strode past them and did not look back. The time was coming and I needed to be prepared for this fight. I shuddered to think what would happen if I wasn’t.

…

I had set up a shelter on the rocky outcropping near the Beast Stone. I’d gathered and shaped wood to act as posts for strapping the fur and leather flaps of my tent to. The other small logs and scraps of wood I fashioned into a campfire in the middle of the tent to stave off the chill rolling down from the mountain. More furs were piled on the ground, my bed for the night. Rabbit roasted on sharpened sticks leaning toward the fire and I sat cross-legged on my bundle of furs, sharpening my sword.

I’d let my hair down from its braid, golden strands spilling over my shoulders, and I had removed my armor, opting for a simple, cloth and leather undershirt and trousers instead of the weighty bonemail. The sound of scraping stone quieted as my hand drifted to a stop at the tip of my blade. I sighed, set my weapon and sharpening rock down, and went to turn the meat. Fat dribbled into the fire and the scent made my mouth water. I knew after I ate, I’d find sleep quickly.

Now, however, my mind could not stop contemplating the coming battle. I had never seen Miraak fight, but I figured he was very capable in both swordplay and magic. I worried about his Thu’um. I had never fought another Dragonborn (neither had he), and I witnessed what my Voice could do to others. I did not want to imagine how much damage I could do with the years of training Miraak had.

I summoned a small burst of flame that I centered on the fire to increase the speed my rabbit cooked. My eyes watched the orange and yellow tongues lap at the crackling wood. I thought back to Miraak’s journal entries. I questioned whether one of us really had to die. The longing feeling of his soul reaching mine after I broke his connection with the All-Maker Stones was seared into my memory. I didn’t focus on it long. Just as it was my destiny to stop the World Eater, so it was to end Miraak. I believed I was the only one that could.

All I would get in return was thanks and a few septims. Stop it, Skye. You’re just repeating what that arrogant bastard said about the people he used to help. And he probably helped them out of his own self-interest.

I told myself all of this as I chewed the charred rabbit meat, struggling to enjoy the meal. After I finished cleaning my hands in the snow and securing the flap to my tent so I’d hear any intruders come in during the night, I settled on my warm bed of furs. The exhaustion hit me hard as a giant’s club and I sank deep under the covers. It was not long before an all-consuming darkness spread across my being….

Miraak’s POV

She had destroyed everything. His shines lay in unrepairable ruin, his journal had been disturbed when he’d returned to his quarters, and Hermaeus Mora was now likely all too aware of Miraak’s plans to escape. The only thing that pulled him away from his sulking was the feeling of her nearby, yet still not within his plane of existence. The only point of connection she had not been able to break was Miraak’s bond with the Tree Stone. The First Dragonborn could sense that she was not far from his old home, somewhere unmoving in the wilderness.

Unlike most other occasions, Miraak did not resist his urge to materialize near her this time. After the dizzying effects of his spell wore off, he found himself within a small shelter, lit only by the soft glow of a fire. It illuminated golden stands of the Last Dragonborn’s hair. Miraak stared for a moment. He had never seen her with her hair out of a braid (or herself out of armor for that matter), and the old Atmoran struggled to tear his gaze from her sleeping form. Whereas he would normally focus on his longing for the heat of the flames that kept her warm, the licks of wind that stirred the tent coverings, the scent of ash mixed with mountain air, Miraak’s attention was on his enemy.

“You really are the only way for me to gain my freedom, now.” He whispered, walking slowly toward the bundle of fur she was tucked under. The dragon priest thought it odd that a Nord would be so adverse toward the cold.

The pull of her soul warmed Miraak. Her soul is so very strong… He caught a glimpse of her face, unguarded in her slumber. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips pressed together in a tight line; the Last Dragonborn was dreaming. Was she regretting the way she had acquired the final word of Bend Will? Miraak did not want another dragonborn enslaved by Hermaeus Mora for eternity.

The tall Atmoran lowered himself close beside her, thinking she appeared much more like the dragon inside of her when he’d seen her fight. Now she just looked…

“Brit (Beautiful)," he breathed. 

Maybe it had been too many years since Miraak had beheld the female form, but he could not recall one of her caliber. The women he remembered were weak, fragile creatures with wiry limbs, too-perfect hair, and clothes meant to deceive. The female before him was nothing like the ones he’d met. The Last Dragonborn carried herself with confidence yet retained her feminine empathy. She could speak frankly, but with a clever jilt that belied real intelligence.

If he truly thought on it, Miraak did not want to kill her. But he could not let her become Hermaeus Mora’s toy like he had.

“Your power will be put to good use, Dovahkiin.”

Miraak thought of the world he would soon come to rule over. It was not so different than when he’d walked the earth. Her being the Last Dragonborn meant the Dov were returning, trying to dominate humans again. Sizzling fury coursed through his veins when he remembered Alduin’s orders to raze his temple (his home) all those years ago. With the knowledge he’d scoured from Apocrypha, the First Dragonborn could overpower anything that stood in his way of reigning over Nirn.

Briefly, his eyes traced her features again. What was this attraction, this protectiveness he suffered when he was near her? Miraak should hate the Last Dragonborn for her meddling, but he understood the trials of being Dragonborn better than any other mortal. Making self-sacrifices for the “greater good” was what she’d been told her nature permitted her to do. The priest recalled how the Dov kept order together. They had been stronger for it.

Miraak drew a gloved hand across the side of her face. “Perhaps you would rule beside me if things were different.”

He thought of what it would be like to show another of his kind how little sacrifice she needed to make in order to achieve dominion with the title of Dragonborn. The Last would enjoy his rule within Miraak’s body, for he would consume her soul. There was no other way.

“Mir… No…” The Nord murmured in her dreams, obviously disturbed by something.

Miraak tilted his head at the sound of her mumbling. She would not wake rested and ready for battle at this rate. Summoning the last of his reserves in this plane, the First Dragonborn cast Calm from his hand.

“Nahlot, Dovahkiin (Silence, Dragonborn). I fight a worthy opponent tomorrow. Not one already fearing our clash.”

He watched the female relax, already feeling Apocrypha sucking him back into the endless library with the loss of his focus.

“Su’um ahrk morah (breath and focus/goodbye). Next we meet, blood will be shed.” A small smile crossed his lips when he recalled her disgust at his letters professing she was not the “true” dragonborn. “And we will finally see who truly has the soul of the Dov.”

Skye would not stir again until morning.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

Sahrotaar circled the summit before swooping in to land. Apocrypha’s green and black ambiance should have enraptured me with its ocean of writhing black waves, unreal stormy sky, and ferocious monstrosities roaming below, but I only had eyes for him. The First Dragonborn who arrogantly subjugated me to kneeling to him upon our first encounter. Who stole my hard-earned dragon souls and laughed at my incompetence. Who stood waiting for me to fight him because he truly believed killing me was the only way to break Hermaeus Mora’s shackles.

The ancient priest had to know the daedric prince was aware of his escape plan. I knew Mora wasn’t going to give up his favorite toy after a simple contest. Hermaeus did not fight fair and he certainly did not care what mortals he injured in the process. I grimaced at the memory of Storn, raped by Mora’s tentacles for his knowledge. It sickened me that I’d been made to go along with Hermaeus Mora’s wishes just to show up here and murder his champion. It seemed like the prince of forbidden knowledge always got his way. It was time for that to change.

Miraak’s POV

She arrived riding his beast, Sahrotaar, who had so diligently served Miraak since the day Hermaeus trapped them in this place. Her Thu’um had gotten stronger if she had been able to break his hold on Sahrotaar. The thought filled Miraak with a surprising rush of adrenaline mixed with fury.

“Sahrotaar, are you so easily swayed?” His booming voice bolstered his confidence as he addressed his dragon, inadvertently wishing for the Last Dragonborn’s response. She remained silent while Sahrotaar swooped in to land, lowering his deformed skull so she could dismount easily. Miraak felt himself become heated at both the Last Dragonborn and his dragon’s lack of response, and the man watched in fury as she stroked his dragon’s neck in thanks before moving toward him.

Miraak felt his other two dragons tense as a foreigner approached their master. He held up a hand to quell them. “No, not yet. We should greet our guest first.”

They approached each other in unison until both stood across from the other, separated by one of Apocrypha’s black puddles of ink. Miraak quelled his growing irritation and took in the sight of the Last Dragonborn before him. She was a small thing, but her stance reminded him she was also a hardened warrior. Miraak could feel her inner dovah’s restlessness- a fiery presence beneath the woman’s eerily calm exterior. It was much different from their first meeting in Apocrypha.

“And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha, no doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended. He is a fickle master, you know.”

Before Miraak could continue, she drew her sword, the grating sound of metal silencing him. “I hope he’s watching as I take his most prized possession from him.” Her voice was laced with a composed menace. “I hope you watch as I suck all the dragon souls you took from me out of your dying, mountain of a body.”

She twirled her weapon and took more steps toward Miraak. His facial expression changed as he realized he wouldn’t get to finish his grandiose speech before they clashed.

“I hope you regret the way this ends.” Those last words were said in a voice he almost didn’t hear.

Regret? When was the last time he felt that emotion? The Last was even stranger than he thought. Before he could come up with a reply, the Last Dragonborn lunged forward, her dragonbone blade slicing through the air where Miraak had been. He slung a charged bolt of lightning from his palm, but it struck her shield, not the female and the sparks fizzled harmlessly around her. From behind the shield, she charged with the power and grace of a saber cat, forcing Miraak on the defensive again. He’d expected this assault and met her strike with the edge of his own sword.

Their collision brought him close enough to spy the shine of her eyes, the sweat peppering her pale skin, and the grimace she made when his strength started to overpower her stance. Miraak held a thin smile behind his mask, reveling in the presence of another dragonborn at the edge of her limit.

“Fus Roh Dah!”

A thunderous explosion of force lifted Miraak from the platform they fought on and if he’d been any normal mortal, the man would have crashed to the floor and given the Last Dragonborn the upper hand. But Miraak was the First Dragonborn- most powerful of the dragon priests of old, purveyor of forbidden knowledge- and he used telekinesis to right himself in the air and land as gracefully as one could after being on the receiving side of an Unrelenting Force shout.

Skye’s POV

I thought I’d caught him off-guard, but Miraak basically brushed off my Unrelenting Force shout, floating to the ground as if I’d done nothing except give him a slight shove. I glared at him, panting from the force of the Th’um.

“You are strong.” He didn’t sound drained at all. “Stronger than I thought possible.”

Did he sound… impressed?  Before I could react, Miraak landed a sharp burst of lightning directly on my chest. I growled in pain, lurching backwards to avoid more of the bolts. I ducked beneath my shield, deflecting the First Dragonborn’s onslaught of magic. How many magicka reserves did he have? It was all I could do to heal myself with a quick gulp of my health potion before Miraak broke through my barrier. His frame obscured my vision as he was upon me.

“Yol Toor Shul!”

I inhaled, rolling to the side, feeling the roaring fire that escaped his tongue scorch skin through my armor’s bonemail. On instinct, I raised my shield and it met with the hard tentacle sprouting from Miraak’s sword. The First Dragonborn was nearly as good a sword master as he was a mage. But quicker am I.  

“Su Grah Dun!” Swifter than the naked eye, I bashed Miraak with my shield, and slashed across his mask. The gold gave to the dragonbone edge of my sword, and I heard him grunt and stumble back. Still high from my Elemental Fury shout, I was upon Miraak in less than a second, blade poised to strike again. This time I wasn’t missing my target.

"Fus Roh Dah!”

It was Miraak’s turn to blast his Unrelenting Force shout in my face. My armor did nothing to soften the blow from his voice and I went flying, losing my shield in mid-flight. Using the last of my speed, I spun to land on my feet, fire already building in my now free hand. Miraak had recovered from my attacks and he lobbed fireballs that met mine, shattering the spells together in midair. With every magic flare, Miraak would dance closer and my focus on him would sharpen. Our inner dragons were testing the other, every strike a provocation. It was like battling a dovah, but somehow much more exhilarating.

“Keeping your distance, Vahdin? (Woman) Come fight me like a true warrior, blade to blade, Thu’um al Thu’um.” He sounded slightly winded. “Unless you fear you cannot match mine, mal dovahkiin?” (Little Dragonborn)

I scrambled to retrieve my shield and rose to his bait, charging as I shouted, “Mul Qua Diiv!” It felt like a part of my soul was torn from my insides, encasing my body in ethereal scales, crowning my head with horns, and imbuing my spirit with the power of the dragons I’d consumed. When my sword met Miraak’s, he strained to keep me at bay. My eyes locked with the slits of his now damaged mask.

“Still think killing me is the only way?” I swung wide, pressing the man back and then I caught him with the edge of my shield. “You’re going to end up sacrificing one of the last two most powerful beings in existence just because you can’t think outside the barrel!”

Miraak unleashed his own Dragon Aspect shout, and I could hear the anger in his voice. “So you use my own shout against me. You learn quickly, but you are no match for me, Dragonborn!”

He caught my shield with his staff and leveled it so he could hit me directly with a shower of black tentacles. I growled from the sting of poison that singed my armor; the smell of acid was putrid in the air. I vaulted away from the twisted magic of Miraak’s staff, Fire Breath spewing from my lips. The First Dragonborn countered swiftly with Frost Breath and the might from our voices seemed to shake the whole of Apocrypha.

“Fate decrees one of us must die so that I may have the power of your soul and become master of my own destiny once again.” Miraak cast Chain Lighting and it was all I could do to block one of the forked bolts, gasping as my armor took the force of the other.

Before he could produce another spell, I shouted, “Gaan Lah Haas!”

The Drain Vitality Thu’um collided directly with Miraak, and he snarled as he no doubt felt weakness creep into his bones and suck his magicka away. I took the opportunity to advance, savoring how the First threw up a hand to try and dispel the power rolling off my form.

“If you think my soul will make any difference in helping you escape, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.” I brought my sword down on Miraak, watching how his blood followed the slice of the blade. “You spend years searching for a way out and the best you come up with is confuse the daedric prince of knowledge and fate by dragging the Last Dragonborn to his realm of Oblivion and slaughter her?”

My next slash was slowed by a ward Miraak cast, but it still bit into his skin, scattering the orange and blue tendrils of soul surging round his body. He suddenly disappeared using Whirlwind Sprint, and I swiftly deflected the shock and fire spells barreling toward me.

“He’s watching our every move! You pledged your soul to Hermaeus Mora- he’s never letting you go willingly.”

I had caught up to Miraak, noticing him visibly sway after redrawing his sword he’d stowed to cast. I’d weakened the First… and yet I felt no happiness as I knew I was bringing him nearer to death with each hack and wallop of my sword and shield. We were once again locked in combat with each other when he grated out, “My soul belongs to Akatosh, God of Time-“

“That was before you sold your soul to Hermaeus!” I knew the way I yelled likely aggravated Miraak more, but I had surprised myself with how ardently I declared he was in the wrong. We exchanged another set of blows; his sword bit into my armor, the tip of it reaching skin. I countered with a rough shove to keep him off balance and surged forward, plunging my blade through both his robe and side.

“It is in my blood, as in yours, mal Dovahkinn. Hermaeus Mora cannot take my blood.” His speech sounded strangled, no doubt he was hemorrhaging from his mouth. With a well-timed parry, Miraak managed to jostle me back so he had time to shout, “Feim Zii Gron!”

I watched with both irritation and fascination as the First Dragonborn stumbled to where one of his dragons landed. Its great maw opened toward me, but before it attacked, Miraak silenced the beast. “Relonikiv! Dii los dii du!” (Your soul is mine to devour)

The dovah released a mighty roar as its body disintegrated before my very eyes, soul rushing into Miraak’s form and giving him renewed vigor. I understood why so many that had witnessed me perform the same absorption ritual stayed back. It was unnatural; it made Miraak look like a god in human form as I saw him straighten to his full height, his sword grip tighten, and himself turn contemptuously toward me.

“Did you behold all that transpired, Dragonborn?” He stepped toward me, no longer wobbly on his feet. “When you accept defeat and yield to me… I will not be gentle.”

I shook my head clear of his mesmerizing accent, readying my stance for combat again. Deep down, I knew freedom was Miraak’s goal. I did not think he really wanted to kill me. “I know that’s not what you really want, Miraak.”

We collided again, but this time the First Dragonborn caught my shield mid-bash instead of sidestepping my swing like I had expected. He ignited the metal with a flame spell, scorching my hand so I dropped my shield. I was disoriented enough where Miraak breached my defenses and palmed my throat, slamming me up against a surrounding pillar of our battleground. My eyes clenched shut, expecting the same fire that singed my shield against my neck. None came, but his grip was solid.

“To make you submit to me?” He referenced my comment from before. “Los daar ni what enook mun paar do hi, Dovahkiin?” (Is that not what every man desires of you, Dragonborn?) 

  Miraak’s POV

 I know that’s not really what you want, Miraak.

He watched the disdain flush across her face at his comment, annoyed that the Last Dragonborn did not say his name again. She looks beautiful trembling from exhaustion under my hand. The Last Dragonborn’s sky blue eyes still shined even in her weariness and through the blood that dotted her features. Miraak’s thoughts traveled to her words for the hundredth time. What if there’s another way? The ancient dragonborn searched her eyes, desperate for the answer, yet his rage continued to grow when she just choked instead of answering him. The First sensed his dovah’s grah bahlok (battle hunger) rocketing out of control since he had consumed Relonikiv’s soul; however, it was the Last Dragonborn’s pulse beneath his fingers that stopped him from crushing her.

Her blood throbbed like his own- fiery, unquelled, angry. Hermaeus Mora had promised Miraak his freedom if he killed the Last… When had the daedric prince of forbidden knowledge ever delivered his promises without a catch? Was there another way?  It was the first human touch Miraak had felt in over 4,000 years… to take it away would mean Miraak would lose the Last Dragonborn to Hermaeus Mora. The mere thought of Mora’s repulsive tentacles surrounding the woman Miraak held against a column of books struck a chord in the First Dragonborn.

It was then he decided. And it was then Miraak received the full force of the Last Dragonborn’s kick followed by her (he assumed legendary) Unrelenting Force shout.

Skye’s POV

Why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?

As soon as I’d sent the Atmoran flying again, my battered body collapsed to the floor and I started hacking violently. Miraak had nearly strangled me, but then he’d stopped as if in thought. Not taking time to think about what had just transpired, I staggered forward to collect my weapon and shield despite my protesting muscles. Miraak was undoubtedly one of the toughest enemies I had ever faced, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take if he decided to devour his other two dragons in order to heal himself again.

I expected his deep rumble to taunt me, but when I gathered myself up all I heard was the sound of flesh being ripped apart. My gaze rested on the sight of the First Dragonborn being held aloft by a thick black tentacle, his blood dribbling from where Hermaeus had punctured a hole through Miraak’s torso. It was a horrific sight and my face twisted in disgust, revolted at the way Mora handled his champion. The daedric prince had stolen my victory and it took all my willpower to watch Miraak flail in agony, the once mighty dragonborn reduced to a dying man fighting for his life.

“You had your chance and didn’t take it,” Hermaeus Mora’s gurgle mocked the First. “Did you think you’d escape me even if you had killed her? You can hide nothing from me here, Miraak!”

No one deserved to die that way. And no one, not even a daedric prince took a dovah’s kill from her. I gathered the last of my strength and bounded toward the inky appendage, setting my sword.

“No matter, I have found a new dragonborn to serve me- ACK!”

Mora’s scream tore through Apocrypha as I severed his tentacle. The part lodged inside of Miraak disintegrated and slunk back into the pools of ink surrounding Hermaeus’s plane of Oblivion. The man made a faint sound of pain when he hit the platform we had fought on and turned deathly still.

“I will never serve you, monster!” My voice seemed so small compared to Hermaeus Mora’s all-encompassing drawl.

My eyes found Miraak’s body, laying broken and bleeding on the stone of Apocrypha. To watch how Hermaeus just tossed aside the man who served him for thousands of years- the man who had been trying to kill me- shouldn’t have phased me, but it infuriated me that the prince wouldn’t even give the First Dragonborn the decency of dying with his honor still intact. Miraak’s two remaining dragons pierced the sky with roars of madness, and I realized the former dragon priest’s hold over their will must have broken when he’d lost consciousness.

“You will serve me, willingly or not!” A massive tentacle lashed out at me and I rolled, narrowly avoiding the burning sting from the whip. Kruziikrel barreled into the wretched abyss of limbs, saving me from being consumed by Hermaeus in my weakened state. I would not leave Miraak to be brutalized by the daedric prince; it went against my human code of honor, though my dovah believed otherwise.

Sahrotaar swooped in and hovered in front of me, rearing back for his breath attack. I shouted first. “Gol Hah Dov!”

I braced for the bizarre neural connection that formed between me and the dragon. The light in Sahrotaar’s eyes dulled, focusing only on me, yet still aware of the encroaching forms of Seekers and Lurkers appearing to do Mora’s bidding. “Hail, Thuri. Fent zu qahnaar hin hokoronne?” (Shall I vanquish your enemies?)

“Protect me and Miraak. Find the Black Book Waking Dreams, open it and escape after we disappear. Be wary of the daedra.” I willed the blue dragon to understand, and to my relief, he dipped his serpentine head in acknowledgement.

“Geh, Thuri. It shall be done.” With a booming roar, Sahrotaar took to the skies again, unleashing his frost breath on the Seekers below. It bought me enough time to reach Miraak and start to gather him. I staggered under his weight, but my legs still pressed forward toward the center ink pool where Waking Dreams was rising.

“What a defiant little champion you are.” Hermaeus Mora’s voice was far too close for comfort, and I shifted Miraak’s weight until I spotted a tentacle rocketing toward me from above. I blocked with my shield just in time, but the force knocked me off balance enough for Kruziikrel to spot my weakness and take aim.

“Gol Hah Dov!” I stifled a headache as I connected with another dragon, yelling, “Kruziikrel, burn Hermaeus Mora! Help Sahrotaar and open Waking Dreams to escape!”

The speckled dragon roared in recognition of my command and Hermaeus was busied fending off the Dov. I had finally reached the book, fumbling to open it while still trying to hold Miraak upright. His blood was slick against my body, but I managed to fling open the pages of Waking Dreams, hungry for release. I clutched Miraak tight and gave into the dizzying feeling of being sucked out of Apocrypha.

Chapter Text

There he lay, unmoving save for the eerily faint rise and fall of his bloodied chest. He was my enemy; I should finish him off. My eyes flicked to his mask and I desperately wanted to remove it. The man’s breathing sounded soft beneath his face covering, no doubt from feeling the pain of being impaled by Mora’s appendage. My eyes strayed to the bloody mess of his chest, knowing if I didn’t do something he would die and destroy my efforts of thwarting the daedric prince. I was exhausted from our battle. My body and head ached liked I’d been on the road for weeks without resting. I felt my hands trembling and tried to steady them. If I was going to save my enemy, then I had to concentrate.

What made me garner the rest of my magicka into a healing spell I centered on Miraak’s chest, I’ll never know. Flesh knitted together painstakingly slow, blood oozed to a stop, organs refitted themselves. I gritted my teeth as black speckles flickered before my vision. If I passed out now, he wouldn’t make it. Before Hermaeus Mora intervened, I had beaten him badly and his body bore several fresh wounds from my sword.

My inner dovah bristled at my recollection of our battle, giving me the strength to continue pushing my magicka reserves into the Atmoran’s broken body. A sharp headache pierced through my brain, indicating my magicka was dangerously low, but I let the remembrance of our clash fuel my stubbornness and continued to mend the First.

The glowing light faded from my hands as I barely caught myself from crumpling on top of Miraak. His breathing evened out and his wounds were no longer fatal. I wasn’t sure if I would survive, though. I had no strength left to hold myself upright, and so I let my body slink to the floor, finally giving in to the exhaustion threatening to take me under. My armor bit into the softer edges of my skin and I slowly started undoing the fastenings. It was difficult to shrug off laying down, but once the pauldrons, chest piece, and bracers dropped, I could rest.

I shouldn’t be sleeping this close to him… what happens if he wakes up before me? My last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was if he kills me in my sleep, I will haunt his head for the rest of eternity.

…

“You think you can simply escape me?”

 I stumbled dragging Miraak toward the Black Book, trying so hard to block out Hermaeus Mora’s drawling speech. His disembodied voice was enraged and I hadn’t bought much time by slicing the tentacle that held Miraak aloft through his abdomen.

“Fuck off, Mora! I’ll never be your pawn, especially now that I see how you treat them!” I barked back at the disembodied voice, not attempting to look the daedra in its mass of eyes. Hauling Miraak’s limp, blood-spattered body was difficult- the man was taller than me by more than a foot and much heavier- but I endured despite the many injuries the First had given me. I don’t know what possessed me not to kill him. It probably had something to do with not being able to deal the finishing blow myself, at least that’s the lie I continued telling. Something in me snapped when I watched the other dragonborn dangle helplessly by the hand of the dadrea he served for thousands of years.

No one deserved to die that way, I thought, throwing up another ward to deflect a Seeker’s magic attack. Hermaeus Mora’s minions maintained their relentless onslaught even as my hand gripped the Black Book and went to open it. A sudden crushing pressure stifled me and yanked me away from the Book and Miraak. I screamed as slimy back tentacles constricted my torso and bound my limbs as I was lifted toward Mora’s eyes.

You will never get away with him. I always get what I desire… Soon, the agony became too much to bear and I was swept up in the blackness of Mora’s realm…

Miraak’s POV

He woke slowly, painfully aware of how damaged his body felt when he first began to move. Grunting, Miraak pressed his torso up enough to take in his surroundings. No longer was there constantly swirling parchment, sickly green and black darkness, or the gurgling sounds of Seekers and Lurkers like he expected. He blinked to clear his mind’s haze. What had happened? Miraak wondered, jumping in pain when he tried turning his neck. Slower this time, he started to take in his environment. The air was cold as it wafted in from underneath the cloth of the ramshackle shelter he found himself in. A lingering scent of blood mixed with the clean breeze murmuring through the tent.

A soft moan touched his ears and his eyes immediately located the source. Close beside him lay a figure clad in a bloodied cotton undershirt, her dragonbone armor scattered around her form. Pale golden hair that had slipped from tightly woven braids stuck to the neck of the woman dreaming next to him. She shuddered in her sleep and rolled so she was prone and writhing on the mat to his side. Miraak’s brow furrowed in confusion and apprehension when he recognized the female to be the Last Dragonborn.

What was she doing here beside him? Vivid flashes of their fight played in his head and he hated to admit it, but their skirmish had ended with her the victor and him… He was supposed to be dead. The man ran a hand over his mask, tracing the carved design of gold. It felt real.

His finger found a deep gouge in the metal of his mask and it stalled his hand. The Last had made this gash. He remembered it well. The crazed flash of her blue eyes as she danced away from a fragmenting bolt of lightning, using her agility to breach his defenses. Soon those eyes were much too close for comfort and the edge of her sword bit the gold of Miraak’s mask before his head jerked back, Unrelenting Force shout saving his neck from the next onslaught of her attack.

Skye’s POV

As Miraak was deep in thought, I woke from my harried slumber. My eyes shot open and I bolted upright, gasping for air. Imagine my surprise when the first thing I saw was the angry mask of the First Dragonborn glaring down at me. Just like during our first meeting, I froze, not because of the power emitting from him, but because it was the first time I’d seen the man outside of Apocrypha.

I had done it. Escaped and kept both of us alive despite the wrathful daedra nipping at our heels. My celebration didn’t last long. The First Dragonborn lunged at me, his big body barreled into mine, knocking the breath out of my slim frame. I heard him groan and twitch hard as he tried to gather my shirt into his fist. The idiot was going to ruin all the hard work I’d done to heal his wounds.

“Yeah, I bet it hurts, doesn’t it?” I untangled his fist from my front, still unable to meet his eyes. “Get off of me!”

Funny, I would have guessed he’d be skinny and frail after spending so much time surrounded by books inside Apocrypha, but Miraak was pleasantly well-built underneath his tattered robes. And that meant he was heavy. He growled against my ministrations, and with a sudden burst of energy, his face was inches from mine and his palm covered my throat.

“You! What did you do?” If he expected an answer, he was going to have to release me. Instead he continued to spit in my face. “One of us is supposed to be dead! What have you done?”

I managed to dislodge his fingers enough for me to gather enough air for a shout. “Feim!”

His great palm sunk straight through my neck and I heard his body hit the ground with a thud. I quickly scrambled to my feet, gritting my teeth as biting pain reminded me that I was nearly as injured as my enemy was. It was quite pathetic, really. The two most powerful beings on Nirn, flailing like newborn babies as both tried to get the upper hand.

“You-listen-to-me,” each word was punctuated with a hard grab as I snatched Miraak and rolled him until I was the one on top. “I did what was necessary to get us out of that place with our lives. You should be licking my boots with gratitude by now, Priest!”

Miraak attempted to shake my hand off his neck, likely to shout at me same as I did him, but a quick jab to his abdomen made the man studder with pain and fall back.

“How long do you want to do this, Miraak?” A smirk graced my lips. “How many times do I need to put your ass in your place before you take the hint.”

That comment made him furious and the man resumed his struggles with greater vigor. I fought the urge to roll my eyes and grabbed the dagger I’d stowed near my sleeping mat. Once Miraak felt the blade bite into his freshly mended skin, he finally quit thrashing. His masked glare was no less intimidating even as he lay prone beneath me, breath hot against the skin of my hand. I stilled momentarily, too, silently excited by the fact I had the First Dragonborn- traitorous destroyer of dragons and men, Hermaeus Mora’s prized champion, the strongest dragon priest- literally on his back and vulnerable underneath me, panting like a dog.

Miraak’s POV

Oh, she was fiery, the Last Dragonborn, and though Miraak would never admit, her presence made his temperature rise. She claimed she was just and heroic; he knew the dragon inside of her hungered for power and had an endless desire for domination. Miraak could tell that was exactly what she was experiencing now as she smirked down from atop his aching chest. His struggles had been compromised by the prick of her dagger against his damaged midsection, and since her hand prevented him from gathering enough air to shout, all he could do was communicate his rage through his actions.

How had she gotten them away from Hermaeus alive? Had she sold her soul just as he? Was he under some kind of control spell from the Last? Was this all a cruel trick Mora was playing on his mind? So many questions sprang from his inquisitive mind, and it appeared the only way he was getting any answers was if he yielded to the woman above him. At least until I get my answers. Then I will decide what to do with her.

Skye’s POV

He was obviously contemplating something. It probably had to do with the many ways he’d try to kill me once he healed, I thought.

Let him try.

“Finally decided which one of us is the victor, huh?” I grinned down at him cheekily, removing my hand as I sat back on his overgrown body.

“Do you humiliate all of your victims like this?” His throaty rumble tickled my thighs

“Only those dumb enough to think they can best me.” I decided to tease him, the invisible pull I felt towards Miraak overpowering my common sense. I leaned down and locked eyes with the slits of his mask. “You’re lucky you’re strong or else my humiliation is often much less… tame.”

I realized my cocky mistake a moment too late. Miraak’s arm had slipped from under my leg and trailed through the lose strands of hair framing my face, his fingertips barely brushing my cheek.

“Strong, am I? Charming, Dovahkiin, but you forget that I too have honeyed words and, hm… humiliation tactics, as well.”

I could hear the smile in his voice even though his face was hidden. The low timbre he’d dropped to started my blush and the rough pads of his fingers across my cheek made the pink tint spread. Still, I managed to keep my reply level. “Hate to break it to you, Miraak, but an old, injured man doesn’t quite appeal to women in this day and age.”

To my surprise, he chuckled, tensing from the pain it must have caused him. “No, I think you’re wrong there, Dragonborn. You see, I believe I’ve found the only woman for me.”

Did he just say that? I cursed my stupid heart for missing a beat. To hear those words spoken in his sinful rumble did nothing to tone my blush back.

“Heh, you must’ve hit your head harder than I thought if you think your mortal enemy, fake dragonborn is the girl for you.” I meant to put some bite behind my words, but they came out breathless feeling his hand move down my face and hover just above my throat. I could feel his gaze pierce right through me despite the slots in his mask being the only window to the man’s eyes.

“Ah, but circumstances have changed, dii peyt (my rose.) Hi los brit, mul (you are beautiful, strong)- the only one who truly understands what it’s like to have dragonblood course through your veins.” As if to emphasize this point, he lightly traced my collarbone. His touch was warm and the wind was cold, but a fool I was not. As soon as I made to stop him, his words started again.

“But you are also naïve and far too young to humiliate me!”

A sharp light came from his hand and a second too late I realized it was a paralyze spell. The shout I had ready stopped in my throat as I felt my body seize. Miraak pushed me to the side and I slid helplessly off of him. He struggled to stand and I thought him an even bigger fool than before. As soon as I started to feel my tongue again I spat, “And where the fuck are you going to go, bastard? You haven’t set foot on Nirn for thousands of years!”

He huffed and replied, “I am perfectly capable of handling myself. I’ll find my way around and destroy anyone who gets in my way.”

My teeth ground together so hard it would have hurt if I’d not been paralyzed. “And what about money, food, shelter, your broken-ass body?”

I noticed him pause out of the corner of my eye. I smirked inwardly. He hadn’t thought this through.

“That’s right, you need me, bastard. And I need to keep an eye on you. So quit this childish grudge you’re holding against me and let me take care of you until we can move somewhere more palatable.”

Miraak ceased his struggling and snatched a fistful of my shirt, hauling my limp body to his sitting height. “How can I expect you to take care of me when you can’t even defend yourself from a weak paralysis spell? Is this what the dragonborn has been reduced to?”

Miraak’s POV

He felt her breath across his arm as she sighed at the Atmoran’s words. She felt… almost frail in his grasp, and Miraak was once again struck by how small the Last Dragonborn was. His eyes unwillingly flited over her face again, actually looking at her carefully. The woman had strong, but feminine features like a Nord and her pale hair was also indicative of her heritage. She looked about as tired as he felt and Miraak realized she must have only slept as long as he’d been out. The paralyzing magic he’d cast on her only made the woman appear more helpless.

“Ful kos nii.(So be it) I will allow you to… situate us until I return to my full strength.” He almost wished he could have witnessed the shock take over her features petrified by his spell. The Dragonborn’s silence answered for her. “Come Vahdin, I know that tongue works. What say you?”

Miraak watched her pink lips open for a moment, then close up into a thin line, the skin there turning as white as the scar that split it. He was thankful his mask hid his smile. “I can be agreeable when it suits me, you know.

Those icy blue eyes flashed up at him and he couldn’t place her expression.

“I think your agreeableness scares me more than your anger does.” She paused, and he thought she shivered. “Damn, what did you do to me? How long does this spell last?”

Miraak raised a brow, wondering if he’d misjudged the potency of the spell. Nonsense, he thought, she is simply weak. When he watched the woman convulse again a strange feeling came over him and he froze, confused about what to do.

“Well, are you just going to sit there or help me before I freeze to death? I thought we came to an agreement?”

The First Dragonborn almost asked her what to do, but he stopped himself just in time. He let her down hastily and gruffly attempted to cover her shivering form with more furs.

“C-C-Can you cast a fire spell?”

He paused in his fussing. Miraak’s immediate answer was of course he could, but in his weakened state, the former priest wasn’t sure he could muster a single flame. “I believe I used my limited reserves to incapacitate you.”

“And that’s why you wouldn’t survive alone.” She sighed. “Come here, then.”

Miraak did not move. Did she just suggest...?

“You’ve made it where I can’t overpower you again, so come on already. I promise it’s for the survival of us both and not to fulfil your perverted fantasies of me.”

Yes, she did suggest he come to keep her warm… with his body. Miraak hadn’t felt prolonged human contact in over four-thousand years and for his first taste to be with her felt- he didn’t let himself go that far.

Skye’s POV

I sighed. Huddling together with me was probably the last thing Miraak wanted to do, but his grossly powerful paralysis spell had only left my brain and mouth functioning. It slowed my organs’ operation to nearly nothing; hence why I was glacial from the snowy winds blowing in beneath the tent. I was not perishing to the elements today. Yet, when I told him to hurry up, Miraak still did not budge. I started to wonder what the problem was. Did he truly hate me that much? Was this how he planned to kill me?

I knew we had just made a shaky truce, but how could I trust he’d keep it? In all my pondering, I finally noticed Miraak seemed conflicted, not murderous, and it dawned on me that this man likely had not had any human contact save for our fight in thousands of years. The thought was absurd, but my empathetic self arrived at a decision.

“L-Look I know this is awkward… for b-both of us.” I tried putting my reservations in the open so maybe he’d feel less uneasy. “But think of how pathetic it would be for the Last Dragonborn to die of frostbite and the First to die from his own stupidity?”

He finally looked at me.

“Besides, I d-don’t bite… hard." I think my last comment elicited a huff of laughter from him. Nervous or otherwise, it was a good start. The man approached me like one would a cornered animal, and if he hadn’t immobilized me, I would have found the whole situation hilarious. A fitting punishment for trying to kill the only other of my kind, maybe?

As Miraak neared me, I sensed the same odd tingle inside my center. My dovah reacting to this? I wondered if he felt anything, too. It was as if an invisible force was determined to pull us together. An acknowledgment of the other’s power, a reminder we faced the only other being who understood the burden of being dragonborn, the isolation of possessing the soul of a dovah yet being trapped in a mortal body.

Miraak lowered himself gingerly to a seat beside me. He gathered my body gentler than I thought possible and guided my limp limbs into his lap. I felt his warmth through the furs and a soft sound of content escaped my lips. Miraak stiffened. Torturous seconds passed in silence and the former priest’s large hands tucked the blankets tighter around us. He adjusted so I lay against one side of his chest, the other half of my body supported by his remarkably sturdy arm. The way he avoided any pressure on his abdomen did not go unnoticed by me.

In fact, it was impossible NOT to notice everything about the man. How his form enveloped my own, how steady, yet forced his breathing seemed, how stiff his old, bloodstained robes felt and smelled. How his closeness was slowly driving me to emotions I dared not confront. Neither of us had spoken since we’d touched. I didn’t trust my voice to remain detached or sarcastic. At least he was warm… almost too warm.

“Comfortable, Dragonborn?” His deep voice sounded less like the arrogant ass I’d come to associate Miraak with and more akin to something matching concern? Restraint?

“Skye. My name is Skye. You don’t have to keep calling me by that title, Miraak.”

He clinched up again when I said his name. Who knew the First Dragonborn was so uncomfortable with familiarity? He took so long to respond, I ended up falling asleep, utterly drained by this entire ordeal. Not to mention Miraak’s incessant mantra had wormed its way into my brain since touching the Earth stone, and every time I would try to rest, I’d awaken to hammering until breaking free of his spell. Good thing I put a stop to all that… Mora wouldn’t bother us anymore.

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

Skye. He dared not say her name, concerned it would break his composure this close to the Last. It was a fitting name for a woman, but not a dovah. Miraak’s mind drifted to what her name might have been if she’d served alongside him during the Dragon Wars. Britmulaag (beautiful strength) would be fitting, he thought, recalling her movements in battle. She had a small build, but great strength behind her attacks. Miraak had liked watching her fight; the more exerted Skye became, the brighter she shined. The priest glanced down at her, surprised to find her asleep in his arms. How could she be so unbothered by their situation? He knew there was something he wasn’t being told. Hermaeus Mora was far too cunning to let them go without a price.

Miraak started to develop a headache to accompany the relentless ache in his abdomen. The First Dragonborn paused. When was the last time he’d felt pain like this? Miraak wasn’t used to the impediments of being mortal, existing outside of Oblivion and all. Without Skye’s body heat, Miraak had actually started to feel cold. He couldn’t remember what cold felt like… What food tasted like. He needed to care for his body in this realm. The wintry air whirling around their shelter was so different from the dreary fog of Apocrypha.

He really had escaped.

Miraak’s gaze slid to her form.

Without killing her.

The former dragon priest was beginning to realize how uncomfortable his mask and clothes felt against his skin. The blood he’d coughed up from their battle stuck the material of his mask to his skin and it smelled tinny. Miraak tested to see if the Last was truly asleep before choosing to remove his face covering. Dried blood tugged at his skin, but the thing came off without too much discomfort. He had worn it so long to keep his emotions from Mora’s scrutiny and as a symbol of power, but the man also felt so much freer without it. He could see clearly, too, and Miraak couldn’t help but take in his surroundings after being away from the real world for so long.

As he was enraptured by the natural world only experienced inside their shelter, Skye shifted, pushing Miraak’s golden mask out of reach. The First Dragonborn froze in momentary panic. He did not want her to see his face, but he wasn’t certain Skye was actually awake either. The First Dragonborn knew what he looked like, and it wasn’t pleasant. Miraak’s gaze lingered first on Skye and then his mask tantalizingly out of reach. His breath hissed out in agitation. The First Dragonborn had unknowingly put him a position where neither outcome was beneficial. Either Miraak go for his mask and risk Skye seeing his face, or he waits until she stirs and rushes to get his covering before she can comprehend what is happening.

He debated using telekinesis to pull the mask to him, but the sound of his cast could wake the female and his magicka reserves still felt empty. Wait a moment. He was Miraak, First Dragonborn, strongest dovah that ever lived in a mortal body. The man’s eyes narrowed. Why should he care if she saw his face or if he woke Skye? She wasn’t his ally. She was a pawn he’d use until she no longer served his purpose. When Miraak tried to move after being still so long, he barely stifled his groan from the throbbing soreness emanating from his stomach and spreading to his appendages. Mora had made sure his champion wouldn’t be back to his former self any time soon. He grit through his body’s discomfort while also attempting to keep Skye from hitting the ground, and stretched for his mask.

Skye’s POV

The passage to Skyrim had never felt this bumpy and the weather was oddly warm. The boat we rode suddenly started rocking and it was all I could do to steady myself. Seawater sprayed the wooden deck wet with brine and I slipped. If not for his solid, warm body, I would’ve gone tumbling overboard. I slowly turned in his arms, frustrated his embrace only tightened when I tried to look up. Grumbling, I half-heartedly shoved his muscled arm, yet I still couldn’t budge.

“Oblaan hin sahlo paar, Vahdin.” (End your weak ambition, woman.) Miraak sounded agitated, but then again, when didn’t he? The man was lucky I liked the sound of his voice.

“Why do you talk like that?”

I wanted to hear him answer.

“Go back to sleep, Dragonborn.” Miraak continued to shift, tugging me with him and I was starting to become claustrophobic imprisoned in his hold. Not to mention I felt dazed out of my mind.

“You can’t sleep on these damn things. Rocking back and forth makes me sick.” I tried to jerk again to no avail. “And could you loosen up, you uptight old man?”

Miraak’s POV

Was she talking in her sleep? The woman’s eyes were still shut, but she actively held a conversation with him. Not to mention his paralysis spell finally seemed to be wearing off. Skye was wriggling, pushing, and prodding him to let her go. Miraak was growing weary against her ministrations, and he snarled when she brushed his wound. “You insufferable wrench!”

He automatically clutched his midsection, waiting for the pain to subside, but he’d let the Last slip from his grasp. She tumbled to the ground, still in a trance. Just as Miraak reached his mask, Skye’s body fell over it and his hand, effectively trapping the First in the act of retrieving his face covering.

“Heh, sorry. It looks like we both almost got thrown overboard. I’m surprised you’re not complaining more.”

Miraak didn’t have the strength to yank his mask out from under her and his breath hitched when she turned toward him agonizingly slow.

“Did I catch the mighty First Dragonborn at a loss of…” Her words trailed off when she met his eyes.

She swallowed and blinked, seemingly at a loss of words.

He didn’t expect that response. Something was off- Skye was acting drunk. Could it have been the effect his spell had on her? Miraak was glued to the spot by her stare. Though glazed, her blue orbs flitted over his face, drinking in every detail, going against everything Miraak wanted. He felt exposed and very perturbed Skye wouldn’t get off his mask.

Skye’s POV

So, he finally got sick of wearing that old thing. Even scowling, he was obviously handsome, having been graced with high cheekbones, a strong nose, and deep-set eyes. Well, he would have been very good looking if not for his rather otherworldly visage. Miraak’s eyes were as black as the ink that consumed Mora’s realm. The only color to his skin was the dried blood speckling his lips and cheek. Black veins spidered throughout a face decorated by scars.

His was a face wrought with the burden of living for thousands of years.

I realized I should be afraid of him; his true appearance was not fully human, and the man hadn’t aged in millennia. But I was strangely giddy I’d finally gotten to see the ancient dragonborn’s face for the first time. My muscles felt tight, yet a smile spread across my lips, unbidden by me.

“Mey mal Vahdin,”  (Fool little woman) The bridge of Miraak’s nose turned a shade grayer and the tint spilled over onto his cheeks. “Hi fent ni ensosin zu’ul!” (You shall not bewitch me!)

I figured he must be afraid of the ocean and the man was reprimanding me for putting us off balance. “Miraak, calm down. We’ll be in Skyrim before you know it. It’s much different from Solsthiem’s ashy land.” I snickered as a funny thought popped into my head. “Just wait ‘til you taste food that isn’t horker stew or baked ash yams!”

I made a show of sweeping his form with my eyes. “You’re gonna lose that strapping physique after you’ve had several sweet rolls.”

I was salivating just thinking about it.

Miraak’s POV

The Last Dragonborn was quite possibly the most perplexing individual Miraak had ever encountered. She had just beheld his tainted features, smiled at him, and started trying to convince him that rolls topped with sugar were delicious. Miraak sighed, and his brow furrowed. He knew she was still dreaming, but as relieving as that was, Skye rattled him more than she should. More than he wanted to believe.

Still, Miraak wasn’t known for his patience (what with starting the whole dragon annihilation and all that) and he wanted the Last to stop bothering him.         

Miraak summoned his best smile and pleaded. “Skye, go back to sleep. Skyrim will be ours for the taking soon enough, and unlike myself you desperately need your beauty rest.”

Skye snorted with laughter; if he’d not been the culprit, Miraak would’ve assumed her shaking was because of the cold. “There’s the overconfident bastard I know.” Skye shut her eyes and Miraak could only stare and wonder what she was experiencing in this dream of hers.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I woke with extremely stiff limbs, but I hadn’t died of frostbite overnight. Miraak was still beside me and I lay on the ground next to him, covered in furs. He seemed awake, but his godforsaken mask kept any expression from him hidden from me so I yawned theatrically, earning Miraak’s stare in my direction.

“Well, I see you didn’t murder me in my sleep.” I gingerly tested my body’s movement, thankful Miraak’s paralysis spell appeared to have completely worn off. “Am I growing on you?”

The First huffed, shaking his head. “It was plenty tempting to kill you, Dragonborn, but I at least have standards.”

My mind continued drifting to the strange dream I had as I listened to Miraak. It was maddening to have glimpsed an imagined version of his face in my dream, yet not actually know what the Atmoran looked like in real life.

“Do you ever take that thing off?” I asked him, agitated Miraak appeared just as stoic as ever.

“What concern is it of yours?” He glared at me with crossed arms, the very picture of defiance.

I wasn’t in the mood to play his silly games today. “It’s not. Keep the damn thing on and rot for all I care. You’ll have to take it off eventually if you want to eat and drink.”

Miraak said nothing and I continued talking. “Speaking of provisions, I left mine…” with the Skaal before coming to kill you. “At home.”

Now was not the time to bring up everyone Miraak enslaved while in Apocrypha. Especially since he wasn’t dead like I’d promised them.

“Do you know how to hunt?” I gave him a once over, noting how little he had moved. “Better question- can you hunt?”

Miraak scoffed under his mask. “Of course I can.”

“I mean are you healed enough to.” The First Dragonborn looked nothing like his imposing self before we’d clashed in Apocrypha. I also knew my healing expertise paled in comparison to most and his wounds likely still plagued him.

“I’ve suffered much worse and survived.”

The man was being short with me- ME, who had just saved his sorry ass from absolute damnation, nursed him from the brink of death, and kept him warm overnight! His ego knew no bounds. I was finished being nice.

“I don’t care if you believe yourself invincible, Miraak, a wound like the one Mora gave you can have some serious consequences for your body if left unattended.” I rose to a crouch and approached his front. “Let me check how it’s mending.”

As I reached for the edge of his robes, Miraak summoned a nasty gout of flame in his right hand. “Touch me and your life is forfeit, Dovahkiin.”

There was no mirth behind the smirk I gave him. “I kicked your ass once before and I can do it again.”

Faster than he could react, I caught his wrist and wrenched his arm around, rendering his right side immobile. He inhaled sharply, stiffening up in pain. If he’d been healed, Miraak could have easily defended himself, but I was doing this to prove a point. However, just as I moved to expose his front, my flesh was cleaved by the jagged end of a Riekling spearhead. I squealed in both hurt and fury and spun to face the ugly blue creatures gathered at the mouth of our shelter, a shout already forming on my tongue.

“Fus Roh Dah!” I was yanked to the side and I felt the wind from Miraak’s Voice scrape across my cheek. “Allow me, Dragonborn.”

I protested as Miraak used me as leverage to stand, but the pull from the spear still lodged in my back kept me glued to the ground. If I didn’t kill him first, the First Dragonborn’s pride would be the death of him.

Miraak’s POV

The Last could certainly take a hit, Miraak would admit. If he hadn’t been so distracted by her touch and the thought of her lithe fingers undoing the fastenings of his robe, Miraak would have spotted the blue goblin before it had attacked Skye. Now the ancient dragonborn was angry and he allowed his dovah’s ire to block out the throbbing pain pouring from his midsection. For a split second, Miraak watched the Last’s blue eyes widen after he’d shouted, enjoying the disbelief in her expression. He would show her he didn’t need pity for his suffering.

Ignoring both her feeble protests and the blood wetting her back, Miraak staggered out of the cover of their shelter ready for a fight. There was at least a dozen of the blue skinned creatures, three riding boars, and all armed and dangerous even for their size. Noting he didn’t have his sword on hand, Miraak beckoned fire and lighting in his right and left palms, grinning as the magicka coursed through his veins and filled his body with power. Nevermind how the ache in his body multiplied with the loss of his reserves. The Rieklings wasted no time assaulting their newest challenger; their opponent let them get close enough to take a few stabs he managed to avoid easily.

Gouts of fire followed shrill cries from the goblins and the smell of burning flesh tainted the air. The ones not consumed by Miraak’s flame took the chance to hurl more spears his way, but he struck them down in rapid succession with his lighting spells. A quick glance up and the priest found he’d corralled about 7 of them.

“Yol Toor Shul!”

An avalanche of fire barreled toward the Rieklings, incinerating any creature caught in the blaze.

“Miraak!”

Skye’s voice snapped his focus to his rear where 2 Riekling chargers stormed toward the First Dragonborn. He had forgotten that he was injured and attempted a graceful dodge, but Miraak’s wounds tore under the tension of his twist and the man collapsed directly in the path of the charging boars. Miraak’s Voice had not recovered from his last shout, but he managed to send shockwaves across the ground in time for the beasts to stumble, softening the impact of their charge. Well, his electricity AND the Last Dragonborn’s Unrelenting Force shout saved Miraak from being trampled. The mounts and their riders went tumbling over the cliff they were settled on.

The last rider seemed hesitant to attack after witnessing the fate of its brethren. It also noticed Miraak’s handicap. As much as he tried, the First Dragonborn couldn’t muster enough strength to stand, instead he wallowed in the ash and snow, coloring it a vile combination of red and black from his blood. When he looked up, her form obscured his vision. Skye’s back was to him and Miraak noticed she had removed the spear from her shoulder. The back of her shirt was coated in red.

The Last banged her sword and shield together and growled, “Meyz tum uv zu’u fin ag hin rinik rii wa gol.” (Come down or I will burn your very essence into the earth)

It was the first time Miraak had heard her use Dovahzul for something other than a shout. For a second, it took his attention off the agony radiating from his wounds. He had never heard a female dovah and the ferocity behind her voice almost stilled him into submission in his weakened state.

“Rok los dii krii. Dii!” (He is my kill. Mine!)

The blue goblin shook its weapon in rage but stayed where it was. It grunted, spurring the boar around. As the Riekling charger turned to flee, it lobed its spear toward both Dragonborn. Skye’s shield deflected the projectile with ease. Miraak found it odd she did not pursue the creature after such a direct act of disobedience. He didn’t chase the thought long, though, for his vision started to fade.

“Miraak?” Skye dropped her weapons and knelt before him. She clutched his shoulder, bracing them so she could get a better view of his middle. “Gods be damned. You tore your wound open.”

He could sense the frustration in her voice, but her hands were gentle as she coaxed him down.

“I didn’t think you understood Dovahzul?” Miraak questioned her, wanting the attention off of his weakness.

Skye smiled slightly, her gaze never leaving the gore staining his robes. “I don’t. I just remembered what a dragon once said to me as we battled. It sounded threatening and I think it did the trick.”

She paused in thought, but before she could say more, another voice claimed the silence.

“Skye?” It was a male voice, Dunmer from the accent.

“Talvas?” Surprise mixed with relief as the Last Dragonborn stood shakily. “Talvas, please can you help us? My partner here is badly injured and I don’t think I have the strength to heal him.”

Who was she to dare call them partners? Foolish woman… Miraak felt himself weakening. The newcomer hurriedly approached them, coming to a halt when he noticed blood decorating the landscape.

“By the Nine, what happened?"

“There’s no time to explain, Talvas! Help me get him to Neloth. I’m sure one of his staffs can keep him alive.”

Miraak didn’t understand why the Last simply didn’t bend the Dunmer’s will to do her bidding. What was the use in convincing someone when you could control them instead?

“Master Neloth isn’t going to be too pleased about this.”

Her voice responded close to his ear. “Do you think I care what Neloth is pleased about, right now? Come on!”

Before Miraak surrendered to his pain, the Last shouldered his weight and whispered a quiet thanks.

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.

Chapter Text

“Have you told him?” Neloth occupied a nearby desk, intermittently sipping tea and studying an old tome. I busied myself with packing supplies for the journey to Skyrim. The old wizard was asking if I’d informed Miraak about Hermaeus Mora’s mark adorning my back.

“No, and I don’t plan to. All I know is that there’s a way to break it and I think I know who to ask.” I had made it a practice of seeking Paarthurnax’s council on matters unknow to me and thwarting a daedric prince was next on my list. However, there was the other issue of banishing Alduin I still needed to take care of. Damn Miraak and his stupid cultists.

“Hm… well he’ll find out sooner rather than later. The man’s as perceptive as a hawk and one-hundred times more dangerous. Don’t be surprised if that danger is hurled your way.” Neloth returned to his reading before I could shoot him a look of annoyance.

“See, Dragonborn, some refined people appreciate onik and mulaag. Wisdom and power.”

I turned to find the First Dragonborn, preening as he toweled his dark locks. His white skin contrasted even more with the black veins that ran underneath without dirt and blood coating him. For an instance, I was afraid Miraak had overheard my conversation with Neloth, but when Talvas hurried out from his room with a vicious looking Ash Guardian in tow, I knew Miraak had been helping the apprentice.

“By the nine, boy, you did it!” Neloth lurched up, forgetting his precious tea. “I can feel the magical energy pouring from its form.”

Talvas beamed, looking quite proud of himself. “Well once Miraak explained a simpler incantation to me and said I needed to be holding a heart stone, it worked!”

I smirked at the First, shaking my head at his pride. While Neloth and his apprentice were busy gawking at the Ash Guardian, Miraak approached me with a serious expression.

“Skye, come with me. I need to see you in private.”

Before I could linger too long on how nice my name sounded spoken in his deep intonation, I followed Miraak into the corner room away from the Dunmers’ prying eyes. It took a great amount of restraint, but I kept myself from thinking of any reason besides a professional one why Miraak wished to see me alone while he stood covered in little more than a towel that (in my opinion) was too small.

Why was I acting like this around the man? I suddenly see his face and skin and I can’t think straight?

I probably looked stupefied when he turned to face me, baring his unclothed chest, scars creating divots in the otherwise smooth muscle. He commented on how stiff I seemed because of course he had noticed. I sighed, forcing myself to loosen up and asked him why he needed to speak with me in private.

“During my bath, I noticed something that should concern both of us. I have questions that I require be answered honestly. It’s about Hermaeus Mora and his stain.”

The First Dragonborn’s voice was low and his inflection, reserved, as if he were embarrassed. His dark eyes kept flicking to mine, but he wouldn’t hold my gaze. “Do not flee me, Dovahkiin. I mean no harm.”

Before I could question his peculiarity, Miraak’s hand slid to the towel around his waist. I averted my gaze in shock, blushing profusely.

“M-Miraak, I don’t think we- um, aren’t—” I stammered, but he silenced me with a heavy hand on my arm.

Skye, give me your trust. Something about hearing his thoughts calmed me fractionally. I swallowed my protests and nodded for him to continue.

Miraak slowly peeled the towel away from the alabaster skin of his groin area, mindful not to reveal his genitals. It was then I realized what he wanted to show me. A grotesque mark very similar to the one adorning my shoulder was plastered next to his sex. A mass of eyeballs formed the center of the tattoo and black tentacles slunk across his skin, winding down his thigh and towards his taint and penis.

“Hermaeus’s mark showed up here years ago, but it has morphed into something different; it’s grown. I cannot help but think you had some hand in this, Dragonborn. Especially after I happened to catch a glimpse of your shoulder the other night when you leaned over me.”

I cursed myself for seeing him while drunk. I set my jaw and looked up at the First, noting how close his face was to mine. Miraak certainly didn’t care much for personal space. Perhaps he knew his height made him more intimidating. Sweat prickled my skin from heat rolling off his body. I decided to tell the truth.

“It formed after I was hit by that Riekling spear. The spot burned like it was poisoned, but I don’t think its grown too much more over the course of our stay here. I thought it hurt because it was healing.” My eyes searched the black pools of his own. I had not told him how savagely Mora had tried to stop us from leaving Apocrypha. “What do you know about them?”

Miraak tucked his towel back around his hips, expression unreadable. “Allow me to view your mark clearly.”

I flinched away from his rough hands grabbing my shirt, remembering my symbol also bleed into private areas I’d not have him see.

“I said tell me what you know about the marks. You don’t need to see mine to do what I ask.”

Miraak nearly snarled. “I must ascertain the meaning of the symbol he gave you. It could mean he owns you like he does me. You would be…”

He stopped abruptly, likely catching the same meaning from his words that I did.

Concern.

A sudden roar shook the foundations of Tel Mithryn and our focus was ripped from whatever was forming between us to the raised voices of Neloth and Talvas.

“The beasts took down my Ash Guardian in one attack!” Talvas’s voice predicated struggle.

“Get the Dragonborn, you imbecile! We have two very capable beings that can run circles around your summon.” Neloth’s reprimand preceded his apprentice’s hurried footsteps. Talvas rounded the corner on us, and his shout confirmed my suspicion.

“Dragons are swarming Tel Mithryn! Please, can you do something?"

Miraak tsked and left me to follow Talvas outside where two winged serpents bellowed above the dark elf’s home. My building battle lust dimmed when I recognized the two dragons to be Sahrotaar and Kruziikrel. They had escaped Apocrypha? Why would they come hunt us down? As soon as I dashed down the ramp leading to Neloth’s door, Sahrotaar’s voice called out again and the deformed creature descended until he landed before me, stirring up clouds of ash. It was then I realized I had no weapons to defend myself against the dragon.

“Hail, rek Dovahkiin. We have come to serve you in return for saving us from that place. Uth mu ol hi med.” (Hail she Dragonborn. Command us as you like.)

Sahrotaar bowed his ugly head and I felt the dragon’s hot breath ruffle my clothes as he exhaled. I had no idea how to respond. I was used to dragons trying to kill me, not cast their lot with me, and the beast sounded… hopeful? Like it wanted me to give it a task. Miraak appeared behind me, donning old robes from Neloth and a silver sword.

“What? Sahrotaar?” The Atmoran sounded bewildered.

At the mention of his name from Miraak’s lips, the serpentine dovah drew his lips back in a vicious growl. “Miraak! Dur hi, gruntill!” (Curse you, traitor!)

The blue dragon’s tail thrashed side to side and it reared up in intimidation. Kruziikrel’s roar sounded from above, signaling he’d spotted Miraak and was none too happy about it.

“What else have you taken from me?” The priest’s question was directed at me, but he sounded acquiescent. The weight of Miraak’s gaze rested on me. I was too uncomfortable to meet his eyes.

"Step from behind the female,” Sahrotaar’s rumble was laced with venom. “She has been affectionate toward us and her Thu’um has bested yours.”

Sahrotaar opened his maw. The First Dragonborn’s head snapped around and he shouted, “Fus Roh Dah!”

The blue dragon went tumbling backward with the force of Miraak’s Voice. It shook off the daze and took to the skies with a great wail. I furrowed my brow at the man, baffled by his silly show of power.

“I told them how to escape Apocrypha after you passed out,” I explained, to Miraak. “I didn’t think they’d come here.”

He cocked his scar-split brow at me. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about Hermaeus Mora’s signature on you. Unfortunately—"

Kruziikrel swooped low and unleashed a gout of flame aimed toward Miraak. He threw up a ward that deflected the dragon’s fire, protected Neloth’s home, and drug me out into the open so we could engage the beasts. Sahrotaar landed again, so close his snout rammed into my torso, but the dragon didn’t clamp me between its jaws; it nudged me out of the way of Kruzikriil’s next attack. Miraak’s Voice met Kruziikrel’s, Frost against Fire, and the elements shattered in mid-air. I tried to yell at the First, but Sahrotaar blocked my form. The blue drake snapped at Miraak when he attempted to move toward me.

“Hi los vobalaan do ek moro!” (You are unworthy of her glory!)

I heard the priest shout Dragon Aspect and advance toward the dragon. If I could feel Miraak’s power rolling off him from behind Sahrotaar, I could imagine it was feeling intimidated.

“Unfortunately, it appears my dragons have taken a liking to you.” His voice was far too cool for the situation. “This simply won’t do at all. Wuld Nah Kest!”

          Miraak was beside me in an instant and his energy was almost suffocating. Before the blue dragon could react, the First Dragonborn thrust his sword through Sahrotaar’s paw.

“Aus faal faaz ahrk mindok tol zu’u rel.” (Suffer the pain and know that I dominate).

 Sahrotaar screamed, pounding the ground with his tail and talons. I felt like a complete idiot for coming to face dragons without proper attire or arms and as I was twisting to escape the dragon’s failing limbs, the First scooped me up and sounded off Whirlwind Spring again. The ashy land blurred beneath us, and I noted Miraak drifted to a stop much more lightly than I could when using that shout.

He still clutched me to his hard chest, blue and orange scales rippling about his body. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had held me in their arms, but I was fairly certain the experience shouldn’t be as overwhelming as this. The First Dragonborn’s power and presence took my breath away, making it where I could do nothing to break free of his hold. The mark on my shoulder burned.

          While Sahrotaar regained his bearings, Kruziikrel plummeted toward us with another earth-shaking roar. I’d never seen a dragon dive so fast, yet Miraak didn’t budge. At the last moment, the speckled dragon unfurled his wings and pumped them until it slowed enough to crash to the ground. Why were they not attacking?

“Release Lok to us. Mu fin ni ag ek. Un ragol motaad rul hi haalvut ek.” (Lok=Sky(e), We will not burn her. Our rage shudders when you touch her)

Miraak’s POV

Miraak’s dragons preferred Skye as their master over him. At least that was what he believed before he’d engaged the beasts in combat. Miraak had been trapped with Sahrotaar and Kruziikrel long enough that he could feel emotions from the dragons when they grew strong enough. The First Dragonborn sensed the dovahs’ restlessness and he felt a blinding rage nearly consume him when they watched him make contact with Skye.

She was technically a female dovah and they both highly dominate male dragons… Miraak quaked at the thought of his own dragons stealing Skye from him. They judged him incompetent, unworthy of her affections, and it enraged him. Miraak would prove his dominance over the other dovah and then force them to take him and the Last Dragonborn to Skyrim on one of their backs.

 That would save them from having to endure the ocean on some rickety ship full of men who’d be gawking at the Last. It was what she’d been planning and Miraak had despised the idea ever since. His dragons would provide them passage. The First Dragonborn kept denying any fondness he may have for the woman now crushed against his chest, saying his decision to remain by her side was because he owed her his life. It was not for the reason that dragons were naturally possessive of things they considered valuable to them. His black eyes bore into Kruziikrel’s slitted ones and a growl rose unbidden from his throat.

“You have no chance of taking her from me. Zu’u los faal zol mul!” (I am the stronger!)

The orange and black dragon rose up only to bring the full weight of his body to the ground; it signaled a challenge. Sahrotaar tore through the sky overhead, unleashing his breath mere feet from Miraak’s form, asking the First to meet his dare. To spite them both, Miraak leaned down over Skye’s golden head and spoke low, demonstrating his closeness with the Laat Dovahkiin.

“You will let me handle this, dii peyt. (my rose) Do not interfere.” His breath ruffled her blonde strands. She smelled faintly of roses and wood, hence his nickname for her.

I do not understand this foolish show of power, Miraak. Do not kill them. I’d have them as living allies before dead souls. He waited for her voice to disappear from his mind, ignorant of the two gnashing dragons nearby.

“It is not for you to understand, but to observe. I will make them serve us without question.” It was all he could do to force himself not to preen under her stare as Miraak set the woman down and moved to engage his two defiant dragons.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

The First Dragonborn’s ferocity in battle matched and perhaps exceeded that of the two dovah. Miraak gracefully dodged every swipe of their tails, push from their wings, and snap of their jaws. He would strike back with a combination of sword parries and magical attacks. But it was the ancient Atmoran’s knowledge of dragon combat that impressed me the most. I watched as he danced under Sahrotaar’s neck, putting himself in range of the dragon’s terrible, strong underbite, and instead of jostling his sword in its neck, Miraak continued past the dovah’s underbelly and struck its wing joint hard with the pommel of his sword. As Sahrotaar whipped his skull around to bite the First, Miraak blocked with a ward and breathed fire in its face. His smile was a mixture of a scowl and laugh.

It was like he was playing with them; battering the winged serpents, yet not injuring them enough to debilitate the dragons. It is not for you to understand, but to observe. My thoughts traveled to his strange words. The dragon priest was irredeemably arrogant, but to tell a fellow Dragonborn to stay away from a fight with two dragons… it was an insult to her ability.

Skye could not tear her eyes from him. Neloth observed the two Dragonborn from the safety of his heavily warded balcony of Tel Mithryn, noting how dragon-like Miraak started acting when the two winged lizards confronted him. They all vied for the female Dragonborn’s attention. Interesting, Neloth thought. She didn’t seem too taken by any of them, but perhaps he was wrong… The old wizard decided to engage the female in obvious deep thought at the bottom of the ramp leading to his front door.

“I see you aren’t helping Hermaeus Mora’s champion.” Neloth’s condescending tone snapped me from my reverie. The dark elf had strode to my side unnoticed and it unnerved me more.

“He’s obviously capable of handling himself.” Miraak demonstrated my comment as he commanded the ground rise to derail Kruziikrel’s landing, making the dragon crash snout-first into the ash. “The arrogant bastard asked me to watch, presumably so I can learn his greatness in action.”

Neloth hummed beside me, stroking his beard. “That’s why you think he told you to stay back?”

I managed to tear my eyes from the spectral dragon armor that surrounded Miraak to give Neloth a curious stare. “You have met the man, right?”

The Telvanni wizard looked unfazed as he witnessed Miraak shout Become Ethereal just before both dragons’ breath attacks desecrated the ground he stood on. I heard the Atmoran’s deep voice taunting the beasts.

“Yes, Dragonborn, I have. I think I’ve studied the situation and you both well enough to know that wasn’t why the man ordered you to watch.”

Her eyes grew wide, some sort of realization lighting them brightly. Neloth could understand why Miraak would simply stop and stare into them for a short while.

“Talvas did fetch my old armor and weapons I stored here before going to Apocrypha, right?” She’d turned to dash back inside. “I need it quickly.”

Neloth nodded curtly. “Yes, it’s inside the cove where you slept. Are you planning to go against the dragon priest’s wishes?”

“Aye, he’s going against mine!” With that she stormed up and into Neloth’s home.

Miraak’s POV

He effortlessly dodged another barrage of fire and ice from his relentless dragons, growing weary of their pathetic attempts of dominance. Miraak secretly hoped Skye watched his last attack on Kruziikrel; he felt her dovah coiled and ready to strike so he knew she too was stirred by the battle before them. Yet, when he glanced over to check for her, Miraak was troubled to find not Skye watching him, but the Telvanni wizard instead.

“Yol!” His dragon’s fire nearly scorched the dark elf’s old robes Miraak wore. The dragon priest twisted and let ice spew from his casting hand.

“Are you done, you pathetic excuse for a dovah? The female has no interest in one that can’t even beat a mere joor.”

Sahrotaar was engaged with a decoy summon Miraak had conjured- the deformed dragon couldn’t see too well- but Kruziikrel continued fighting. It roared, “Does the diist dovahkiin (First Dragonborn) overlook his imprisonment so easily? She saved you out of pity!”

A fit of rage consumed the First and the strike he’d plan to land at Kruziikrel’s snout bluntly became sharp. Miraak drove the silver sword through the dragon’s mouth, causing it to squeal in pain. Still, the man wasn’t satisfied with his punishment for the dovah and he slashed again. Silver punctured the slit of the dragon’s eye. Kruziikrel’s roar became one of desperation and his flailing increased.

“You are too weak-minded to figure out she did the same for you!” Miraak positioned his next strike for the area between Kruziikrel’s eyes, aiming to kill.

As he lunged, time slowed, the tail end of Skye’s shout reaching his ears. Her Thu’um broke Miraak’s focus, and he loosened his grip on the weapon. She hit the First like a ton of steel, nimbly disarming him and forcing him into the ground with her shield. The Atmoran tried grappling her, but she’d already moved to the wailing dragon, healing light at her fingertips.

Damn it all! Miraak cursed. I beat them both senseless and she has the audacity to HEAL its wounds? The orange and blue light faded from Miraak’s form, leaving him winded from the Last Dragonborn’s tackle. He raised up enough to see Skye consoling the speckled dragon (she even greeted Sahrotaar when he landed to check on his kin). The woman asked Kruziikrel if he could see her wave a hand near his eye. The dragon didn’t blink and whined out a no. Skye went ridged.

“You…” Her voice shook with anger. “You blinded him!”

Miraak got to his feet and answered her rage. “He disobeyed me. He is lucky I did not consume him like his brother, Relonakiiv.”

The dragons growled at Miraak, but backed away as they did so, showing submission. He felt some pride since he’d achieved his goal of besting the two dov; however, Skye’s wrath was an unexpected consequence of his brawl. No matter, the First thought, she’ll warm up to me again. Time to finish what I started in Tel Mithryn. Still high from his fight, Miraak made to grab Skye again. She came alive, intercepting his hands and shoving the man away with a strength he didn’t expect from such a small stature. There was fire in her eyes when she told him, “You are not dominate over me, Priest! Zu’u los faal Laat Dovahkiin, ni hin vahdin.” (I am the Last Dragonborn, not your woman)

Miraak’s cheeks burned at her rejection in front of the beasts he had defeated (for her) and he knew he needed to explain. Finally feeling his dragon recede back into its manageable state, Miraak held up a hand as if to deflect her ire. “Dragonborn, let me explain why I went against my word.”

Skye spun away from him and waltzed back over to the dragons. They delighted in her attention. “Explain all you like. Your words fall on deaf ears.”

The First Dragonborn was running out of patience with the Last. “Sahrotaar will carry us both to Skyrim.”

“He will carry me back to Skyrim. You will stay here with Kruziikrel until his eye heals.” She certainly was stubborn.

It was Miraak’s turn to get angry. This time, he was prepared for her struggle and the Atmoran managed to restrain the woman long enough to point to the reddish black blood seeping from Kruziikrel’s eye. “I had no choice but to put his eye out. Hermaeus Mora had infected it so he could spy on us.”

He spun her to face him, pinning the woman’s arms to her side and praying she didn’t shout in his face. “You will not go alone with Hermaeus trailing us. We are weaker alone and I know the daedra better than any other mortal.”

She never broke eye contact. He did admire her courage, for Miraak knew the darkness in his stare would make most fall to their knees in terror.

“I thought I was your enemy. Why would you care if your previous boss got his tentacles around me?”

Miraak’s stare hardened. She was baiting him. The truth was his dovah had resurfaced and Miraak felt his control slipping as he grew more powerful. His short time in in the real world felt right and his body was responding in kind. If she wanted him to prove himself trustworthy, well… Miraak didn’t have the patience for games.

“I would not wish Hermaeus Mora’s torture on my worst enemies, Dragonborn.”

Skye’s POV

It was all I could do to remain steady in his arms. I had not sparred Kruziikrel for purely selfless reasons. I intervened partly out of fear. Miraak looked nothing like he had the other night. There was no softness to his sharp features, no remorse as the skirmish dragged on, and the man’s demeanor reminded me of our battle inside Apocrypha when he’d almost killed me. After my comment about Hermaeus Mora, his eyes darkened, and I forced myself to hold a gaze that could pierce ebony. I had to show him I was not afraid of what he could do- show him we were equals because right now, I was unsure I could trust Miraak at his full power. It was as if the stronger he became, the more unpredictable his actions were. And the more uncertain I became when wondering if I could best him again.

Though I knew he wished to say more, I couldn’t emotionally handle the First Dragonborn and directed my thoughts to him. Let me go. I need to figure out what we’ll be needing for the journey and pack.

“I would not wish Hermaeus Mora’s torture on my worst enemies, Dragonborn.” He said this softly as I pulled away.

I didn’t acknowledge Miraak, just kept walking and trying to ignore the searing pain emanating from my daedric shoulder tattoo.

“Get yourself ready. I’ll give Sahrotaar a day’s rest since you injured him, too. We leave tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

I slipped on my old armor and weapon set. It fit a little more loosely than the last time I’d donned it, indicating I had lost weight during the weeks leading up to my face-off with Miraak and the several days following our escape from Apocrypha. Since the pieces were processed bones and scales of my previous dragon kills, all I needed to do was refit the leather bindings strung through silver connector holes. I struggled to perform simple armor upgrades due to the throbbing in my shoulder. Neloth’s healing had helped tremendously, but whatever relief he’d provided was gone and the hurt was beginning to affect my movements.

Eventually, I finished repairs and sharpened my sword. I needed to braid my blonde strands back so they wouldn’t be such a bother in the air. As I knitted my hair together, an amusing image of Miraak doing the same thing crossed my mind. He obviously knew how to braid because his locks were woven underneath that mask when I’d removed it. The thought of the stalwart dragon priest styling his hair brought a smile to my lips and took my mind off my aching shoulder for a time.

What a silly thing to think of… When did my muse become that arrogant dragon priest?

I’d gathered extra clothes, weapons, edible supplies, potions, and bedrolls for when we’d land in Skyrim. I met Miraak in the main room of Tel Mithryn. He hadn’t noticed me yet and looked like he was studying something on Neloth’s table intently. My eyes traveled over the new robes Neloth had provided him. The blue cloth hugged his chest and shoulders, but a waist-length clock draped over his left shoulder helped conceal how much bigger he was than most. The gilded fastening at his collarbone was reminiscent of the one from his old robes and it matched the gold trim edging the cloth. The folds were held together by a tied leather belt that also held a silver sword. He had a staff strapped to his back. I noticed Miraak had chosen to leave his face uncovered.

“No mask?” I raised an eyebrow at him as I approached. I hoped we could put his silly skirmish behind us.

“You destroyed it in case you can’t remember.” He returned my stare pointedly.

“It was a scratch! You can’t repair it with your wise and powerful magic?”

Miraak sighed. “It is made of a mixture of daedric metal, dragonbone, and gold. Magic is not enough to manipulate rare metals like that back to perfect form.”

“A smith that knows how to work with those materials and enchanted gear could enhance it.” The words slipped unbidden from my mouth before I thought better of it. The First Dragonborn did not need to know I was a smith who could work with just about anything and make it useful.

“You can alter metal?” A disbelieving smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “That explains why I’ve never seen armor fittings like the ones you have… Where did you learn?”

Why was he even remotely interested?

“Um, well, I am self-taught mostly. I started smithing when I was very young and found it fascinating. Using fire and shaping tools to bend materials to your will and then crafting whatever you can think up relaxed me. It gave me confidence that I didn’t have to be in the midst of battle to feel I was a part of something remarkable.” I trailed off, embarrassed by the attentiveness of the First Dragonborn. He had an attractive look about him when Miraak focused on something.

“You aren’t completely useless then. Maybe I’ll employ your services one of these days, Dovahkiin.” His eyes traveled over the fastenings of my armor, analyzing my handiwork.

I gathered my knapsack of supplies and made for the door, feeling emboldened by Miraak’s offhanded complement to my skill. “Well, as much as I’d like to work with that mask of yours, it’s entirely too ugly to want to fix.”

I saw him frown.

“Besides,” I said briefly meeting his eyes. “I prefer your face over that mass of gilded tentacles any day.”

I left before the priest’s blush darkened his pale skin. He didn’t need a hand to hide his features from me.

He covered his face anyway.

...

I would admit, I was nervous about riding a dragon all the way from Solsthiem to Skyrim, but it seemed like I had no choice in the matter. I let Miraak strap our supplies to Sahrotaar (after ordering the dragon not to snap his hands off) and went to check on Kruziikrel. Neloth had been more than thrilled to take care of the dovah until it healed, jumping at the chance to study the beast in a weakened state. He’d done a good job of patching up its eye, but the dragon still seemed uneasy blind on one side of his skull. Miraak was right- Hermaeus Mora’s taint still bubbled around the gnash across its scales. I wondered if it hurt as much as my mark did.

“Kruziikrel, we are leaving.” I approached the dragon slowly, alerting him to my presence with my voice and a hand on his snout. “The dark elf will take good care of you until you are strong enough to join us in Skyrim.”

The dragon grumbled and gently pressed into my palm more. “Krosis, Thuri. I was not strong enough to win your favor.”

I gave a faint smile and stroked the dovah’s spiky scales. “You have my favor, Kruziikrel, if you fight for me. I would have your strength and ability in the coming battles we face if you’ll serve me.”

The dragon purred and huffed smoke in the air in agreement. I saw the deep lacerations in its gums from where Miraak had hacked its mouth and my smile faded. Miraak was one of the most dangerous individuals I knew- I’d never seen someone dispatch a dragon so swiftly- and I was about to be stuck on the back of a dovah with the bastard. Kruziikrel levered his head and gazed at Miraak finishing packing Sahrotaar with our supplies.

“Rek Dovahkiin, Miraak bothers you?”

 These dragons were too good at reading people. Or maybe it was just me. I thought a moment before responding. “We were enemies and I thought that was all we’d ever be, but… his actions confuse me. I find myself wanting to trust Miraak, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.”

A low growl escaped Kruziikrel’s mouth. “Our former master is not used to much human contact, save for when he ruled over them. Miraak has changed since traveling with you… He sees you not as those he once dominated, but as something else.”

“Dragonborn, are you done stroking the dovah's ego?” The towering Atmoran approached with a sour look on his face. “We are ready to take to the skies. Leave it and come with me.”

Kruziikrel’s rumble increased in pitch, but he did not move to stop us when I bid the dragon farewell. I noticed Miraak placed himself between me and the creature as I walked past. I was slightly perturbed he interrupted me from finding out more of his past again, but I also knew we needed to get going. The blue dragon bowed his head when I approached and I ungracefully scampered atop Sahrotaar’s neck. Miraak hid his grin as he expertly swung himself in a seat behind me.

“Are you certain you can hold on all the way to Skyrim, mal Dovahkiin?” He whispered mockingly into my ear. “It takes a strong will to command a dragon’s soul. Perhaps you aren’t as powerful as you think.”

I easily rose to his bait, commanding the serpentine dragon to take off and end Miraak’s ridicule of me. I clung to Sahrotaar’s frontal spine as the dragon pumped its great wings and lifted into the air. The ascent was dizzying and I wondered if the dragon could feel how hard I was gripping with my legs to stay on.

Miraak’s POV

Always the diligent one, Miraak had anticipated his (ex)dragon lurching upward into flight. After all, the dragon priest had ridden thousands of times by now, so he was used to how jarring the experience could be. If he pushed up against Sahrotaar’s scales and then gripped, they gave him a better grip.

 Skye was still too quiet for his liking. She seemed touchy about any little thing. Maybe she was nervous about flying over such a distance? He desperately wanted to wrap his arms around her, both for his own indulgence and to embarrass the dragon they flew astride. However, Miraak knew better than to press a snappish dovah and he restrained his urges.

He let himself get distracted by the world again. They flew up over the entire island. Miraak could see the bones of his old temple and all the skeletons rotting in the ground. Red Mountain loomed in the distance. Below, whitecapped waves crashed against the craggy coastline. It was wonderous. Anything other than the horrid atrocity that was Apocrypha. Sahrotaar let loose a long, drawling roar. Miraak watched the elk bound away and the snow foxes scatter; even a bear scuttled away from the dragon’s Voice.

Skye seemed tense. His eyes travel over her stiff back, flicked to her white knuckles. The First Dragonborn wanted to remark on her rigid posture, for he knew one upward gust of wind could make their winged mount lose its flight path, but a second thought sprung to Miraak’s mind.

Here they were, sworn enemies (supposedly), and Miraak had nearly healed up back to his strength before Hermaeus struck him. They flew miles above the sea, with no other witnesses in sight. They had left the Last Dragonborn’s dark elf friends and Miraak had the power to retake Sahrotaar’s mind if he so chose.

Is she waiting for me to try and finish what I started in Apocrypha?

Miraak decided to test the Nord. He adjusted his seat, making sure he leaned forward enough where his chest bumped against the small, unarmored part of Skye’s back. She jolted and Miraak’s sensitive ears picked up her inhale. He noticed she turned her head enough where, if she shouted, it would hit him. The whole scene happened in less than a few seconds, but Miraak’s observation skills were second to none, and her actions answered his question of how she felt toward him.

In truth, Miraak had not thought of killing her since they had dispatched those ugly, goblin-like creatures and he passed out. The man owed Skye his life and his freedom. At first, he thought she pitied him, but after the old priest learned Skye had acted out of selfless reasons, his opinion changed. The Last Dragonborn’s treatment of Miraak interested him… However, he knew she did not fully trust him. Yet.

Before, Miraak believed one of them had to perish for the claim to Solstheim and Skyrim to both be his. Now, the First Dragonborn had started to entertain the idea of ruling with another powerful being at his side. He would bend the will of dragons to force them to serve at his side, but Miraak wasn’t so delusional that he believed reigning with nothing more than a zombified force that obeyed his every whim was the best way to dictate things.

He would need a diplomat of sorts, someone who still had intellect to spare. Afterall, what was the sense in ruling if he simply massacred all who went against him? That had been Alduin’s mistake- slaughtering the masses because of the upheaval of a few. Without negotiation, there would be no one to lead.

The woman in front of him held considerable power and she could likely influence others with her benevolence… and her beauty- stop. He needed to win her over, though, and Miraak had not given the Last Dragonborn the best first impression. What did Krosis used to say? “A fight to the death impresses most women, just not when you include them in the fight.” His old ally likely never thought of the option where he was the one fighting a woman to the death.

While Miraak pondered the most effective way to secure Skye’s trust, Sahrotaar hit a fierce headwind and the dragon surged upward unexpectedly. Since the Last Dragonborn’s legs were not as long or as strong as Miraak’s, she slid back and into the First Dragonborn’s torso. He felt her continue to flail and snaked an arm around her waist, quietly liking the way her compact form fit against his large one.

“Guess I wasn’t as attached as I should have been.” She placed a feather-light touch on his forearm. Thank you.

It was barely a whisper in his mind, but Miraak smiled nonetheless. He kept his arm around her, waiting to see if she would protest, and cast his focus out to the vast ocean. The water eventually met sky and Miraak just noticed some storm clouds far in the distance. The notion of getting caught in a tempest did not bother the First Dragonborn at all; he knew his Thu’um was powerful enough to dispel it. He wondered if the female Dovahkiin knew the shout to clear unfavorable weather.

Her knowledge of shouts admittedly surprised him. She obviously hungered for greater understanding like Miraak did. A brilliant thought popped into his head. If Miraak could teach her Words of Power she did not know, then perhaps he could show he was trustworthy?

Sahrotaar lurched again. Skye gripped Miraak’s arm like a lifeline. The First Dragonborn barely adjusted his posture, but her incompetence presented him with an opportunity he couldn’t refuse.

The Atmoran’s warm breath trickled across her ear. “You are slack when riding a dovah. It is not a horse, dii peyt. Far too powerful and a touch more intelligent. They require dominance and precision, swift decision-making capabilities, and-”

“What is that?”

Her question silenced the First Dragonborn but didn’t loosen his grip or dull his wit. “You are not comfortable astride a dragon.”

She shook her head. “No, what is that you call me?”

He blinked. “Skye.”

She huffed a laugh. Good.

“In Dovahzul.”

His lips quirked up. "Lok.” (Sky)

She turned on him, her expression fierce. “Dii peyt.”

His smile deepened. “My rose.”

Skye’s POV

I fought the creeping blush threatening my cheeks, but remained silent. For a man locked inside of a library for thousands of years, he certainly had more charm than an average bookworm.

Of course he does. Remember, Skye, he was the leader of the Dragon Cult. Charismatic, powerful, good-looking…

I felt a repulsive sense of fury rise up in my chest.

 His voice teased me more. “Do you not enjoy the name? Too soft for a Dragonborn?”

He inhaled the scent of my hair. He was too close. “It’s fitting, in my opinion.”

I let it slip. “Is dii peyt what you used to call all your whores when you served as head priest?”

Miraak went silent. After what seemed like forever, he responded, bravado absent from his low timbre.

“As head priest, I would stand as the shining example of what all others were supposed to aspire to be. Taking debaucherous women or men into my company would have reflected poorly.”

I remained quiet, embarrassed by my outburst. I felt him set back and remove his arm from my waist. Fighting the stupid, sinking sensation from his lack of warmth, I listened to the steady beats of Sahrotaar’s leathery wings. Its muscle rippled under my legs, more solid than any horse. I could hear the dragon drag in a heavy breath; the rumble it made vibrated my core.

Was I just jealous of the First Dragonborn’s mastery of everything I should stand for? He could ride dragons with ease, control his Thu’um seemingly without effort, and fight with the precision that would make any hardened warrior envious.

I was being childish treating the Atmoran like he was… something else. We had agreed on a truce to keep Hermaeus Mora off our backs and cure whatever poison the daedra had infected us with. Petty squabbles about his… sudden affection were not furthering our goal. I stifled a sigh and slid cautiously back until I felt his robed chest press against my armor.

Miraak tensed but he did not move away. After making sure I had a firm grip on Sahrotaar’s smooth scales, I reached my other arm back to grasp the First Dragonborn’s rigid arm. I concentrated, conjuring one of the few words of Dovahzul I knew and sending it to him through our strange neural connection.

Krosis, Miraak.

I heard a faint grumble over the roaring wind in my ears. He wasn’t responding. I thought harder, deciding to capitalize on something I knew he would react to.

“I wanted to tell you I was impressed…” Terrified. “At how you handled the two dragons in a fight. I have trouble trying to down one.”

Miraak’s POV

Despite his offense over what the Last Dragonborn had accused him of, Miraak preened over her words. Damn this woman. How can she possess this control over my emotion? He supposed, in a roundabout way, Miraak had achieved his goal of getting her to talk. The First Dragonborn never missed a chance to make the most of his ability.

“It comes with practice, mal Dovahkiin. I have witnessed you fight them off, as well, though you hesitate in places where you should take the upper-hand.”

He trailed off, aware he was berating a fighting style that had bested himself. When Skye stayed quiet, he questioned, “Do you know why I am so strong?”

He was staring at the back of her braided head, noticing how the small pieces of gold that escaped the woven locks caught the sunlight and created a halo of light around her head. When Skye turned with a small smile gracing her lips, Miraak missed the first part of what she said. The priest blamed his lack of hearing (attention) on the wind and asked her to repeat.

“I said I have my theories but would like to hear yours.”

He nodded and explained the connection he felt with his inner dovah. Miraak talked about the beginning, when he started to realize there were times when he was blinded by the ferocity of his dragon. All he wanted was to dominate or destroy every other dovah so he could grow stronger than them all. Due to the way others treated a Dragonborn, Miraak did it alone because he was sick of the fear and questions when “normal” folk encountered him.

“When I enter these states-states where my connection drives me- I lose human reason. It makes me immensely powerful, but at the cost of my control.”

Before Skye turned back forward, Miraak caught a dark look clouding her usually bright eyes. When she finally spoke to him again, her demeanor was back to normal. “Do you think there is a way to control it? Fully, I mean.”

Miraak gave the woman a cautious look. “Perhaps. The answer to that may very well lie in Skyrim.”

He did not elaborate.

“Speaking of the mainland… what are your plans when we arrive?”

The Nord cocked a brow in good humor. “You mean you don’t intend to start conquering everything as soon as we hit land?”

Miraak’s lips twitched.

“In due time, mal Dovahkiin. It’s been years since I’ve set foot on the mainland and there is much I intend to learn before staking my claim to its people and their holds. I’d like to revisit some of the old places I remember… They may have answers on how to break Hermaeus Mora’s hold over us.”

Skye hummed in acknowledgement. The Last Dragonborn did not say much more after that. She neglected to answer his question, but Miraak had been patient for thousands of years- a few more hours of waiting would be nothing for him.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I was nervous bringing him to my home. Oddly enough, I wasn’t concerned about the giant, winged beast I flew astride, but maybe it was because I knew I could control Sahrotaar. I couldn’t control Miraak. Well, with the way he’d been acting toward me… Stop it, Skye! You’ve never been one to flirt your way into a situation where you have the upper hand- no starting now.

The blue, serpentine dragon touched down on my favorite rocky overhang that gave the best view of the plains below. I had been offered a home in the city of Whiterun after defending it from the dragon attack, but I declined the offer, opting instead to purchase a small plot of land closer to Riverwood where I could build my house atop the waterfall and stay far away from everyone’s cautious eyes and fake smiles. Plus, the location had excellent soil for farming and enough resources to keep a forge (if I ever got around to building one).

Miraak and I climbed down from Sahrotaar’s back and I bid him farewell, reminding the dovah to keep away from people’s settlements. Miraak was studying the scenery surrounding my house. I’d planted beds of colorful mountain flowers, nightshade, lavender, tundra cotton, and dragon’s breath. My homemade chimes sang sweetly in the breeze and the sound of the waterfall was just loud enough to be heard over birdsong. I didn’t immediately approach my door, even though my body was exhausted from riding a dragon for hours. I stayed back and watched the First Dragonborn.

He moved slowly, tentatively, as if the ground would disappear below his feet if he made one wrong move. The man had his arms slightly outstretched, fingers splayed wide, feeling the air rush between them. The entire scene was almost endearing (if I’d been staring at a child instead of a thousands year old man), but he treated the world like a child would- curious, enthralled, open to explore.

He called to me. “Dragonborn, this is yours?”

I stumbled a bit over my words. “Um, yes, it is. I built it myself and the land is mine to work. It’s… well, it’s nothing special, especially presenting it to the man who had an entire temple named after him, but it’s home.”

“Home…” His voice reverberated with contempt. “Nii los aan pruzah hofkiin, Dovahkiin.” (It is a good home, Dragonborn)

I didn’t quite understand what he said, but I think it was positive. “Well, come on in. I’m sure you need some rest as much as I do.”

I plucked the key from under a rock belonging to my flower beds and opened the door. The entry housed a small sitting area and bookshelves. Beyond it was storage and a bathroom to the right. The left housed my kitchen and pantry. A ladder toward the back of the house lead to a loft where I had my bedroom. It was a small, but cozy space. I wanted to add more, but hadn’t got around to building, yet. Miraak’s towering frame made my home feel tiny and I noticed he looked a little cramped.

“Well, as you can see, I didn’t build the roofs for a giant like you. Just be aware of your head and the doorways.”

His hand slid across the wooden posts I’d sanded down for my home’s skeleton. “You did not use magic when constructing this.”

It wasn’t a question.

I refused to comment on my lackluster supernatural skill. Miraak turned to me, a glimmer in his dark pools that indicated he was scheming.

“May I offer my assistance?”

I was so amazed he asked instead of demanding or just doing that I didn’t respond immediately and the First Dragonborn gave me a strange look. I tried to play it off like I’d been searching for the correct word in Dovahzul and murmured, “Geh, onik Dovahkiin.” (Yes, wise Dragonborn).

He chuckled and I think I caught a slightly shadier tint across the bridge of his humped nose. The hand that was resting on my pole started spewing sparks of magic. The dragon priest’s face turned to one of utmost concentration and the magicka swirling about his hand spread across his arm, the force of his power billowing Miraak’s robes. I braced against the sudden deafening sound of wood being stretched to its limits and witnessed the humble height of my roof stretched to well over 10ft tall. Everything refitted itself into place, and by the time he stopped, my humble abode appeared much more fitting for a noble’s country home rather than a simple farmer’s daughter.  

The Atmoran finished, and stretched his arms above his head, obviously enjoying the fact he didn’t have to bend over anymore to fit. I was astonished, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he’d affected me.

Acting as normal as I could after beholding Miraak’s incredible display of skill, I said, “Feels a lot roomier in here. Can I ask you to remodel the furniture, too?”

The First cut me a sly glance. I smiled at him sheepishly. “Joking, of course. I could never ask the mighty First Dragonborn to stoop so low refiguring homesteads.”

I made my way toward the loft, already undoing some of the fastenings of my armor. I told Miraak to get comfortable and that I’d start dinner soon. He retired to the washroom. I climbed up to my bedroom and slipped into a clean cloth shirt and britches. I thought of what I’d make to eat and decided on venison stew after noting my lack of stock in the pantry. My ears picked up on the sound of gurgling water and I paused, trying not to imagine Miraak naked in my tub in the adjacent room.

Briefly, I wondered if his mark had shifted more. I needed to check mine but couldn’t see clearly unless I had the bathroom mirror. I’d gotten used to the pain at this point and put the thought out of my mind, not wanting to ruin what could be one of the last moments I got to spend without worrying about the fate of the world, an evil dragonborn, or World Eater coming to kill me.

As I washed the vegetables for the stew, I was struck at how strange our situation was. But what was I going to do with him otherwise? Leave the would-be-tyrant to rampage about Nirn and destroy anything that didn’t bow to him (or get controlled by him)? You could have left him to die. Then you wouldn’t have any of these issues, Skye.

Pain creased my heart when I thought of the First Dragonborn dying, and I clutched my chest. My dovah had not been as boisterous lately, but the thought of losing Miraak started a growl deep inside of me and tendrils of fire warmed my insides. Was that all this feeling was? Just some uncontrollable attraction to the only other of my kind?

It’s what I wanted to believe because it was logical, simple, and didn’t involve my heart. The flashes of our skirmish and his belittlement faded more every day we were together, slowly being replaced by his fairly thoughtful actions. Though Miraak’s looks were stained by Apocrypha’s corruption, he was still striking. And maybe I imagined it, but his skin didn’t seem as pale, nor his eyes and veins as black as they’d been weeks ago after I’d pulled him from Apocrypha.

The man was more intelligent and more cunning than any scholar I’d come across during my travels. While his arrogance often overshadowed his intellect, the First had the skill to back it up. His confidence was catching and underneath all my strength, dragonblood, and resilience, I was still a woman…

“Argh, it would be so much easier if he still acted like the arrogant bastard I met in Apocrypha!”

I stirred the broth faster.

“Sien, Dovahkiin. (Slow, Dragonborn) You’ll ruin the soup.”

Startled by his resonant accent, I ended up splashing myself when I twisted to find him staring across the table at me. The First Dragonborn was wearing…

“Where did you find that?”

“You said make yourself at home, so I did.” He stated matter-of-factly, like I shouldn’t be asking why he went through my clothes and chose the one I’d sewn dragon scales into.

It had been a tunic gifted to me by a very kind farmhand that had nothing to his name except his work. I’d taken care of a skeever infestation and ended up running into frostbite spiders as well. Their venom had ruined the garments I was wearing, and the poor worker ended up giving me the clothes off his back, saying I needed them more than he. It was all he could do to repay me.

Since I was too small to wear a male’s clothes, but too sentimental to get rid of it, I tested a design with some leftover scales I’d used to forge an armor set. The result ended up being a large swath of light and dark dragon scales that trailed from the right sleeve down to the hem of the shirt. He’d also discovered the trousers I’d fitted with a braided belt and sewn more scales into.

“Do you plan to stand there gawking or serve me, Vahdin? The food is burning.”

I gasped and turned my attention back on the pot, hurriedly taking it from the stovetop. At least that last comment reminded me of how highly the First thought of himself, and I was able to stop thinking of him, instead taking the chance to irritate him further.

“Are you hangry, Miraak?”

His scarred brow furrowed at me. “What?”

“Hangry. It’s when you get so hungry you start getting snappish, angry… and demanding, in your case.”

He huffed and pulled a chair out while I busied myself preparing the bowls and cutlery for us. I thought it must feel odd for him, not having dealt with hunger or thirst for years on end, so I decided not to goad Miraak further. I smiled at him as I set the steaming bowl of stew in front of the First Dragonborn.

“You’re welcome.”

His dark gaze met mine.

“I didn’t say thank you. How do I know if this is even palatable?” He dipped his spoon in the broth and let it drip back into the dish, disdain apparent on his features. “This looks like what my servants used to eat.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and scooped up a big mouthful for myself.

I whispered, “Fo.”

My frosty breath cooled the bite perfectly and I savored the rooty vegetables and salty venison. It had a slightly charred taste to some of the meat, but otherwise, I’d done well with what I’d had on hand to cook.

Miraak’s POV

She just did that.

Using Frost Breath softly was exactly what Miraak did to cool his food since finding his affinity for the Voice. Being the only Dragonborn of his time, of course the priest had never seen anything like it, save for using frost magic to cool certain spots.

“Are you alright?” Skye asked, chewing another mouthful of the stew. “Did you get into some of my bath herbs?”

Well, he may have been curious and dabbled in the assorted, fine-smelling dried leaves the Last Dragonborn had stored above the bathing basin. But they were not enough to dull Miraak’s senses. He decided not to respond and leaned over the vessel that housed his modest meal. Damp strands of his hair fell alongside his face and dipped in his spoon. Miraak realized he should have tied it back before eating.

With a sigh, he set his utensil down and rose, only to find Skye’s hand extended with a tie. She had a rather cheeky smile on her soup-stained lips, and he noticed the woman had tucked the strands of gold that framed her face behind her ears.

“It’s yours, I’ll get my own.”

Her hand stopped him from moving. If it were someone else (or the Last Dragonborn a few weeks ago) Miraak would have her begging for her life for not allowing him to pass.

He stayed where he was.

“Please, I’ve seen that raggedy thing you use for your hair. I can make more of these easily. Take it. You don’t want the food to get cold.”

Miraak took her tie, noting how much softer it was than his own. He stuck it between his teeth and started pinching portions of his tresses together, braiding them quickly. He knew the Last Dragonborn’s blue eyes were on him. The quiet, usually meaningless act felt puzzlingly intimate to the First Dragonborn. No one, not even his servants, ever watched him prune his hair, and he was suddenly struck with thoughts of Skye’s fingers combing through the strands instead of his rough ones.

What could have been in those scented leaves of hers?

He finished, tying off his work with practiced ease, and went to eat uninterrupted.

“You’re, mh, good at doing hair. I’ve honestly never seen the type of braiding you do… Is it an old Atmoran technique?”

So, she knew he wasn’t a Nord like her.

“It’s a variation, yes. Why do you ask?”

Skye looked down into her bowl and her hair fell in a gentle cascade from her ear.

“I was just curious. I like the look of it. It’s different and seems like they don’t come loose easily.” She sipped the broth, adding, “Also, I think they’d be great to have when fighting. As much as I enjoy longer hair, it’s a pain to constantly have to retie it after battle.”

The First Dragonborn smirked and chided, “If that’s your attempt at flattery, you’ll have to work harder, Skye.”

He thought for a moment, noticing how slow his brain seemed to be moving, but wanting to continue their tinvaak nonetheless. Ah, tinvaak, yes… She probably didn’t even know what that was.

After swallowing another bite of stew, Miraak asked, “Are you occupied after dinner?”

She wiped her mouth and pushed the hair back behind her ear. “Well, I do need to swap out some provisions and tend my gardens, but I suppose it can wait until the morning if you have something important to suggest.”

He decided to ignore her snide comment. Miraak knew his plans were valuable.

“I suggest teaching you our language, Dovahzul, so you do not end up sounding like a fool in front of any Dov we encounter.”
Sure, that was his reason.

“Is everything a lesson with you?” She rose, gathering her bowl and utensil to wash. “Why don’t we just relax with a good book… Never mind, that’s probably not the best recommendation for you.”

Miraak handed her his bowl and spoon, but as the Last Dragonborn went to take it from him, Miraak tightened his grip, getting her attention.

“Indulge me.”

She blinked with those baby blue orbs. “I see the food didn’t help with your demanding self.”

Skye tried tugging the container out of Miraak’s grasp, but he had the better grip. “First lesson, Dovahkiin. Ask me, ‘may I’ in the native tongue. Ziistmaas zu’u?”

Her jaw clenched in frustration, but she spoke up. “Zistmas zu.”

“Fin. (No) You must enunciate the syllables if they are doubled.”

Skye looked him dead in the eye. “Ziistmaas zu’u?”

The First Dragonborn cracked a smile and told her to be more polite but let her have the bowl anyway. While the Last busied herself with tidying up, Miraak explored the house, noting Skye had small, useless trinkets occupying several nooks of her home. She also had an impressive collection of weaponry and armors that ranged from simple leather sets to more ornate carved ebony material.

Many of the suits were dismantled and refitted with what Miraak deemed as “Skye’s personal touches.” Her smithing work was quite good, every little detail accounted for, and the First Dragonborn thought back to his old robes and the dragon paraphernalia that adorned nearly every article he wore.

It served as a symbol of Miraak’s dominion over the Dov, and though he didn’t wish to be reminded of his imprisonment inside Apocrypha, the First liked Skye’s talent with the beasts’ scales and bones. He had always taken what was left of their carcass after consuming their soul and displayed it as a trophy to smite the rest of their kind.

He let out a small sigh, thinking if they were going to be around normal mortals, Miraak needed something to cover his face with. The joor certainly wouldn’t take kindly to his taint and he doubted Skye would allow him to put them in their place for open displays of disgust. Maybe he could convince her to craft him something.

Miraak traveled out a side door into the woman’s gardens. He squatted, rolling the smooth green vegetation of carrot tops in his fingers. The smell of spring onion mixed with dark purple flora lining the little fence Skye had constructed around her patch. Everything seemed so different from the frigid wasteland Miraak had vanished from. The trees were shorter and not covered in nettles and snow. The great mountains seemed smaller, more populated than he remembered. The inhabitants of this land were not scared of the sky, afraid for their lives, but working and living peacefully.

Sure, there was war and disagreements, but the sides had nearly equal chances of winning. When dragons had ruled, humans had no possibility to best them; all they could do was worship the beasts and pray they didn’t demand more living sacrifices.

Even the wildlife seemed more abundant, Miraak thought, hearing the distant howl of a wolf. The only constant in his life since escaping Apocrypha was the Last Dragonborn, and she was nothing like any female he could recall. Was this how prisoners felt being released into the world for the first time in decades?

“There you are.” He turned at the sound of Skye’s door opening and the Last stepping out. Her sleeves were still tied up and her blonde hair had been bundled into a loose braid draped over her shoulder. She paused and Miraak was uncertain of how he should react to her presence. He’d lost the desire to teach the woman about the complexities of the dragon language, doubting it mattered as much as he thought.

As always, her approach stoked the invisible fires of his soul and Miraak attempted to pretend like Skye’s presence didn’t affect him as much as it did. She waltzed up and stood beside Miraak, looking up at him expectantly. “I’m ready for my Dovahzul lesson.”

Miraak frowns at her feigned eagerness. “I no longer believe it necessary.” Because of how much the world has changed since I’ve been imprisoned.

Skye’s POV

Did the First Dragonborn just go back on his word? Miraak’s voice sounded tired, none of the bravado he usually possessed crept into his undertones. His dark eyes did not meet mine. Rather, Miraak stared aimlessly at the vegetables in my garden. A gust of wind rustled the leaves above us and stirred the cloth of our clothes. I shivered, not used to braving the cold climate of Skyrim without proper attire. Miraak had not moved. He must be thinking, but his features did not portray the attractive, thoughtful ponder I’d started to get used to; Miraak’s lips were drawn into a tight-lipped frown, the creases at his eyes were deeper, his nostrils flared slightly.

For a moment, I took my attention off the First Dragonborn. Here my latest and strongest enemy stood, in my garden with a fence that came to below his waist and the wide-open wilderness of Skyrim in front of him. I couldn’t believe how foolish I’d been. I had let Miraak charm his way into my trust when I should be making sure he would not escape while I had my back turned. I was no longer dealing with a crippled, shell of a man, but the First Dragonborn, close to his full power.

I stopped myself. I needed to outsmart Miraak with this. And that was no easy task considering I was dealing with an ancient dragon priest that had lived thousands of years trapped inside a place with endless knowledge. He had not been trapped with the Last Dragonborn, though.

“Miraak,” I said his name, reaching for his arm. “It’s starting to get cold and dark. Don’t know about you, but I’m pretty beat from that dragon ride and my cooking. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll figure out how to fit you in my bed?”

I think my last comment broke his trance. However, instead of a dumbfounded look on his face like I expected, Miraak had a small smirk adorning his lips.

“You are either plotting something with your sickening selflessness, or lonelier than I thought, Dragonborn.” He turned toward me, tall frame obscuring my vision. “You have no idea how… lonesome it was in that place you freed us from.”

I felt my palms moisten; my heartbeat quickens as Miraak leaned down into my personal space. The First searched my eyes with that cool, calculated stare of his. “You do not trust me enough to lie with me willingly. Shall I tell you what you’re scheming?”

I gave a nervous huff, putting a little space between us. “I was planning on letting the Dragonborn who hasn’t slept on a real bed save for a handful of times in the last several days to get a good night’s rest. I have a comfortable couch.” 

He closed the gap I’d put between us. “You are a poor liar, dii peyt. Zu’u mindok hi dreh ni ov zu’u.” (I know you do not trust me)

I steeled my nerves and stopped backing up. Miraak stretched out a hand and caught my chin, tilting my face to his. I stiffened, remembering how patronizing it had felt when he’d traced my features upon our first meeting. I never would have imagined we’d be doing this again so soon. However, the First Dragonborn’s expression did not depict the usual contempt I’d come to anticipate. A forlorn sadness gleamed within the depths of his black eyes.

Miraak’s voice sounded inside my head, though my eyes instinctively flicked to his scar-studded mouth. I know you want a way to track me, make certain I don’t ruin your heroic image.

I prevented him from saying more. “Of course, I don’t deny it. I just cannot think of a way to keep tabs on you without…” Making him feel like he traded one master for another.

Miraak chuckled, smoothly running his warm palm across my cheek and tangling in my braid to the point where it hurt. My own hand shot up and clasped his arm in a vice. Miraak did not quit smiling, nor did he let go.

“There are so many ways for you to restrain me, Dragonborn. Chains or bindings around my neck, hands, and feet.” The bastard’s hand swiftly caught mine and rendered me immobile with a localized jolt of magic. “You could curse me with a spell, making it so I’d die if I strayed too far from your side. You could try to tame me with your Thu’um.”

I wondered exactly what bath herbs Miraak got into, but him forcing me against the wooden siding of my house silenced my mind. “You could imprison me inside your home.”

“Fus Roh!”

A more subdued physical force spilled from my lips and the First stumbled back with a gasp. I hesitated for a second, assessing if he was going to pose a threat. My eyes traced his movements as Miraak righted himself, searching for his battle-ready tells. Miraak dusted his robes and gave me a sullen look. “You’re a dragon more than woman sometimes, Skye. I was simply testing you.”

I snarled, marching toward him as I sensed a fire light beneath my skin. “Testing me! For what? You know- don’t even bother answering, you arrogant bastard.”

He flashed that winsome smile again. “Checking to see how far I could push you and if you would try to strike me down if threatened. If I could trust you.”

I sighed and combed my fingers through my hair, detangling the knots he’d made. The burning fury I felt died into smoldering embers, but I still had no idea what to do with the man.

“I want to trust you, Miraak, but you’ve given me little reason to.”

He conjured a small flame in his right hand, seeming to marvel at how the wind stirred its orange tongues. The light from Miraak’s spell was welcome in the encroaching darkness, as was the heat it put off. I fought my urge to move closer to him for warmth.

“I haven’t killed you, yet. Is that not reason enough?”

I ground my teeth together, tired of his games. Frankly I stated, “You could have killed me by now if you wanted. But you need me for something else.”

Miraak’s smile did not falter as he twirled the fire around his fingers. Fingers that had so carefully caressed my skin moments ago.

“You are a clever Dragonborn, Skye. I wonder why I ever doubted you.” He finally looked at me and extended the hand holding that winding fire. “However, you are obviously incapable of deciding what is best for Skyrim, so allow me to make the call. Come.”

I wondered if he had always been so assured, so certain he knew exactly what to do and the outcome. One thing I did know- that voice was dangerous for my freewill. Perhaps it was from being under his spell on Solstheim for a time after touching the All-Maker Stones? Or more likely you’re just a sucker for handsome men with deep, resonant voices and a weird accent, Skye.

I approached Miraak and asked him what he had in mind. Oddly, I was not afraid of the dancing flames he conjured. They had shifted color from the normal orange and yellow blaze. Now, the First Dragonborn’s flame morphed into light blue, green, lavender, and deep red. It was mesmerizing as I walked closer and let the fire envelop us both. His magic never touched me even as I reached out to feel the slight heat coming from the multihued fire. Soon, I found myself clasping Miraak’s strong hand, realizing how it (like everything else on the man) dwarfed my own.

The fire he’d held traveled slowly up our arms, and a temperate breeze brushed against my skin. Miraak tugged on my hand and I stepped closer until his other came to wrap around my back, the First’s big palm firm against my spine. The beautiful fire created a whirlwind around us until it felt like we were the only two beings that existed on Nirn. Tentatively, I craned my neck up to see his face. Miraak’s pale skin contrasted with the black of his braids and beard and his scars made the Dragonborn appear menacing; however, when I met his eyes, I was stunned. Scarlet, lime, lilac, and turquoise reflected against Miraak’s black irises. It was a kaleidoscope of colors more vivid than the auroras decorating Skyrim’s night sky.

Miraak started chanting something that sounded like a mix of Dovahzul and another ancient language I did not recognize. I should be concerned, but instead I felt completely at ease wrapped in what should have been my enemy’s arms, staring at staunchly inhuman eyes, feeling powerful magic churn around my body. But all I heard was his laughing voice inside my head.

Have I finally impressed you, Laat Dovahkiin?

How could he chant and connect with my mind at the same time? I managed to ask what this was for. His voiced paused for a moment, and I swore I could see Miraak sweat. He panted and moved his arm up my back to cup my head, tiling my neck so I stayed looking up. Miraak had closed his eyes (much to my disappointment) and he almost seemed to glow. The hand holding mine tightened and the fire around us intensified.

I watched the flames lick perilously close, but my attention was drawn off his magic and back to Miraak at the sudden pressure against my forehead. The First Dragonborn had leaned down and pressed our skulls together. The contact was much more intimate than I expected. I didn’t have time to focus on it long, though because a crippling rush of power flooded my veins. I gasped and tried to jerk away, but Miraak’s grasp was unyielding. He only pressed us together harder.

“Drem, Dovahkiin.” (Peace, Dragonborn)

It felt like my mind was being pulled from my body, my strength was meshing with Miraak’s. Just as the sensation was becoming unbearable, everything stopped. The colors faded away, the glow encapsulating us disappeared, the First Dragonborn’s presence left me.

“It is done.” Miraak was kneeling, breathing heavily. “Shout mir aak siiv.” (Allegiance Guide Find)

I stared at him stupidly. Did Miraak just create a shout? I swallowed the lump in my throat, inhaled, and shouted, “Mir Aak Siiv!”

A shockwave rippled the air and suddenly I could see Miraak in my mind just as clearly as I stood here looking down at him. I felt his labored breathing, noticed how his limbs shook slightly. After a minute or so, the image in my brain and the tug on my insides faded and I got that familiar winded sense in my throat telling me I had to wait to use the Thu’um again.

…

I blinked down at the man, unsure of what to say. I had so many questions. No mortal I had heard of had ever constructed a shout with willpower and magic alone. I thought only dragons could create shouts. Did it only work for me? I furrowed my brow noticing Miraak had yet to rise from his position on the ground. Is he okay? Why would he do something like this? How powerful was the First Dragonborn?

I knelt beside the Atmoran’s form. “Can you stand? I think we should go inside.”

He rasped out a laugh. “You have no idea what I’ve just done.”

I caught him as Miraak tried getting to his feet and stumbled.

“You’re right to an extent. I have no idea how in Akatosh’s name you invented a shout that lets me see where you are.” I braced him enough to look Miraak in his tired eyes. “But I do understand it as a gesture of your trust. I will not forget this.”

I managed a weak smile. “Even if you did do it without my consent.”

Miraak hummed, his rumble vibrated to my core as we hobbled through the door to my home. “If I recall correctly, dii peyt, you came to me when I offered my hand.”

I scoffed. “That was an offer? I thought it was a command.”

We entered and Miraak wriggled off my shoulder and leaned against the wall instead.

“And you obeyed.”

My breath hitched at his tone. When I glanced at the priest, his eyes were half-lidded, but that gaze was incredibly sensual. Mechanically, my eyes dropped to his lips, noting they were curved up and parted slightly. It was times like these that I wished Miraak still wore his mask. He shouldn’t be allowed to look like that. It stirred up feelings I did not want to acknowledge. He was the same man who tried to kill you. The same man that had just bound us together.

I suddenly felt exhausted. “Well, um, glad you can stand. I am… going to bed.”

Glancing again at Miraak’s slumped body, I resigned that I would need to help him up to my bed. I assumed creating a new dragon shout and transferring that knowledge to another took a lot out of you.

“Or I guess I should say going to the couch. Here, let me show you to the loft.”

I expected more resistance or snide comments, but the First Dragonborn accepted my arm and stayed on the bed when I bid him goodnight.

“Pruzah vulon, Dovahkiin.” (Good night, Dragonborn.)

To humor him, I repeated the pleasantry. Miraak closed his eyes, a ghost of a grin showing. I tried not to think of how strange it was to have a 4,000 year old man full of magical prowess and ancient knowledge under my covers. My connection to Miraak hummed pleasantly in the aftermath of his craft as I settled against the down-stuffed pillows of my living room couch. Maybe Kruziikrel was right… maybe the First Dragonborn was changing for the better since escaping Apocrypha. I couldn’t quash the feeling fluttering in my chest at the thought of Miraak trusting me with his whereabouts at any time. Needless to say, I feel asleep with a smirk very similar to the one Miraak wore.

Chapter Text

I woke to a frenzied rapping against my front door. I’d slept hard and struggled to get up in time to answer.

“Dragonborn! Are you home? Please, I need your help!”

Still in a daze, I watched the First Dragonborn’s hulking form jet down from my loft and fling the door wide, a spell ready in his other hand.

“What in gods- who are you? Where is Skye?” There was a pause and I worked to place a name to that voice. “What’s wrong with your eyes, man?”

Miraak growled and stepped forward threateningly. “How do you know her name?”

The other man stuttered out he was the blacksmith of Riverwood up the road, and I had helped his nephew escape Helgen. I heard Miraak snicker. “You expect me to believe that you craven? Riverwood is the name of a coven of witches down in the swamps of Skyrim!”

Before the First could flay my visitor, I stumbled out and ordered him to stop. I was met with a cowering Alvor surrounded by a flickering containment spell. Miraak’s gaze raked over my form, and he colored, completely forgetting about maintaining his spell. He moved to conceal me from Alvor’s sight. I was about to ask him what the problem was, but Miraak’s hands worked faster than my brain and I soon found myself being wrapped in the cloak he had been wearing over his shoulders.

“Spaan hin kopaan, vahdin!” (Shield your body, woman!)

I resisted Miraak trying to push me back into the house, once again thankful for my strength. It dawned on me that I had slipped off my shirt and trousers during the night because I’d gotten hot trying to sleep on the couch; and I now stood before two men in little more than my smallclothes. Still, it’s not like either of them haven’t seen underwear before. Alvor seemed too desperate with his pleas to really notice anyway.

“Dragonborn, I’m glad you’ve returned. Please, I am in desperate need of your help.”

Alvor had apparently gotten over his fright and was trying to approach me. He wasn’t having much luck with Miraak continuously fiddling with his covering. The First Dragonborn spun to face Alvor, sheltering me from the smith’s gaze. “She is not your errand girl. Skye is the Last Dragonborn, prophesied hero come to defend your pathetic world against the monstrosities of the ancient era!”

I caught his arm before Miraak scared Alvor off completely. Listen, old man, I’m fine. I’m covered. Thank you. I need to talk to him so he will leave us alone.

The Atmoran looked at me, heat behind his gaze, but relented after making sure his cloak was pulled tight around my form. He was so much bigger than me, the edge of the garment fell past my knees. I smiled at the smith, happy to see a familiar face. Alvor didn’t return it, worry apparent across his soot-stained features.

“Please, it’s Dorthe, she’s been taken.”

I shook off my daze enough to register the severity of someone stealing a child. “Do you know who took her or where she could be?” I got right to business. “Are you in trouble, Alvor?”

His eyes darted back and forth between mine, obviously deciding how much he should tell me. After a heavy sigh, Alvor answered, “I… had some dealings with the Thieves’ Guild a month or so after you left. I needed money badly to deal with the shortage of buyers- we were about to hand over the house! I paid them about half of the loan back, and they told me if I continued making payments, I’d be safe from their collectors… I think they stole Dorthe as collateral.”

My brow furrowed in confusion. Alvor’s story seemed off. Kidnapping was not how the Guild operated. Beatings and scare tactics, sure, but never keeping a hostage.

“Do you have proof it was the Guild?”

Alvor nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled note. I read it.

Change of plans, smithy. We are calling in our share now. Until you come to Riften with our gold, plus interest, you’re not getting your little girl back.

Good luck. -Bryn

Brynolf? No, this couldn’t be right… could it? Had the Thieves’ Guild truly fallen on times this hard? I returned the note and clasped Alvor’s hand with the one not clutching Miraak’s covering together. “Alvor, I will go get Dorthe back. I think there has been a huge misunderstanding.”

My face darkened. “And if there hasn’t, I will still get her back.”

The blacksmith bowed his head. “Thank you, Dragonborn. I will be forever indebted to you for this. Please, get her back safely.

“Here,” He handed me a bag full of coins. “This should cover the rest of what I owe.”

Miraak’s POV

The First Dragonborn had watched Skye’s interaction nearby, ready to pounce if the smith seemed like he was about to take advantage of her. When he heard Alvor state he’d forever owe the Last Dragonborn, Miraak perked up, his mind running with possibilities. Perhaps that is why Skye continued to help the peons, because she knew they owed her favors for her exploits. It was a slower, albeit effective way to build a more loyal following. The dragon priest decided it was worth his future to help her.

He watched Skye grasp the other man’s hand, a promise she would deliver. Miraak also noticed the slight tightness around Alvor’s eyes and mouth—a sign of distrust or fear. Even though this male seemed to consider Skye trustworthy enough to track his daughter down, Alvor still harbored some mistrust of her innate power.

The First Dragonborn wondered if Skye noticed it. She likely did, just chose to ignore it instead of exploiting it, like he. 

Miraak could not understand why the Last Dragonborn felt like she had to lower herself to meet these fools’ demands. The ancient dragonborn would have told her to let the common guard handle it. He decided he would confront her about her naivety after the man left. For now, Miraak stayed back, not wanting to experience the expression of disgust that had flashed across Alvor’s features when the blacksmith beheld the First’s face.

He needed a distraction.

Miraak’s eyes skated to Skye’s form, covered by his cloak. An odd sensation tingled inside of the First; it was not a pleasant feeling, but similar to when his inner dovah flared to life when they were near one another. Miraak tried hard to forget the expanse of her creamy skin that had been exposed when she’d stepped out from the house. It looked so soft, an illusion to the muscle that hid underneath. He had not been able to avert his eyes in time not to find the searing contrast to the skin of her shoulder, and Miraak cursed himself for allowing Skye to walk around so long without him inspecting her mark.

He felt immensely relieved when Alvor left, and Skye turned to go back into the house. Miraak marveled at the small flashes of her thighs when the Last strode past him. The mark. Focus on the mark. It must be dealt with even if it’s after I discuss her reasons for selling her services out to those who despise our kind.

He had inspected his own symbol last night during his bath, noting it had not changed since leaving Tel Mithryn. The Last Dragonborn had not acted like Hermaeus Mora’s branding bothered her, but Miraak couldn’t be too careful. The dragon priest also noticed the tattoo slithered toward her breast during her trek from the house. Now he understood why she was so adamant about not showing him anything.

Sparing one last look toward the road where Alvor had disappeared to, Miraak trudged back toward Skye’s dwelling, dreading what he might find on closer inspection of her skin. Had she felt feverish when her hand had clasped his arm? The Atmoran closed her front door and started toward the couch, only to find it empty of Skye. Something earthy and bitter touched his nose. The scent reminded him of a drink some of the other dragon priests used to partake in.

Miraak followed his nose to the kitchen where he and Skye had eaten last night. He found the woman, drizzling boiling water through a thin strainer and into a clay tankard. The liquid inside of the cup was emitting a nutty scent that had a slightly sharp after-smell to it. The blue cowl he’d draped over her still hugged her shoulders. Skye’s arms were raised, and the cloth rode up her legs, exposing the flesh above her knees.

She did not seem to notice him staring.

Miraak had the strongest urge to shout Slow Time to make sure he could commit the image of the fiery Last Dragonborn, leg cocked up, with more weight in her right hip, to memory. The curve of her backside lay tantalizingly beneath the very edge of the gold-rimmed material…

“Good morning—Oh, sorry- I mean drem yol lok, Diist Dovahkiin.” She had noticed him staring for her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Need your shawl back?”

Miraak cleared his throat to ensure his voice came out sounding uninterested. “You were a complete fool coming outside wearing nothing. And in front of that brute, as well!”

Skye actually rolled her eyes at him. Her muscles rippled as she poured. “He has a wife. Besides, it’s not like I was naked.”

An image of the female before Miraak (naked as she termed it) flashed across his mind. It was time to stop this invisible pull. “You were bare enough for me to make out the taint of Hermaeus Mora.”

That got her attention; he noticed it in the sharpening of Skye’s blue eyes into daggers. Skye finished emptying her pot and set it down, his cowl falling over her kneecaps once again. “Nothing’s changed, it even stopped hurting as much. Maybe I just needed some time in my own house.”
The First Dragonborn suppressed a sigh. Skye was as stubborn as any dragon he’d served.

“Skye, I need you to allow me to look at that symbol.” Miraak took a step toward her. “It would give me some sort of peace.”
He admitted that last part gently, and it seemed to melt her hard exterior a little. A slight blush tinted the Last’s cheeks. “Okay, I will let you look, just…. Don’t go further than you have to, alright?”

Despite the odd way she phrased it, Miraak understood what Skye was saying. He asked about her drink and Skye dismissed his question of her leaving it, stating she needed it to cool off. They moved under one of her windows, Skye’s back facing Miraak’s front.

His calloused hands slid the blue material from her right shoulder. The Nord’s skin was welted around the black eyeball that formed the center of the mark. The area of cream surrounding the tattoo looked dull, and beneath the blanched skin Miraak spotted dark webbing underneath. Skye’s veins around the area were starting to look like his.

The First palmed her shoulder, spreading the skin so he could get a better view of how far the taint had spread. Skye hissed and tried to pull away. Miraak’s attention immediately focused on her pained features. “I thought you said it didn’t hurt.”

“Well, that was before you decided to rip my skin apart!” She relented, not making much progress against Miraak’s strength. “Have you ever seen the symbol before, or do you know what it could mean?”

The way Hermaeus had designed the mark hid much of what Miraak could decipher. He grumbled in frustration. “The daedra has hidden its meaning well. I cannot make anything out clearly.”

The First Dragonborn’s hand trailed down the untouched portion of her upper back before he readjusted his cowl over Skye’s shoulder. The woman clutched the material together tightly and she sighed. Miraak felt a sudden urge to draw her into his chest… comfort the Last Dragonborn. He didn’t know what to do with the emotion and Miraak settled with patting Skye on her unmarred shoulder. She turned slightly, laying her small hand over his. “I guess I don’t know what to expect… I’ve never been owned by a daedra before.” Her laugh was self-pitying. “I should have known better than to always be the hero.”

Rage slowly creeps into Miraak’s conscious. No, the thought of Hermaeus Mora toying with Skye the way he did Miraak… it disgusted the First Dragonborn. He would not allow the daedric prince’s tentacles anywhere near the Last. Miraak’s fingers curl around her shoulder and he feels her hand grip his own tighter. Their own silent way of reassurance they’ll both escape a fated destiny alive.

“Speaking of being the hero all the time, I must question your willingness to help those who would never help you. That is beneath a Dragonborn, Skye. You should have told that buffoon to go see the common guards for his troubles, not bother you with something so petty.”

The Last Dragonborn shook her head. “It’s not that I’m not bothered by all the requests, but I feel like I should at least try to do the right thing for those who can’t do it themselves. I don’t need a reason for it.”

Miraak still did not understand, but he allowed Skye to continue her little explanation.

“I tire of always being willing to do what others ask of me, but when I see how happy they are after…” Her eyes met Miraak’s. “I do still feel a desire to dominate, but I overcome it most of the time by dominating the idiots making things worse for everyone else.”

A thought popped in the Atmoran’s head and he questioned, “What if you had another to rule alongside? The Dov are not meant to be alone, I know from experience. It’s not as bad once people understand they need to fear you.”

The woman glanced down; her lips drew into a small frown. Miraak did not like that look on her features.

“It’s what I did for you,” she said quietly. “Your need for freedom was so consuming… You had convinced yourself that killing me was your salvation.”

She finally cracked a smile when Skye peeked back at him. Miraak held her gaze for as long as she’d let him. “There are hardly any simple answers to why people do the things they do. I proved you wrong, didn’t I?”

He answers, “You… were not what I expected.”

She moved to retrieve the cup of bitter smelling liquid and told Miraak that they would plan to leave soon, after she finished her drink. Miraak noticed Skye’s mood had definitely dropped. Her blue-eyed gaze was stuck to the window, unfocused; both of her hands held the clay cup stiffer than normal. Her shoulders slumped, letting his cloak slide down to reveal more of that delicious looking skin.

Miraak stood, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. It had been SO long since the priest had attempted to comfort anyone, especially a hardened warrior with a dragon soul like Skye. Did she even want to be around him in this state?

Briefly, Miraak wondered when he had become more self-aware in her presence, subconsciously wanting to make her bright eyes sparkle with the Last’s many emotions. Now, the Last Dragonborn just looked… defeated. Miraak knew the feeling well. He had fought to keep his spirit alive all throughout his imprisonment in Apocrypha and failed so many times he’d lost count.

The ancient priest turned to ready for traveling. Before he had taken more than a few steps, Skye’s voice stopped him.

“Miraak,” she called, a question lurking in her tone. “Stay here with me until I finish my coffee, please. If you’d like, I can make you some, too. Just… I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now.”

Miraak stilled, letting what she asked sink in. It was a simple request from a companion, but to the First Dragonborn, Skye’s request meant much more. He was not wanted as a slave, a plaything, a warrior, a scholar—for one of the first times he could remember, someone desired Miraak for his company and nothing more. Skye wanted him for it.

Gods, how he yearned more than anything to ease that meager covering off her shoulders and breathe in her scent (it was strongest at the dip in the very middle of her collarbones), to pull her into him and run his hands over every little area that he could expose. Miraak’s training as a dragon priest taught him to resist temptation.

But he had never met someone he viewed as a near equal.

Instead of settling across from her, Miraak pulled a chair up beside the Last Dragonborn and touched the upper part of her hand clasping the coffee cup.

“Would you mind if I tried some? To test the heat of course.”

Skye looked a little stunned at first but passed him the mug anyway. The First Dragonborn touched the cup to his lips and tipped it back. The dark brown substance was nutty and bitter, but with a hint of chocolate toward the end. It warmed his throat and being. It felt good on Skyrim’s chilly morning.

The heat was perfect.

When he glanced over, Miraak noticed Skye had been eyeing him, a little grin plastered over her lips. The dragon priest asked her what she was smiling about.

“You’ve got coffee in your beard.” She gestured to his upper lip, grin growing larger and reaching her eyes.

Miraak returned her smile and swiped at his whiskers. “You should do that more often, Dragonborn. The effect it has is quite pleasing.”

He passed back her cup and she gave him a curious look. “What are you going on about now, old man? I’ll make you a cup. Might help those dark circles under your eyes.”

Miraak decided to let her comment slide, promising to point out her smile next time it shined on him. She sipped her coffee and started on his. He watched her scrub the old grinds out, replace her filter system, retrieve another cup from the cupboard, and fill her small pot with water from the sink. The whole scene struck Miraak with a sense of calmness and belonging. Both were sensations that had not passed through his conscious for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Miraak's POV

The trek to Riften was taking longer than Miraak thought. They had hitched a ride with one of the farmers named Hod Skye knew from Riverwood (which Miraak found was not a coven of witches). Despite Miraak’s insistence they ride Sahrotaar over, Skye had denied the necessity of bringing a dragon close to a town as populated as Riften. So here they sat, stacked on bales of hay, sacks of potatoes, carrots, cabbages, and surrounded by the stench of horses that needed to be groomed. It was times like this that Miraak missed his cult leader status. He would have never settled for the overgrown and equally smelly driver, the raggedy animals, or the unwashed produce they had to balance on top of over the duration of this trip.

Then he glanced over at his company. The situation got a little better.

Skye had donned a lighter set of dragonscale armor like the one she had on when they battled. The scales were a mixture of light and dark neutrals, smooth against the curves of her small form and spiked around her joints. It was a small accent, but Miraak admired her addition of the gold clasps holding the whole set together. Skye’s weapon was a sword of sharpened dragonbone and ebony, the same material as her shield.

With Skye’s permission, Miraak had also grabbed an armored robe she had worked on. It fit a little snugly (like everything seemed to), but Miraak felt the quality was better than the old robes Neloth had given him. She had also gifted the priest an ebony blade with a dragonbone pommel. Now if only he had his mask and a staff, Miraak would almost feel back to normal.

The First Dragonborn decided he wanted to hear Skye talk so he asked, “The Thieves’ Guild. What is your connection, Dovahkiin?”

Hod glanced back and gave them a strange look at Miraak’s use of Dovahzul but did not comment on the matter. The dragon priest appreciated the farmer’s ambivalence.

Skye looked a little uncomfortable before answering the First. “I’ve dealt with them in the past. A while ago, I had fallen on hard times and needed help getting back on my feet. One of the higher-ups ‘recruited’ me to help with some of their operations in return for lots of gold and information very quickly.”

She continued explaining the jobs she accomplished and the relationships that were built. Miraak listened, but the changing scenery around them was quickly drawing the world-starved Atmoran’s attention. They had traversed a rugged mountain pass and Miraak had stared at nothing except cold snow and rocks for hours.

Now the First Dragonborn could feel some warmth on the breeze that touched his skin. The sky above was as pure a blue as the woman’s eyes in front of him. Forest and underbrush were becoming more abundant again. Their cart startled a rabbit hidden by bushes and Miraak watched it bolt away.

“Did you hear that?” Skye broke his focus. “It sounded bigger than the animals around here.”

She was oh so vigilant, the ancient priest thought. If only the Last Dragonborn understood she was the biggest predator out here, not something else.

Skye’s POV

The ride had been too quiet. They had passed a lone Imperial patrol, a small pack of wolves, and some frostbite spiders in the distant mountain caves. Nothing that should provoke my nerves, but I was on edge. For once, it wasn’t Miraak that had put me in this state. The First Dragonborn had been relatively tame after the morning we spent together. I found out he really liked coffee, but it didn’t make him as jittery as I thought it would. The man had two cups to my one, but after looking at our size difference, it made sense.

I glanced at Hod, checking to see if the farmer had noticed anything weird. He simply stared straight ahead, giving the reins a little tug to keep the horses from veering off the trail. When I’d looked back at Miraak, his attention seemed to be everywhere at once.

For the first time since last night, I was struck with the thought of him so new to this world that perhaps Miraak felt like he did not belong. That forlorn expression I’d seen before distracting him had been hard to look at. The mighty First Dragonborn had appeared overcome with defeat. It didn’t suit him, in my opinion.

I preferred his confidence and quirked a smile at the Atmoran’s observation of the world around us. Deep down, I was glad I had saved him from Apocrypha. He wasn’t so bad to be around if I could get past his arrogance.

Our cart hit a bump, and I braced against the haybale I was settled on. Miraak’s blackened eyes sifted about our surroundings, as if he was searching for a trap or something that had unbalanced our wagon. That gaze paused briefly on me, but not because of a secret unease around a dragonborn; he searched for affirmation. The last people that ever looked at me like he did had been my parents.

I remembered when my family had made trips very similar to this one. My mother and I rode in the back of our wagon, singing together or discussing what we were going to spend our shares on once we sold our produce. My father sat at the helm, laughing at our antics, saying he needed the gold to purchase better smithing equipment. Mother scolded the man for worrying so much about instruments of war, not wanting her daughter to be around such a dangerous environment.

I hung my head, silently wishing we would have been more prepared when the killers came. After my parents died, I craved revenge and pursued my father’s smithing trade with a vengeance, swearing to craft the most impressive lethal equipment I could and use it against anyone who opposed me. I would show them never to disrespect families who couldn’t defend themselves again.

I clenched my hands into fists, remembering how long my vengeance had taken me. Metalworking had proven difficult due to my size and strength drawbacks, but even if all I crafted was a simple metal rod, I practiced with it. Once I had managed to create an armor set, sword, and shield, I went in search of the group that had murdered my family. With the help of local leads from the cities I visited, I managed to destroy many of their smaller encampments, but I could never find the main base of the murderers. It wasn’t until I heard the Thieves’ Guild dealt in information along with their other services did I make a breakthrough.

I had met Brynolf and explained what I needed and why. The downside was that I barely had any funds due to how much I had spent on making my equipment. The thief was understanding, oddly enough, and gave me the option of working off my debt with the Guild. I had my head so set on revenge that I agreed. After sneaking into a few businesses to forge numbers, swiping some precious jewelry, and participating in a little bit of sabotage, the Guild got me my target’s location.

“Well, you two, I think the horses have had enough for today lugging my produce and two extra passengers over that mountain. We’re stopping for the night at Ivarstead. Should be an easy ride to Riften in the morning.” Hod’s explanation snapped me from my memories.

I picked out Miraak’s upset snarl and suppressed an exhale as well. Looked like we were not getting to Riften as quickly as I wanted. I avoided Miraak’s “I told you we should have taken a dragon” look and tried to be positive. Maybe I would take the opportunity to train since Ivarstead was so remote. Given that the town had no true general store or smith, I couldn’t stock those supplies, but I could purchase fresh food rations for the road.

My eyes slid to the Vilemyr Inn. I was already thinking of how nice fresh ale would taste on my tongue.

“You are not as troubled as I believed you’d be, Dragonborn. Having a change of heart?” Miraak had a small smirk like he’d just won a personal bet with himself as he said this.

“Hate to disappoint you, Dragonborn, but no. I am not writing off my rescue mission to go pillage the countryside with you.” I barely hid my smile when his wrinkles deepened in a frown. The man had worn a mask for too long.

“I think waiting an extra day might be good for both of us. Usually, these searches suck the energy right out of you after weeks on the road without baths or a warm bed.” My skin itched when I thought about how many days I had gone without washing grime and blood from my body during some of my past adventures.

The First Dragonborn’s approach and words made my skin crawl for an entirely different reason.

“Laat Dovahkiin, hin hahnu hofkiin fen neh kos krah voth zu’u.” (Last Dragonborn, your bed will never be cold with me.” [The actual Dovahzul translation for bed that I went with is dream home]). I felt that rumble in my bones, and Miraak spoke it in a tone that invited pleasure.

“You know, one of these days I’m going to understand everything you say in that suggestive accent, and you are going to be embarrassed.” I did my best to show him I was unaffected by his seamless mastery of the dragon tongue.

Miraak trailed his hand down to the small of my back. A possessive gesture. “You will accompany me around this old town. Is it still called Hillgrund-Hofkah? Hillgrund’s Steading?”

I guess he thought I was the one that needed babysitting.

“I’ve never heard it called that, but to answer your question, no. It’s called Ivarstead.” I led us into town, and the First Dragonborn’s strides matched my own. His big hand still cupped my low back, fingers finding their way inside of the leather fittings of my armor with every few steps.

He must have been so touch-depraved in that place…

Apocrypha.

A sudden sharp pain laced my right shoulder and I stumbled. My vision went dark for a second and when I came to, Miraak’s arms had snaked around my waist, arm steadying me as I righted myself. The First Dragonborn moved in front of me, searching for any more bodily stress. I did my best to downplay the debilitating pain I’d just experienced.

“Careful, Miraak, your concern is showing.”

He countered with a swift,“Nahlot, vahdin. (Silence, woman) I was only in contact with your skin through your underclothes, but I made out a thought you had.”

His expression turned stern. “Why were you thinking of that place? It gives him power over your mind and actions. Do not trouble yourself with the thought of Apocrypha, Skye. It is not worth your stin fen, your free will.”

Miraak was being so earnest, I was compelled to do the same even though I knew it would backfire. “I was thinking of you. Trapped there. What it was like being touch-deprived, starved for human connection.”

He huffed, brushing my comment off too quickly.

“I do not want your sympathy, Dragonborn.” Miraak turned defensive. “Save it for the herds that follow you like cattle if you perform to their liking.”

The First continued, apparently still upset about the time I was spending helping Alvor. “They are the ones bending you to their will. Nii los ni faal dez do aan dovahkiin.” (It is not the way of a dragonborn).

The arrogant bastard’s words made me angry. I think he was angrier, but I did not care because the stress of Hermaeus Mora’s ever-present shackles was starting to get to me. “I was not giving you sympathy. I’ve noticed how you touch me. At times you’re rough, harsh almost. But sometimes it’s like you are afraid of what touching me will do to you. I think it’s not the way of the dragonborn to cower from his companion.”

Miraak’s glower sent a bolt of lightning down my spine. Was this how he looked when we’d fought? Quicker than my reaction, the First Dragonborn’s fist burrowed into my armor, catching the sharp edge of my chest plate, and yanking me close.

With a shake he growled, “I may touch you however I like. You seem to forget; I have healed from our little skirmish in my former master’s realm, and I am stronger than you.”

I knew my armor’s metal edging was biting into the skin of his hand.

My glare met his less-than-human one. “If I remember correctly, you were nearly dead, and I was still standing.”

I recognized he was right, but my pride could not handle the fact that the man in front of me had possessed every opportunity to crush the life from me when he’d held me against that pillar.

The Atmoran bared his teeth, features so close I could make out the shape of his black veins. When he spoke again, Miraak’s tone was dropped low. “Do you ever wonder if the only reason you survived was because I allowed you to?”

He smelled of brimstone.

My memory conjured what I thought would be my last living moments. Miraak’s strong hand tight around my exposed neck, but not tight enough. The man’s only moment of hesitation on the battlefield.

“Because you had sympathy for me?” I bit back.

An emotion I couldn’t place flitted across the ink of his eyes. Miraak shoved me back hard enough where I bounced on the ground. I was back on my feet instantly in case I’d provoked a fight out of the bastard. His hand dripped dark red blood from seizing my armor. The Atmoran did not spare me another glance as he started walking away.

“You know how to find me if you think I’m causing trouble.”

I did not call for him, nor did I stop staring until his form disappeared from my sight.

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

The blood dripped from his palm, down his fingers, leaving a splattered trail for predators to follow. Good. Miraak wanted it that way. He didn’t heal the wound he had received from the Last Dragonborn’s armor. It reminded him that she was still there, living. Skye was not a figment of his imagination, like when he had existed in Apocrypha.

The hooks of Hermaeus Mora snaked deep within her. And it was Miraak’s fault. He led the Last Dragonborn to the daedra’s plane of Oblivion. The dragon priest had failed to protect her from that poisoned spear and now she suffered for his mistake.

Miraak could not face the feelings Skye stirred within him when she had called attention to how he touched her. He was always aware of how he placed his hands on her- how much pressure he used and where. Miraak learned she shied away from certain things and leaned into others. Skye was wrong on one account though- Miraak never willingly sought out much physical attention.

When he ruled under the dragons, Miraak swore to show no weakness. That often meant rarely expressing physical affection, romantically or otherwise. He had to remain distant, above everyone else because he was the one in charge. Yet, there was something about HER specifically that made it difficult to stay away.

Drip.

His cut reminded Miraak of the Last Dragonborn’s statement.

“Because you had sympathy for me.”

It also reminded him of his anger. He could not believe how simple-minded the Last thought he was. Sympathy for her was hardly why Miraak delayed Skye’s death. The woman’s utter fearlessness when facing him, the horrors roaming Apocrypha, and the daedric god of fate itself was enough to sway the First Dragonborn to her side.

“Enough,” Miraak told himself.

It was time to blow of some steam.

The ancient dragonborn closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered,“Laas Yah Nir.”

As he opened his eyes, Miraak saw clearer than any hunter. His dragon shout had blessed the Atmoran’s senses and Miraak distinguished the elks’ heartbeat from the wolfs’. He discerned the heat that rolled from their hides. The First Dragonborn needed to clear his mind and hunting had always been an enjoyable demonstration of his dominance.

Behind him, the priest heard wolves cry, alerting their pack to the scent of his blood. Miraak’s boot snapped a fallen branch. Snorting followed and a bear suddenly charged forth from the forest, sharp teeth and claws glinting in the dusky light.

Miraak drew his sword quickly and summoned frost spikes in his other hand. He launched spears of ice toward the beast’s face and paws. One missed, but the other grazed its face and his third jabbed through its front leg. The bear howled in pain as it stumbled directly on to Miraak’s sword. The dragonborn sliced up and straight through the animal’s jugular. The bear toppled to the dirt beside the First.

By now the wolves were upon him, first pack member breaking off to strike. Miraak swung his weapon in a wide arc when the wolf lunged. His blade made contact with the creature, fending off the first attacker. More growls sounded to his left. The priest no longer felt an emptiness in his chest. Miraak directed his Thu’um toward the snarling and shouted, “Yol Toor Shul!”

The dogs squealed in pain as dragon fire flayed their skin. Unfortunately for the First Dragonborn, the fire from his shout scared the rest of the pack and they fled, disappearing as quickly as they had come.

Pathetic, foolhardy creatures. Miraak needed a real challenge. He trekked deeper into the woods, wondering if Skye would use his shout to seek Miraak out. He recalled how forcefully he had thrown her to the ground. Miraak grimaced at the memory of those pretty golden clasps clinking when she glanced off the dirt and jumped to her feet in an instant. Still wary of him.

The First kept digressing back to his worst habits in her presence, likely deteriorating the Last’s opinion of the man. Truly, Miraak did not fully comprehend his infatuation with the Last Dragonborn, but ever since he had sensed her resisting his mind-control, the priest had been taken with Skye. His inner dovah’s infatuation with the female contributed to Miraak’s feelings on the matter, but there was something more profound occurring in the old dragonborn’s icy heart.

The thoughts of his female paused when Miraak heard its cry. A long, drawling roar that would strike terror in most mortals stoked an inferno within Miraak’s chest. A dragon was nearby and the First Dragonborn had a plan brewing.

Skye’s POV

My muscles ached from my conditioning, but the warm bath at the inn helped stave off some of the exhaustion. I had found a quiet spot not far from Ivarstead to practice my sword techniques. It felt a little strange not having Miraak around, but after the way he’d handled me during our argument, I barely spared another thought about the man.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Skye.” I sank lower into the steaming water.

I knew how to press his buttons and we were both a bit miffed after the trip and news about Dorthe. At least I was. It was hard to tell exactly what Miraak was thinking when he believed in something because he liked to hide his emotions behind whatever façade maintained his power status. As I scrubbed at the dirt stuck to my skin, my eyes found the glaring black stripes of Hermaeus Mora’s mark. I noticed I was rubbing at darkened parts of my skin that were not coming off. When I looked closely, I spotted spidering veins that looked very similar to the First Dragonborn’s. Had that been there before?

“Gods, I need a drink.” I put the thought of the daedra out of my mind, remembering Miraak’s concern. “I need to ask Whilhem for a cloak to cover this giant of a blemish.”

After a quick call for Lynly, Vilemyr’s bard, to bring me fresh clothes and a cloak, I combed through my hair and wiped at the scar that split my lip. I made sure to tip the bard extra for finding clothes that fit, even if they were similar to hers. Finally, I made my way out into the main room of Vilemyr.

Nearly every adult from Ivarstead was in for a drink, the warm hearth, and merry song. The smell of roasted meat and ale wafted through the hall, and I soon found myself at the bar after dodging a few rowdy dancers from town.

“Can I get a bottle of whatever mead you’ve got?” Whilhem smiled at me and reached under his counter for some Nord mead.

“Will this do ya?” He asked out of habit before popping the cork.

I nodded and flipped him a few coins. I barely tasted the bite from the alcohol when I tipped the glass back.

“So, where ya been, Skye? Tales of your exploits have gone silent for a while. Lots of baddies coming back and the dragons seem to keep flying around, killin’ folk.” Whilham’s curiosity sparked conversation.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Whilham.” I chuckled and took another drink when he said, ‘try me.’

“I guess you could say I was out saving the world from another catastrophic disaster—one that could be worse than the dragons.”

The bartender kept his eyes on me while serving another patron that sidled up to the counter.

“Worse than dragons?”

I nodded and answered, “Oh yes. What if I told you I had to go stop someone who was not only stronger than the beasts, but who could control them, too.”

Whilham’s eyes widened. “Well, I’d say you’re mad, firstly, but if I think on it, I would say you maybe should have kept whoever it was around if they could tame those demons.”

I almost choked on my mead.

“They sound powerful, but none are as powerful as the Dragonborn.” A voice sounded beside me. “I for one am thankful you dealt with that monstrosity and are back saving the day in Skyrim.”

I turned and found a Redguard sipping on an ale he ordered. The man’s eyes were trained on me; when I met his gaze, he winked and signaled to Whilham.

“My man, please get the lady another round on me.”

Before I could protest, Whilham had opened another bubbling bottle and plopped it in front of me. It did smell wonderful.

“A toast, lovely.” The Redguard clinked his bottle against mine and said, “To the most beautiful and dangerous woman on Nirn. Cheers.”

I giggled, blushing as I took another gulp of that sweet alcohol.

“Thank you, friend. Can I ask your name?” I just noticed the subtle dart of the man’s eyes to the side.

Nervous or lying?

“People call me Jalba. I am a trader trying to sell my goods across this chilly land.”

I raised a brow, wondering how well Jalba’s business was going considering the civil dissent, dragon crisis, and sudden increase in criminal activity in Skyrim. Feeling a bit more sociable than normal due to my drinking, I questioned the Redguard on the state of things and how he was managing. I did not miss how his hand readjusted the daggers he had strapped to his waist when he answered me.

Jalba explained the situation was two-pronged: on one side, the fighting and resurgence of the dragons left many with diminished resources that Jalba could fill, but on the other side, traveling alone was becoming increasingly dangerous and many Skyrim natives were very distrusting towards outsiders.

“I might get lucky with some friendlies during one stop, then completely bomb my other. I usually at least break even, but it’s only because I can survive out here.”

As Jalba tilted the last of his drink back, I noticed a few scars that marred the skin of his face. His clothes looked nice, but practical, nothing too cumbersome. The Redguard had several pouches strapped to his person that carried who knew what. I had seen others carry their valuables in small bags close to their body, except most individuals had very little they could call valuable to tote around. His entire ensemble reminded me of something…

“Like what you see, Dragonborn?”

My eyes snapped to his, worried Jalba had caught me trying to figure his persona out. The man, however, sat up a bit straighter when I caught his stare, and flashed me a good-humored smile.

Unable to keep up his act any longer, Jalba started laughing and nudged me. “Joking, of course!”

I laughed along and pushed back, enjoying this drunken foolishness far too much. “I was simply noticing how capable you seemed, Jalba. I may be Dragonborn, but you appear to be quite the prepared traveler.”

The Redguard made a show of leaning back, hand holding the last few drops of his ale swung across Jalba’s body. “That, my lady, is the finest compliment I’ve ever received from a woman with such talent! I say we dedicate another round to the Dragonborn’s praise and then go dance the night away.”

I felt the color creep across my nose again at the thought of having a dance in this charismatic stranger’s arms. Too bad I’d have to let him down. I was a terrible dancer and I had already embarrassed myself enough this evening with Whilham’s tasty spirits.

The barkeep chuckled, knowing me long enough to see Jalba’s suggestions were making me reticent to join. When Whilham served me another bottle, he bent to whisper, “I think you’ve got an admirer, Skye.”

I acted like the big man’s comment didn’t faze me and palmed the fresh mead. As the amber liquid drizzled down my throat, I thought how pleasant it was to have a regular human treating me kindly. Even if Jalba’s confidence was coming from his drinks, it was a welcome difference. I had denied myself the pleasures of drink and dance for a long time and I was beginning to see Jalba’s proposal in a brighter light.

Turning to the Redguard, I held my mead up for another toast. “To new friends and prayers for a better dancer.”

Jalba’s grin spread from ear to ear as we clinked our beverages together and downed the contents.

Miraak’s POV

Miraak opened the door to the tavern. He had tracked the pull of Skye’s soul to this place and immediately started scanning the crowded hall for her blonde head. Many Nords were fair-haired, but the Last Dragonborn’s locks had small stripes of silver running through them. Miraak could sense some of the patrons’ eyes on him. Contrary to what he wanted, Miraak put on a mild expression and nodded to those he strode past. It put people at ease.

He scouted through dancing drunks, following the invisible rope to the Nord Dragonborn’s soul.

The former priest ghosted to a stop when he spotted them. His female and a tall, dark-skinned male sat atop wooden bar stools, leaning into one another and snickering. The man’s hand was running over the cloth of some cheap cloak Skye wore over her right shoulder while he gazed into the Last Dragonborn’s cerulean irises. He was beaming, infatuated with her looks and attention.

Skye swayed a little as she spouted a tale about how she goaded a dragon into chasing her through a forest so dense, it got stuck in the trees and she slayed the beast. The male knocked his bottle against hers and its contents dribbled onto her extended arm. Miraak watched him practically coddle Skye’s arm, making a fuss over using his own garments to sop up the alcohol from her skin.

If he hadn’t just taken down a dragon, raided its corpse, and trudged back to Ivarstead, Miraak would have broken the man’s hand that touched Skye. The entire reason the First had gone hunting was to calm down and Miraak planned to keep his composure around the other male. After a deep breath in and out, the ancient dragon priest settled on the bar seat to the left of Skye.

He felt no need to alert the Nord to his presence; Skye would feel him.

Miraak waits.

The other man’s eyes rove over Miraak’s form. A challenge.

“Good evening, sir. What will you be having tonight?”

Miraak discerns how the barkeep tries not to make eye-contact after meeting the First Dragonborn’s eyes.

“I will take a bottle of your reserve and place an order for a sweetroll.” Miraak counted out a few gold pieces from his recent exploit and watched the bartender get to work.

The sound of her drunken laughter to the right of him set Miraak’s teeth on edge. Skye was indulging the other patron far too much for the First Dragonborn’s liking. The dragon priest remained patient, clasping his hands together and running his fingers over the bandages he had used to patch up the cut Skye’s armor had given him.

Clink. The server set a bottle in front of Miraak just as Skye and her plaything clicked their glasses together for another toast.

“I had no idea the Dragonborn could handle her spirits so well!” The dark-skinned man ordered another round.

“And what is that supposed to mean? Afraid this little Nord will outdrink you, Jalba?” Skye finished off the rest of her bottle and chuckled at her own joke when she set it down.

“Your food, sir.”

Miraak shifted back to allow a server girl room to place the sugar-coated roll in front of him. The scent of sweet butter and warm bread drifted up from the item. The First Dragonborn fished out a beautiful emerald and moonstone necklace he had defeated the dragon for and draped it around the edges of the plate, making sure the chain did not get any of the sticky substance on it.

He barely restrained his smile when he heard the Last Dragonborn ask, “What is that smell?”

She followed her nose to the left, eyes lighting up when she spotted the sweetroll. When Skye’s gaze traveled to Miraak, she appeared slightly taken-aback. She did that wide-eyed blink with her lips upturned in a knowing smirk.

“Say, do I know you?” She gestured to the sweetroll in front of the First Dragonborn. “I see we both share an appreciation of the sweeter things in life.”

Miraak raised a brow in amusement. His soul curled with pleasure when Skye reached over and brushed her hand up his arm, leaning in so she could whisper, “Mind if I shared?”

The priest took a moment before answering so he could bask in both Skye’s proximity and the absolute envy that swallowed Jalba’s expression as the man witnessed Skye willing close the distance between herself and Miraak.

Feeling encouraged by his hunt and presentation of his gift, Miraak strokes the female Dragonborn’s arm much the same way she did his and gently guides her to the plate of food.

Miraak dipped close and returned her soft murmur. “Dii peyt, it is yours.”

Skye smiled at him and finally twisted toward the plate.

“Excuse me, friend, but I’ve got the lady’s meal and mead tonight. I would appreciate it if you would leave us to it.”

Miraak shot Jalba a predatory stare when the Redguard reached out for Skye’s arm.

Before the man could reach her, the Last addressed him. “Jalba, please, I’ve wasted enough of your time. This one is traveling with me. There's no need for you to cover dinner—sweetrolls are my favorite!”

Miraak thought the other would put up a fight, but Jalba gave a resigned sigh and extended a hand to Skye. “Well, lovely, it has been a pleasure.”

Ever the polite one, Skye clasped the man’s hand and let him pull her into a one-armed hug. Miraak lingered coolly, fighting the urge to Fus Roh Dah Jalba across the inn. After a final pat on her cloak, the man stepped back and left a peck on the hand he still held. “I hope our paths will cross again, Dragonborn.”

Skye muttered something in reply. Miraak wasn’t listening; he held the man’s glare as Jalba approached.

Jalba spoke in hushed tones to the First. “Don’t know how you managed to get her attention so fast. I’ve been trying all night, but she’s hesitated.”

Miraak smiled. “Lucky guess.”

Jalba frowned and continued into the throngs of people swaying around the fire. The First Dragonborn watched Jalba until Skye’s gasp claimed Miraak’s attention.

“Where did this come from?” Her slender fingers tenderly picked up the necklace Miraak had laid on her platter.

The Atmoran took a drink from his untouched bottle of Black-Briar Reserve and explained, “I took it from deep within a dovah’s treasure hoard. After I claimed its soul, of course. Consider it an apology for… earlier.”

Skye looked at him in wonder, lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no words left her mouth. The woman glanced back at the necklace and thanked Miraak earnestly.

“So, I leave the First Dragonborn alone and he goes, takes care of my dirty work for me, and brings me back the spoils. I could get used to this.”

Miraak laughed quietly and teased, “And allow your competition all the souls? I remember how angry you got the last time I took the spoils of battle for myself. You said you would ‘suck the soul right out of my dead body.’”

He savored the reddish tint that crept up her neck. Perhaps it was from drinking too much. Surely it wasn’t him.

Was it?

Skye gestured to Miraak with the hand holding her necklace. “You have a very good memory.”

The First Dragonborn’s inner dragon preened at the sight of Skye holding his prize for her.

Miraak relaxed a little and leaned over on one arm so he could look up at her through his lashes. “It’s a point of pride for me.”

The Last Dragonborn’s cheek divots deepened as she smiled, shaking her head at Miraak. After a final gaze at the sparkling emerald and glowing stone, Skye turned the piece around in her hands and reached behind her hair. The woman was intoxicated and Miraak noticed her fumble with the clasp. Without thinking, the Atmoran man enveloped her hands with his own, nimbly gliding to Skye’s side. The edges of Miraak’s fingers rested against the Last’s neck.

She had gone still within his arms.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

My brain stopped processing for a second. Sensations of the last time his hands were this near my neck flashed across my mind, but I was too tipsy to respond immediately. He still made me nervous, and our scuffle during the day was fresh in my memory.

I need to show I trust Miraak.

“Dii peyt.” I smelled a hint of alcohol on his breath. The First Dragonborn’s dark whiskers scratched my cheek when he continued talking. “Permit me.”

The necklace he had given me felt warm against my skin, but I hadn’t been able to cinch it and I realized Miraak was offering. I pressed the clasp into his waiting fingers and felt them close gently around mine to slide the metal out of my grasp. It was then I felt the cloth bandages around his skin. My brow furrowed with concern, and I turned my face to get a better look at the blood that dappled his dressings.

In my drunken haze, I did not realize how close the First Dragonborn’s features were, and my nose bent against his as I twisted. I felt the soft press of his mouth against the side of mine and jolted backward in surprise. A grunt of pain escaped my lips when my hair tangled in the necklace’s chain.

“Ow! Sorry, I-I- my bad. I’m not… thinking straight.”

Barely missing a beat, Miraak gently unraveled my locks from the jewelry, and I noticed he was laughing. Upon hearing the man’s resonant chuckling, I blushed harder, refusing to look at him as I held my hair away from my neck so he could hook the chain. Miraak’s hot palms glided down my shoulders and spun me to face him.

Mustering my nerve, I slowly lifted my gaze to his. The First Dragonborn’s face was flushed with color, whether from embarrassment or drink, I couldn’t tell. His grin was wide and handsome.

The smug bastard ran his tongue over the spot that had touched my lips and said, “There are other ways to thank me, Dovahkiin. But I won’t complain if you express more of your gratitude.”

He made a show of sweeping his dark eyes over my neckline and red face. Miraak waited until our eyes locked again before he spoke. “I don’t know if you’ll remember this, Skye, but that piece looks stunning against your skin. You look beautiful.”

I felt my breath hitch at his words. The heat budding deep within my chest told me that my inner dovah was liking the offering and praise she just got. I laughed a little and grabbed my half-empty bottle of mead.

“A toast, then.” I wiggled my bottle at the ex-dragon priest. “To my beauty and your prowess.”

Miraak snatched his Reserve and clanked it against mine. “Geh, to your beauty and my kiss.”

I kept my eyes on him as I tried to drink my blush away. “That was not a kiss. That was an accident.”

Miraak finished his spirit and signaled for another one. I noticed Whilham glance at me enquiringly. I went ahead and nodded for more, making a mental note to tip the barkeep later.

“What’s the phrase…” Miraak trailed off, scratching his beard in thought. “A happy accident?”

Rarely did I ever hear the First Dragonborn question anything. I delighted in the way his voice trilled. When I glanced out toward the dancefloor the room spun. I was starting to feel the ache in my shoulder again. That’s when I remembered his hand.

“Hey.” I reached for the hand not holding his drink. “Why didn’t you heal this?”

Miraak let me run my fingers over his bandages. His eyes followed my hand. “It served as a reminder.”

“Reminder for what?” I angled myself closer to the First.

A reminder that I am no longer alone. That someone else judges me for my face and not my ability. That you are here.

He was much more prone to being honest when the First got tipsy. Miraak’s voice sounded almost soothing inside my head when he spoke in that quiet tone. The sound was doing wonders for my drunken self. I again moved closer to him, dragon purring with fire.

“I am glad you’re here, Miraak.” Maybe I was the one who was being too honest. “Here, have this with me before it gets cold.”

I reached for the sweetroll to break some of the bread apart, thinking about the First Dragonborn’s words. As much as I wanted to devour the entire thing, I also wanted Miraak to try his first ever sweetroll, and I lifted the bite toward him.

“Try it.”

Miraak’s POV

He struggled to keep his composure after hearing Skye’s soft words. Mind hazy from alcohol on an empty stomach (and years spent without consuming a drop), Miraak stared stupidly at the Last Dragonborn, tracing her goofy, drunken smile, and wondering how on Nirn she could actually want to be around him. HIM, the First Dragonborn that had led a cult of dragon worshippers, murdered most of them and their masters, and tried taking the world for his own selfish gains, yet ending up laughably trapped within the clutches of a daedric prince that had deceived Miraak.

The First concluded it was dangerous being in this woman’s presence while intoxicated and made a mental note to keep his composure for a later night of drinking.

“You really shouldn’t overthink food this much, old man. Otherwise,” the blue glint in her eyes sparkled mischievously as she turned the bite of roll toward her own mouth. “You miss out.”

Miraak blinked his daze away enough to focus on her pink lips seal around the sugar-coated bread. Skye’s jaw worked to chew it and she released a satisfying hum that made the Atmoran’s mind think of other situations where she would sound similar. Her reddish tongue swiped at a lone crumb stuck to the side of her mouth—the same area he had savored with his own lips…

The dragon priest didn’t hear what Skye said. He leaned closer, reason slipping.

“’Ey, lovebirds, can ya move somewhere else? You’ve been crowding the bar all night and some of us would like in on the action.”

Miraak froze, a wave of awkwardness washing over him that was swiftly replaced by anger. The Last Dragonborn looked up from her sweetroll at the band of gruff-looking farmers with Hod at the helm, obviously annoyed at how she and Miraak had basically claimed the bar for themselves. The First Dragonborn rested a heavy hand on her shoulder.

He leaned down to whisper, “I can send them away if you like, Skye. They will not bother us again.”

He meant every word of what he said. Miraak had killed for pettier reasons.

Rather than answer him right away, the Last picked up the platter her sweetroll rested on and handed it to him rather abruptly. “I’ll handle them my way. Go find a table for us and I will meet you there.”

Before he could object, Skye was already approaching the farmers. Her stubbornness confounded the First Dragonborn, but he found himself seeking out a good spot for both of them—one where he had a clear view of the inn and where she could choose whatever seat she liked. Miraak sipped on his drink, noticing it started tasting as bitter as his mood while he watched the Last Dragonborn negotiate with the workers. Their continued scowls directed at Skye set his teeth on edge.

“Excuse me, handsome, but can I squeeze by you and clear up this table?” The woman that had brought his food earlier did not wait for his reply as she leaned into his personal space, her chest very clearly brushing up against Miraak’s form.

He went ridged when she turned to whisper in his ear. “The name’s Nenari. If you’re feeling lonely tonight, I’m more than happy to keep a man like you company.”

The First did nothing as Nenari drug a thumb across one of the many scars that decorated his face. “I would love hearing how you got these. Big guys with scars always have some ravishing stories to tell.”

Miraak knew he could hurt the female practically falling on him if he so wanted, but he was determined not to ruin his self-control. If the wench wished for a story, he could provide one.

Carefully, grasping her hand and pulling it away from his face, Miraak smiled as he said, “If I told you that one was from my estranged lover whom I found hung by her neck in a torture cell, would you believe me? The others aren’t necessarily from her, but her tormentors as they screamed, suffocating on their own blood while I inflicted my own personal form of agony on every imbecile that opposed me.”

The First gestured to his most prominent mark, the one that split his dark brow in two. “The man that gave me this is buried miles underground, so deep in the Void that his soul will be forever in limbo, torn nearly in half and yearning for a death that will never come.”

Miraak felt the young woman shaking, the color drained from her face. The old dragonborn smiled to himself, once again quite proud of his memory and linguistic skills. He had strung together tales he’d read in Hermaeus Mora’s library and mixed them with his own experiences of war when Miraak ruled as head priest.

Goading her further, Miraak tilted his head and asked, “Still want to keep me company? Alone?”

Nenari almost dropped the glasses in her hurry to scramble away from him.

“What was that about, priest?” Skye sauntered up to his table, features pinched in annoyance.

Miraak simply smiled, enjoying the Last’s display of jealousy and how her necklace shimmered when she crossed her arms, pressing her breasts up delectably. “A little reminder for someone who didn’t know her place. Meyz, dii peyt, praal ahrk naak voth zu’u.” (Come, my rose, sit and eat with me.)

To demonstrate his desire, Miraak broke off another piece of the sweetroll and extended it to Skye, willing her to come take it from his hand. She narrowed her eyes with a smirk and uncrossed her limbs to take the bread from him, but Miraak snatched it away with a shake of his head in disapproval.

“Fin, voth hin mal jot.” (No, with your little maw.)

Skye pouted. In her drunken state, the dragonborn’s exaggeration was actually quite cute.

“After everything I did for you, you deny this woman her sweetroll? You bastard.”

Miraak held up a finger, a lightness to his usually stern features. “I don’t deny it from you, Skye. I simply gave you the terms for how to get it.”

The Last Dragonborn moved faster than Miraak thought possible in her inebriated state and grabbed his hand holding the bite she wanted so badly.

“You said it was mine earlier.” She murmured a familiar phrase close to his face. “So demanding, Miraak. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”

The ancient dragon priest was helpless to resist as Skye tugged his sticky fingers to her mouth and closed those lips over the tips of Miraak’s digits and her sweetroll. How such lips could harness the full power of the Thu’um yet be incredibly gentle was beyond even the First Dragonborn’s comprehension. Her touch left him too soon with Miraak’s dragon mewling at the loss of connection.

“Thank you.”

In his distracted state, the dragon priest had failed to notice Skye scooted the sweetroll over to her side and away from Miraak. He watched in disbelief as she took another bite, smiling through her words. “What did you say? ‘A dragon takes what he desires.’ Good advice, old man.”

Miraak chewed his lip at her mockery. He had misjudged the Last’s cunning once again; however (he reminded himself), he had also gotten what he desired. Her company and another touch of her lips on his skin, even if it wasn’t exactly where he’d wanted them.

“You humble me, Dovahkiin.”

Skye giggled behind her roll. “Humble? You’re sure you know the meaning of that word, Miraak?”

He cracked a smile, continuing to play along with their frivolous tinvaak. “I can show you the meaning of it if you let me, Skye.”

She threw back yet again to their scuffle before meeting at the summit of Apocrypha. “Enlighten me, Diist Dovahkiin.”

His sooty blood rushed to Miraak’s cheeks as he shifted from his seat to a kneeling position in front of the Last Dragonborn. It was a faint imitation of his past cultists’ actions. Miraak took a hand not holding her next bite of food and directed Skye’s fingers to his lips. Her digits were a cool contrast to the heat of his kiss. The Nord flushed and looked around as if to make sure no one was watching their intimate exchange.

Miraak had already checked.

It was late and many of the patrons had cleared out; the ones remaining were too drunk to care or passed out on the floor or their cots.

He had the floor.

Skye’s POV

I believed he was joking. Then I remembered I was dealing with a 4,000 plus year old Atmoran man whose version of jesting was probably far different than mine. Miraak rendered my attempts to forget the hot expanse of his lips against my mouth useless as he now worked them against my knuckles. I could not recall any man ever kissing my hand like he did. It was almost in reverence.

I blushed at his attention. Those lips sought out every disfigurement I disliked about my hands. The dark bruises left by scaring were ghosted over with his lips; the First’s tongue passed over the cracks in my skin from the harsh climate I adventured in. Miraak’s beard tickled, and his breath felt warm… I should have stopped him, but the spirits I had consumed lowered my inhibitions and instead my foolish mind started imagining what ruling at the First Dragonborn’s side would be like. Would he treat me like this? Better?

His ministrations started to feel… relaxing? The strongest sensation of sleep washed over me, and I fought to stay awake to tell the First.

“Mir… nothing to do with your humble display, but I think I’ve reached my limit. You may need to…”

I caught the gleam of his dark eyes smiling before a peaceful darkness engulfed me.

Miraak’s POV

Would he ever admit to casting Calm on the Last? Probably not, but he did tell himself it was the best option. Miraak knew if he continued his advancements, Skye could end up a position she would never forgive him for. The First Dragonborn wanted her experience with him dictated by the female’s conscious decision, not influenced by the mead she drank. He only hoped their night made up for his unsightly display when they’d arrived in Ivarstead.

After a quick check with Whilham, Miraak scooped the small Nord up and wobbly carried Skye to her room which, Miraak noted with a sigh, had two separate beds. He had made the right decision as much as his instincts pushed against it.

“Pruzah vulon, Dovahkiin.” (Good night, Dragonborn)

The Atmoran went to touch her again but stopped himself just shy of her blonde locks. Miraak arranged his features, crushing the building fire of his emotion. He had glimpsed his body in the mirror right before laying Skye’s form down, and now Miraak stared. His skin was still too pale and his veins too black. The old dragon priest noticed his hair had grown some since escaping Apocrypha and his beard looked especially unkempt. His hair seemed so dark against the white of his hide. The dragonborn’s scars made welts across the side of his jaw, part of his nose, his left brow, and near his mouth. Miraak came to his eyes.

He hated how soulless they were. When others looked into them, they could see a crude reflection of themselves, expressions perturbed because they could not find a pupil to lock on to. When Miraak peered into the depths of their blackness, he only saw Apocrypha. A void of black, revealing green if they caught the light just right. Darkness swallowed sound in Mora’s realm, except for the prince’s inky slime that echoed the flutter of trillions of pages being turned.

The First Dragonborn remained frozen in place. Miraak’s own eyes trapped him in fear. Fear of waiting for that giant lime and spotted eyeball to roll forward as if emerging from the back of Hermaeus Mora’s wretched abyss.

Master.

He was panicking, but nothing showed outwardly. No, the First Dragonborn had overcome most emotional showing during all his years of torture and servitude. Hermaeus Mora would not get the pleasure of hearing him scream and he would suffer the repercussions of holding it all back. A final glance at Skye helped calm Miraak and he settled on his cot opposite the woman. He was in for a terribly sleepless night.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I woke with a stiff neck and throbbing headache. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, but here I lay in bed, still donning the same clothes from last night. Last night… oh yes, that’s why my head hurt so much. That talkative Redguard and his many toasts. Jalba had left… And the First Dragonborn had taken his place. Involuntarily, my fingers traced the edges of my lips and fell to the necklace still hanging around my neck.

Images of our “kiss” and his lips against my hand came flooding back. The heat of Miraak mixed with the otherworldly look of his skin, hair, and eyes and the fact he was just as powerful as me made for a rather intoxicating combination of intrigue, danger, and desire. I ran my hand over my face, rubbing the mental images away. I had a mission to focus on and a very capable dragonborn to assist me (if I hadn’t scared him away after last night).

The Atmoran wasn’t in the room, and I spotted no sign he had even slept save for a slight rumpling of the furs on his cot. Ah, whatever. Miraak couldn’t be far. I latched the door and shrugged on my armor, deciding to keep Lynly’s cloak on to hide Hermaeus Mora’s hideous tattoo. It fit well under the scales of my suit.

As I combed through my hair and started braiding it, the door rattled behind me. I had my tie clutched between my teeth and couldn’t answer right away. My visitor started thrashing against the entry, apparently very impatient. I groaned as the noise made my headache worse and I quit my hair halfway, rising to meet the pounding.

“This had better be urgent.” I stopped promptly after opening the door to a very groomed Miraak. “Ah, good morning. You look different.”

He directed his trademark scowl down at me. “How kind of you to notice. You, Skye, look late. And hungover.”

I ignored him, grumbling back to my mirror, and resetting my hair. Miraak had trimmed his beard and redone his braids overnight. His preciseness was admirable. I stole another glance at the Atmoran, appreciating the sharp line of his whiskers and intricate plaits of his hair. A few black pieces framed his high cheekbones, falling just below his jaw.

“It’s not polite to stare, you know.”

I thought I had turned away just in time. It seemed nothing escaped the scrutiny of the First Dragonborn. Miraak finished packing what meager belongings he had and paused behind me, catching my gaze in the mirror. His tall frame obscured everything else. Those eyes were sharp, so intelligent and mindful, but I noted he didn’t hold my stare for long. Miraak looked at my necklace and I thought I saw the creases of his frown soften a fraction before he turned and said, “The farmer is waiting with a restless foot outside of the inn.”

I tied my braids off as swiftly as I could and told Miraak that I knew Hod was probably very cross with us due to how late in the morning I had slept.

“Why did you not wake me?”

Miraak shot me a ridiculous look. “Wake a sleeping dragon? I am brave, but not mad, Dovahkiin.”

He glided out of my way as I hurriedly gathered my things. The man continued talking, but I disregarded him, searching madly for my left gauntlet to complete my set. My headache was worsening and Miraak’s deep accent vibrated my brain.

“Besides,” he purred, blocking my frantic scuffling. “You look so enticing when you sleep. I didn’t want to spoil my view.”

Miraak held my missing dragonscale glove up. “Looking for this?”

I was in no mood for his games and ripped the piece from his hand, stuffing my fingers through the bindings. “Let’s go, crafty bastard.”

We marched outside and clambered in the back of Hod’s wagon. I did not miss the farmer’s snide comment about how our antics had made him late for delivery and if I wasn’t the Dragonborn he would have left already. I exhaled loudly and rubbed my aching head.

“Jealous that you weren’t fortunate enough to spend the evening alongside a beautiful woman instead of raggedy men, Hod?”

The farmer closed his mouth after Miraak’s badgering. I hid my smile from both men, trying not to upset Hod further and refraining from stroking the First’s ego more. We started the last leg of our trip and the crisp morning air helped alleviate my headache somewhat. The rickety cart, however, made me feel a bit woozy. My hands gripped the wooden railing harder than normal.

“The spirits are not sitting well with you this late dawn.” Miraak seemed fine after nearly as much drinking as me. He shifted closer to me in the cart.

I lifted my gaze to the Atmoran, shielding my eyes from the sun rays. “It doesn’t take the genius of the First Dragonborn to figure that out.”

I peeked at Hod, noting my slip of Miraak’s title and what the farmer could think. Hod swiped at a few flies and readjusted his seat. As unaware as ever of his passengers.

“No, but it does take an intellect of mine to cure you.”

Ever the witty one, Miraak summoned white light in his palms and held them inches from my pulsing head. I stayed still as I could, thinking the priest would only be a moment. He hovered. The wagon jostled me against his hands, but rather than move away like I expected, Miraak latched on to my head, digits buried between my braids.

His magic trickled through my mind, washing the hurt away and replacing it with a clear focused energy. My eyes widened, amazed at the sudden change in feeling. Those big hands slowly released my head. Miraak had his eyes shut and a hand to his forehead. The white and golden tendrils of his spell disappeared into the dragon priest’s skull, and I watched the man’s features tighten. The First Dragonborn’s magic morphed into a shock of dark red and black and he finally dropped his hand, small smirk adorning his lips.

“I thought you were stronger than that, Skye. The Last Dragonborn, defeated by a trivial bit of head pain. I think I truly am the more powerful of our kind.”

I furrowed my brow at the cocky bastard, still wondering exactly what trick he’d just performed. “You could feel what I did?”

He nodded, pleased by my interest. “For a moment, yes. I’ve found it is easier to deal with a feebler person’s discomfort within my own body rather than drain my reserves using more effort to displace my magic into them.”

I tilted my head, curiosity not satisfied. “So what, you just took my hangover from me and healed it yourself?”

He looked a little surprised. “In a way, though you have a crude way of describing it. Think of what I did as a transmutation spell. I drew the poison out of your blood, replaced it with a renewing magic, transferred it to mine, and manipulated my blood to dissipate your pain.”

I blinked at his explanation. What forbidden magic had he just employed? Sure, Miraak had used it for good, but the ability to manipulate a person’s lifeforce seemed incredibly dangerous. I found the First Dragonborn still staring at me expectantly, like he wanted me to say something.

“Uh, thank you. I feel much better.”

Miraak grunted in acknowledgement. As he turned away, I noticed a couple of fresh scratches along his cheek, and I asked where he got them. The Atmoran looked down, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

“It has been a while since I had to… groom myself. My hands are trained for killing, not pruning.”

I suppressed a laugh at Miraak’s honesty and thought to encourage him. “You clean up well. So many improvements since I found you with those crusty old robes, ugly tentacle mask, and the musk of rotting books.”

Unable to resist my compliment, the ex-dragon priest shot me a raised brow along with his smirk. “So many, yet you list so little. Wundun nau, mal Dovahkiin. Zu’u fen hon hi zaan dii unsaald werid.” (Go on, little Dragonborn. I will hear you shout my unending praise).

Akatosh guide me, I thought. How the First Dragonborn took a simple compliment and made it into something bigger was beyond me. Instead of the slightly bothered feeling I normally experienced when Miraak got all haughty, I found myself used to his mannerisms and it made me… happy. I slipped him a sly grin before I turned my attention from the dragon priest and took in the sights.

The road to Riften was beautiful. White birch, pine, maple, and oak trees decorated the landscape. A gentle breeze unlatched some leaves and they soared past our wagon and swirled around my face, close enough for me to smell the slight sweetness of the plants. Though a peaceful sight, I knew these woods were not without their perils. The main roads were safe enough, but the town of Riften attracted lots of shady characters, and bandits along with all the wildlife down South could pose a threat to any traveler.

“Dragonborn, koraav (look).” Miraak had caught a brightly hued leaf in his large hand and held the orange sprig up to me. “It throws such a magnificent pigment. Like these trees were enchanted with magic. I wonder…”

I watched the Atmoran twirl the leaf with his fingers. “It could be the ash that nourished these plants long ago. Perhaps that is why their colors are so vivid.”

“Ash?” I questioned.

“Great battles were waged in my era here,” Miraak explained, a sullenness shadowing his features. “The forests provided enough cover for the joor (mortals) to escape the fangs and talons of the dov. However, the dragons were smarter than those they fought, stronger too. They razed these woods, leaving miles of burning wastelands in their wake.”

I glanced at Hod. He turned away quickly, seemingly not wanting to be involved with our conversation, but curious nonetheless.

“You remember that?”

The First Dragonborn’s eyes met mine, his vision steady and expression unreadable. “It was I who ordered the attack.”

My face darkened at the thought of Miraak, Lord of the ancient dragon cult, astride a dragon and helping it reign down terror on all who opposed the court. An image of his features contorted in rage and the First Dragonborn’s staggeringly powerful magic pouring forth from his body flickered in my mind. No wonder opposition was never successful. If their other priests were half as strong as Miraak, not even Skyrim’s best fighters stood a chance against the cult.

I heard strangled laughter from the helm and glanced up to find Hod shaking in his seat. The horses snorted nervously.

“What manner of company do you keep now, Dragonborn? Some demonic force against Talos and the divines? Is that why his eyes look like bottomless pits?” Hod’s own eyes were bulging, and his voice rose higher. “You plot with dragons to murder villages?”

I went to shift forward to calm the farmer, but Miraak’s solid arm across my chest stopped me.

“Let him fear us. Allow this simpleton to make a fool of himself for us.”
The First Dragonborn’s voice rumbled with venom.

Hod yanked on the horses’ reins before they veered off path in his negligence. I lost my balance in the wagon and caught myself before smacking into the cabbages. The farmer suddenly gurgled and spurted. When I rose, I gasped at the sight of Hod with two arrows though his neck.

“Skye, get down!” Miraak’s tone had never sounded so loud.

My knees gave way beneath me as I dropped to the floor of our cart. Two sharp thunks knocked the wooden boards close to me. The pull horses spooked and started chomping at their reins, shimming the cart enough where Hod’s bloodied body tumbled to the dirt. We were being attacked, but neither I nor Miraak could spot the assailants.

I scrambled up and went for the horses’ reins, but another arrow pierced my armor. Luckily, the plates of my guard slowed its impact, but it still drew blood and I hissed in pain. I pulled myself into the driver’s seat and managed to steady the animals enough to steer the cart further into cover from whoever had sights on us.

“Down!” Miraak yelled again and I ducked.

The projectile missed my head by mere inches, but it whipped back around, and I lurched backward, narrowly avoiding the sharp point. The First Dragonborn knocked it away with a ward, finally ending the chase.

“Did that arrow just home in on me in midair?”

Miraak grimaced. “Unless we are both losing our minds or under a spell, yes, it did. That shouldn’t be possible without—”

Another pair of arrows whizzed toward me and the First threw up one more ward. Right before they made contact with his barrier, both arrows flew up and around Miraak’s magic.

“Yol!” My fire breath disintegrated the weapons. I shielded my eyes from the debris dropping from the air.

“Get off this cart! Come!” The Atmoran snatched my arm roughly and hauled us both off the wagon. I barely managed to grab my shield and secure my sword belt in our haste.

The horses took off on a rampage through the woods. Hod’s forgotten produce spilled from the back, littering the forest floor with the dead farmer’s payload. I glanced at the First; he was watching for more weapons, hand still tight on my forearm. Without the noise of frightened horses, I heard the release of two more notched arrows. They sped impossibly straight toward me. Miraak yanked me to the side, tucking into a tree to avoid the shots. I had tried readying my shield, but the stubborn dragon priest had me pinned with his bulk.

Like we expected, the arrows followed us around the tree without losing momentum. Miraak tensed and exhaled hard. I smelled blood.

“What are you doing, you idiot?! I’m the one with a shield! Get behind me!” I wriggled with all my might and finally slipped past his muscle.

My eyes quickly roved over his broad shoulders and sure enough, there were two feathered shafts protruding from Miraak’s back. My ears picked up the sound of more projectiles. I made myself as small as possible, covering my form with as much shield as I could. The arrows burrowed deep into the bone of my barrier with enough force to stagger my footing.

Where were they coming from?! This is hopeless. No matter where I hide or duck to, they keep finding me.

“It’s no use, Dovahkiin. There is magic at work here.” Miraak growled as he pulled the arrows from his back, pressing a healing spell against his wounds as soon as he could. “No normal archer possesses that much force or accuracy without the help of an incantation.”

We had to find who owned the weapons that were firing at us, but it seemed whatever magic was used to enchant the arrows allowed them to fly far and always hit their target. Which happened to be me if another barrage of projectiles hurdling my way was anything to go by. Even as I blocked, I knew my shield wasn’t big enough to stop them all. However, just as the arrows were about to ravage my shield, they changed course and scattered in different directions. Two plummeted to the ground, one disappeared into the treetops, but the last two twisted in the air and launched into my shoulder.

“Damn it!” Miraak bellowed, his voice downing out my cries. “They resisted my telekinesis! Impossible unless… the target has been predetermined.”

He came to my side, hands out like I would surge up and attack. “Skye, don’t move. I can fend off another round while I heal you, but you must stay still.”

The First Dragonborn’s soul pressed against mine; it felt frantic. I did not understand how Miraak could control the power of his inner dovah when it was like this, but he gathered his dragon’s restless energy and concentrated it into a healing spell he hovered over the arrows in my shoulder.

“Krosis, dii peyt. This will hurt.”

I tried to focus on the soft tone of Miraak’s low rumble instead of the excruciating pain that scored my shoulder as he removed the arrows. I know he mitigated the sting as much as he could, but the entry wound was fresh and it throbbed beneath his magic. The First Dragonborn could not pour all his attention into my healing while he searched for more arrows, and the process was taking a long time.

“There,” I ground out, gesturing to more projectiles coming our way.

The ex-dragon priest placed himself directly in the line of fire and took a great inhale. He shouted, “Ven Gaar Nos!”

A cyclone formed from the force of his Voice and barreled toward the arrows. It was enough to break their path, giving Miraak just enough time to finish healing me. His mastery of the Thu’um saved us from the edges of the arrows, but we knew more were coming.

“You should be able to move.” His black orbs met mine, intent behind that perceptive stare. “Skye, we have to determine why those arrows are targeting you specifically. Can you cast any alteration spells that would help deflect their impact?”
He was implying I needed to let them hit me. I shook my head, unhappy with the fact I couldn’t cast much and Miraak’s implication I would let myself get injured.

“I can’t just let them massacre me! The Last Dragonborn is a hell of a lot stronger than phantom archers.”

After a slight pause to let my words sink in, my eyes lit, and I told Miraak to stay put and watch. He moved to protest but trusted me enough to let me go. The dragon priest’s gaze was a brick of steel as I stepped out of cover and into another line of fire. Miraak held back, his dragon screaming at mine for its apparent foolhardiness. The arrows tore through the air so fast, I nearly shouted too late.

“Feim Zii Gron!”

My body felt light as a cloud. A second after the last word left my tongue, projectiles swarmed my form, slicing through my spirit with a killer’s intent. Unable to hit their target, the arrows turned in on themselves and eventually collided and fell through me. I spared a glance toward the First Dragonborn. He was intensely focused and still as stone. Another set of bolts tore through the right side of my shoulder, scattering my essence, but not inflicting pain.

Suddenly, Miraak yelled, “Skye, to me!”

I rushed to his side, feeling more of my body as the shout wore off. The First Dragonborn’s hands were on me as soon as I materialized. He forcefully grabbed a fistful of the cloak I still wore from Lynly and ripped it from my armor.

“What are you--?”

Miraak levitated the cloak out into the open; every arrow fired hit the garment. I covered my gasp. It was marked with a homing rune.

“Bastard,” spit the First. “Jalba did this when he hugged you goodbye last evening.”

Miraak sent the cloth up in flames. The material disintegrated, burning an unnatural blue color when he reached the rune. I went to thank the Atmoran, but when I turned to him, Miraak was frozen, black orbs glued to the skin I’d hidden under Lynly’s cloak. I had never seen the First Dragonborn look as shocked as he did now.

Miraak’s POV

All he saw where the winding black veins, pale skin, and ink-stained tentacle markings ravaging her right side. The black limbs had climbed up above her collar, slithering toward her ear. Skye’s normally glowing skin was blanched and sickly. The mass containing the center of her tattoo traveled over her shoulder, gazing directly through his soul.

Hermaeus Mora’s voice speaks to Miraak.

“Behold, my champion. See what you’ve done to her by cheating your master? She dies slowly… her soul is strong, like yours, but even the strongest succumb to fate.”
The yellow-green eyeball blinked lucidly. “But you know that… don’t you my wayward champion?”

Miraak had gone deaf to the world outside of Hermaeus Mora’s voice. The daedra’s drawl drowned out Skye’s question, muted her touch. The Last Dragonborn was alarmed, Miraak knew that. Yet even when Skye moved away to defend them (their invisible attackers had finally discovered the dragonborns’ cover), Miraak stayed still, imprisoned by the daedric prince of fate and knowledge.

“The female dragonborn has you so enamored that you have completely disregarded her, mh… disability from my realm.” The daedra paused, letting the bite from his words sear the First Dragonborn’s heart. “You have allowed me to claim her… The Nord’s shout is weak, and you know it, Miraak. Think of how quickly her power faded away.”

Miraak’s lips turned up into a snarl, but he said nothing. It was right. Skye’s Become Ethereal shout had not been sustained. In his haze, the First Dragonborn made out Skye battling their attackers. She shouted again. Her Thu’um was more powerful than regular mortals, but it did not decimate her enemies like when Miraak had fought Skye in Apocrypha. A swordsman brought the force of his blow down on the Last Dragonborn. Normally, Skye would have stood against his strike, but Miraak spied her struggle. The readjustment of her sword grip, shuffle of her stance, and cringe of her features as she fought off the goon proved Mora’s words to the First.

“Soon, her strength will wane, and she will start to become mine… The ink of Apocrypha will claim her blood like it did yours all those years ago.”

Hermaeus Mora’s distinctive drawl faded, as did Miraak’s dizziness, but the dragon priest could not move. Skye had dispatched her assailants swiftly, with the arrival of help. She now spoke to a balding man and a younger woman with dark hair, Skye’s blue eyes tight with worry. Or was it fatigue?

Miraak wondered.

Skye’s eyes followed her gesture, both landing on Miraak. She motioned for the two newcomers to stay put while the Nord approached the First Dragonborn.

“Miraak, are you alright? I’ve never seen you freeze up like that.”

After she established he was unharmed, Skye explained the two people were old friends she had met during her time in the Thieves’ Guild. Delvin was the bald one and Sapphire was the woman with a sour look across her features. The Last said they would escort them the rest of the way to the Guild. Miraak barely listened. He reached for her blackened arm. Skye pulled away, back to her friends before the First Dragonborn could make contact.

Miraak stared at the black tendrils of her disfigurement. They had stretched for his hand, reaching for the tainted dragonborn’s touch. How long did he have until she collapsed?

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

The First Dragonborn barely tore his eyes from the Last’s form the entire trek to the city. The other two guild members had commented on Skye’s tattoo (as she deemed it). The Nord woman had denied any connection with a daedra, saying she had gotten it from Solstheim.

“It reminds me of something I’ve seen before…” The one called Delvin scratched his stubbled beard. “I can’t seem to place it though. Guess it ain’t important.”

Skye shifted uneasily under the thief’s discretion. Miraak wondered where the man could have seen daedric markings like the one’s etched into the Last Dragonborn’s body.

“Regardless, it’s real nice to see you again, Skye. Guild hasn’t been the same since you left for that godforsaken island.”

The Nord gave Delvin a sad smile and replied softly. “Delvin… you know I was never officially a guild member. Besides, Brynjolf turned down my offer before I decided to leave. Being the Last Dragonborn may sound great on parchment, but it comes with downsides, too.”

The woman called Sapphire chipped in. “Don’t make it sound so incriminating, Skye. If I had the ability to speak things into existence like you, I’d conquer this guild and every other one on Skyrim. I mean, who can beat something they can’t see? The dragons can’t even take you down!”

Miraak knew Skye was thinking less about her power and more about the societal struggles of having everyone know you had the ability to kill them, manipulate them, make the world turn against them with your voice.

“Yeah, well, let’s just say Brynjolf’s free spirit gets the better of him most of the time.”

Miraak didn’t like Delvin’s voice. It was grating, unnaturally pitched. You’re on edge, the First Dragonborn told himself. How long has it been since you stood among the joor without them bowing to you?  

Miraak saw a smirk creep across the man’s face and Delvin nudged Skye with intent. “We rarely let a day go by without reminding him of how stupid it was to let you go.”

Miraak noticed the pink tint that crept across Skye’s cheeks as she looked toward the ground after Delvin’s comment. Brynjolf. Miraak would remember the name that caused his female to blush so prettily.

“Speaking of Bryn,” the Last looked at their two traveling companions. “How is he taking what happened?”

She wanted to know why (or how) the Thieves’ Guild had been framed. Apparently, the people who kidnapped Dorthe for Alvor’s ransom were not from the Guild, but imposters.

“He ain’t happy about it, but the Guild’s stretched so thin at the moment, we can barely spare the manpower to hunt them down and let ‘em know the Thieves’ ain’t ones to be messed with.”

Their group paused just short of the tree line that opened to a beautiful lake. At the far end of the water a city on stilts stood. Riften. Skye’s companions explained they needed to scout ahead a little to ensure safe and secret passage and that they would be back to fetch the dragonborn.

“Till then, hang around the mouth of these woods.” Delvin patted Skye’s shoulder. She flinched away from his touch. The movement was controlled enough where an untrained eye would miss it. “We’ll be back for ya.”

The dragonborn bid them farewell, and while Skye finished briefing Delvin and Sapphire about something, Miraak stared out toward the lake. The First Dragonborn was struck with how clear and real the water looked. In Apocrypha, the “water” slithered more than flowed and smelled foul. It used to burn him when Miraak had first been ensnared by Hermaeus Mora, but over the millennia he’d been imprisoned, the Atmoran’s body had changed. The process of developing an immunity to Mora’s taint had been slow and painful.

Miraak stared at the water, remembering the many times he had tried to suffocate himself in the toxic black muck. It had swallowed him, every point of contact his skin made with the blackness blistered. When the First had gasped for air, he gagged on the thick substance. The way it gripped his lungs—Miraak had accepted his death, but it never came. Hermaeus Mora had let the First Dragonborn suffer for his attempt at escaping the daedra’s realm. Miraak closed his eyes against the humiliation he’d faced when Mora fished him out of the ink, forcing the poison Miraak had choked on back down his throat.

“Miraak.”

His eyes opened. The one who had saved him at the cost of her eternal servitude stood in his way, her delicate neck craned up to look him in the eye. Since the others had moved ahead to secure passage into the city, they had a moment alone.  

“That’s the second time in twenty-four hours that I’ve seen you look troubled. What has the usually confident First Dragonborn so quiet?” He loved how the blue in her irises amplified when Skye glanced toward the lake. “Delvin and Sapphire can be trusted if that’s what has got you so pensive.”

The First Dragonborn made himself answer, acting like things weren’t as dire as he thought.

“Your selflessness is hard to understand sometimes, Dragonborn.” Miraak moved close to her, noticing she stiffened. He stretches his hand out to trace her necklace. “How are you feeling, Skye?”

Faintly, he hears the Last Dragonborn’s voice in his head. You’re asking how the mark is affecting me? You aren’t… angry I hid it from you? Miraak runs his fingers up the chain until he reaches the angle of her jaw. Skye’s skin is hotter than normal. He barely applies pressure to her chin; when the female dragonborn’s eyes flick up to his, Miraak senses a tightness grip his heart.

“Fin, Dovahkiin (No, Dragonborn),” he answered her. “I watched you battle. Your strength has faded, and Mora’s signature has grown. There is a correlation.”

“I am not weak, Miraak. Whatever I’m feeling is likely a side-effect of what you meant when you explained that Hermaeus Mora could inflict his will on a person if someone spent too much time thinking about what the daedra can do.” The blue in her eyes crystalized. “Why did you not help me during the fighting if you noticed I struggled?”

Miraak disliked how the Last would derail his thought process with her questions. Still, he knew how to navigate these conversations with the Nord. “I stood by because I know that you are anything but weak, and unlike you, I study my enemies before engaging them.”

Skye was not buying his lie.

“You were studying the tree, not the people I was fighting.”

The First Dragonborn grew petty. Miraak did not want to be questioned about his lapse into Hermaeus Mora’s clutches and regressed back to his old ways of not allowing anyone to talk down to him. Miraak dropped his hand back to the Last’s neck and hooked a finger around the fattest part of the chain. He never took his eyes off the Last Dragonborn. Boring into her soul like he had during their first meeting, asserting his dominance.

“Miraak…” Skye trailed off. She brought a hand to the dragon priest’s forearm. A warning, but not complete refusal.

Her grip tightened when he dragged the female Nord closer. She was straining to keep staring up at him.

“I am always watching, mal Dovahkiin (Little Dragonborn).” Miraak leaned close enough to smell the woman’s rosy aroma. “Do you know why?”

The Atmoran’s inner dovah razed his insides like scorching fire, calling out to the Last Dragonborn’s. Aware Skye’s comrades were still close by, Miraak swung his other arm around her waist and pulled her to the backside of a tree. He felt her resist, but Miraak tipped a foot behind Skye’s own, helping her fall against the bark. The Last Dragonborn’s scaled armor clinked as the scratchy bark snagged some of her armor joints. By now, the First had maneuvered the small Nord directly under him. Skye was tense pinned against the tree, but his spirit could better sense hers at this range. Her dovah cried pitifully low, barely rising enough to greet his own.

She teased a cocky answer, “You watch to plot ways to defeat me, no doubt.”

The First Dragonborn’s immediate reaction surprised him. Miraak released her waist and slowly unhinged the Last Dragonborn’s hands from his arm and robe. He cupped her head and tilted it so his lips brushed her ear when the Atmoran spoke. His free hand clutched her ridged arm solidly.

“I could have already had you begging for my mercy if I chose, Dragonborn. But.” The ex-dragon priest inhaled her scent, shutting his eyes and closing what little distance was left between his mouth and Skye’s ear. “You are hurting. I do not enjoy seeing you bested by something weaker than me.”

He paused when Skye moved against his touch. Miraak braced in anticipation of her rebuttal, but the Last Dragonborn pulled him in for an embrace. He felt her trembling. Miraak tucked her head under his chin and ran his fingers though her loose strands of hair.

“You are the only one that could understand what my mind and body are going through.” The Nord’s voice was muffled by Miraak’s chest. “I’m determined not to let Hermaeus Mora break me.”

The First Dragonborn felt hollow listening to her words. He couldn’t tell Skye about meeting the daedra. It would upset her more and Miraak needed to make it seem like he had things under control.

“I have not figured out what to do yet, Skye.” The First Dragonborn knew not what possessed him to promise the Last of their kind. “I will.”

He knew, with all the knowledge (forbidden or otherwise) at his disposal, surely the First Dragonborn could thwart the daedric prince of fate. After all, in the books he had read, a dragonborn had the power to alter fate with their actions. Miraak was strong enough.

“Dragonborn?” Sapphire’s voice called for the female in his arms.

Skye made a small sound and tried to pull away, but Miraak shushed her, sending his thoughts to the Last Dragonborn.

Hush, dii peyt (my rose). I don’t want them to find us yet. Tell them you’ll go after them.

Skye shot him a knowing look and replied. You know I can’t do that.

Making sure he wasn’t overheard, the First Dragonborn whispered next to Skye’s ear, “Can’t? Or won’t.”

This close, Miraak could feel what his voice did to the Last Dragonborn. Her breath stopped for a second and she stilled. He wanted to expel the lingering dread about her mark, so Miraak continued to steer Skye’s thoughts from whatever pain she was experiencing to himself. Their proximity reminded the dragon priest of their drunken antics from the night before and of a certain sensation he wanted to experience again.

Sapphire called once more, her voice further away. Skye struggled in his arms, regaining some of her fire when Miraak held tight.

“Release me, priest.”

The First Dragonborn smiled at her efforts, a ludicrous plan forming in his head.

“I’ll let you go under one condition.”

Skye’s bright blues challenged his dark gaze. “You have no right to demand anything from me.”

“Ah, but dii peyt, you are in no position to refuse. Zu’u los faal zol mul.” (I am the stronger).

With a final jerk, Skye relented, asking, “What do you want?”

“A kiss, Dragonborn, for your freedom.”

Miraak knew his suggestion would rid the Last Dragonborn’s mind of anything pertaining to Hermaeus Mora. Disbelief flashed across her face and she colored.

“You did not—”

Saphire called again, sounding more upset.

“Your friend is getting impatient.”

Skye’s POV

Thoughts the other night flooded my head. I knew Miraak was thinking about the same thing. I would show him I was no easy woman. When I met the Atmoran bastard’s smug features, I had already plotted my escape. As coquettishly as I could, I tested the dragonborn in front of me (or should I say over)? The muscles in my arm engaged and I started upward with my hands. Miraak, ever observant and aware of his body, allowed my touch. I centered my focus solely on the muscle I felt through his robe, thoughts of Mora pushed to the back of my mind. If the First Dragonborn caught my intentions, I would be stopped. My fingers climbed up from his waist, dragged across Miraak’s chest, and arrived at his stubbled jaw. The First had moved with me, his powerful hands holding me with unexpected gentleness. I felt him lean into my touch slightly. It felt oddly good, to have such control over a man as formidable as the one in front of me.

“You expect a kiss from a demand?” I had dropped my voice low, so he’d have to listen closer. “Things are different now, Lord Miraak.”

He hummed at my mention of his cultist’s title and answered me with half-lidded eyes.

“No, but it accomplished what I set out to do.” Miraak’s tone matched mine: soft, inviting, and with a touch of play at the edges.

He dipped low and my heart rate increased. How long ago had he despised me? Was this still the same man who wanted my soul?

“Teach me the difference, Dovahkiin. If I cannot demand your fondness, then what must I do to earn it?”

I searched his face for any hint Miraak was teasing, but the First Dragonborn appeared genuinely curious. My head reeled from his insistence. Even my weakened soul sensed the fire emanating from Miraak’s own and egged me closer.

“Well,” I began, very conscious of his sharp bone structure beneath my palm, his striking features so near mine. “You’re off to a good start, but I’m afraid your timing could be better, wuth dovahkiin (old dragonborn). We have a request to fulfill and you are keeping us from it.”

The First’s sigh tickled my skin. “Hi ahraan zu’u, vahdin.” (You wound me, woman.)

Miraak reluctantly released me from his hold. I was thankful he did not press like usual because I truthfully didn’t trust my answer. The First Dragonborn was further into my good graces than I wanted to acknowledge. My drunkenness proved I was attracted to Miraak when inebriated, but even when sober I seemed just as drawn to the First Dragonborn. I used to tell myself having a partner was dangerous unless I could trust them: unless they were strong enough to keep up with me, smart enough to get us out of a pinch, cunning enough to joust with our words… unafraid knowing I possessed the soul of a dragon, not a human.

I had never imagined I would find romance after discovering my heritage. My eyes flicked over Miraak’s tall form. I don’t think he ever did either. Sure, the First Dragonborn was arrogant, a little power-crazed, and suffered from daedric taint, but Miraak was coming around. His eyes sought me out when Miraak believed I wasn’t looking. The First’s gaze was trained on my form, searching. I noticed myself wondering more and more often what the true color of his eyes were. Blue, like mine? A vibrant green or dark hazel? Miraak wanted a kiss from the woman who had tried to kill him… and she had entertained him!

 I smirked faintly, shaking my head at my ridiculous thoughts, and went to find Sapphire.

…

We finally found Sapphire and followed her to a hidden tunnel near the edge of town. She explained that since Guild imposters had shown up, thieves had to be extra careful coming in and out of the Ragged Flagon and Cistern, so they developed other passages only trusted members knew of. We sloshed through murky water until coming to a familiar wooden door that led to the Ragged Flagon’s Cistern. The sound of water flowing into the center of the stone structure drowned out hushed voices of thieves plotting their next raid. The light streaming down from the ceiling lit our surroundings dimly, but I could tell many eyes were trained on Sapphire, Miraak, and me. I searched for one pair of gorgeous greens.

“Lass?”

He had found me first.

I turned toward the red-headed thief’s sweet accent a smile already forming on my lips.

“Brynjolf.”

The man in question stepped forward from the shadows, handsome as ever and sporting that easy grin that crinkled his eyes. His arms were extended wide, and I practically fell into Brynjolf’s solid embrace. He donned a darkened set of leather armor that mashed against my own dragonscale set.

“Gods, Skye, I thought you were dead.” Brynjolf’s breath ruffled my hair. “I’m glad you found your way back to us.”

The thief tightened his arms around me.

“To me.”

I cursed the faint heat that spread across my cheeks. When he pulled back, Brynjolf still smiled.

“You look just a beautiful as I remember, Lass, but…” His nimble fingers stroked along the underside of my jaw and a small frown creased Brynjolf’s forehead. “What’s marred that milky skin o’ yours so?”

I managed to control my wince. He had touched one of the thick black marks that originated from the mass plastered over my shoulder and it stung.

“It’s nothing, Bryn,” I lied while looking him in the eyes. “Just a small reminder that rash actions have consequences.”

Brynjolf hummed, seeming to accept my answer for now until the man’s insatiable curiosity got the better of him. Which happened to be in the next second because the thief’s trained eye found Miraak’s gift adorning my neck. As soon as Brynjolf’s skin brushed the necklace, I felt a crushing surge of energy erupt from the First Dragonborn’s direction. When I spun toward him, Miraak had stepped forward, power ready and barely contained under his palms.

Brynjolf still had his hands close to my chain, but his eyes were on the Atmoran.

“I don’t remember you ever sporting jewels before, Skye. This is a rather fine piece.” The redhead studied Miraak’s gift with an expert eye. “Thought you gave up your thieving ways?”

“There are other ways of acquiring precious things.” The First Dragonborn’s baritone held no mirth as he addressed Brynjolf. “I suggest you take your thieving hands away from the Dragonborn’s gift.”

Brynjolf cocked a brow repeating, “Gift? Picked up some secret admirers since you’ve been gone, Skye?”

I wetted my lips, nervous of the First Dragonborn’s possessiveness and Bryn’s easy-going nature clashing. Miraak’s jaw clenched in anger when the red headed thief teased about his prize for me.

“Please, men are more scared of than attracted to me,” I tried laughing off Brynjolf’s comment, more to soothe the angry Atmoran than conserve my pride. “Bryn, it is so wonderful to see you and everyone in the Guild, but my companion and I are tired and in need of food and rest. Can I ask that much of a favor from you?”

The man acted like he was really mulling the thought over, though his little smirk gave Brynjolf away. His hand scratched at the auburn stubble of his jaw and those green irises found mine again. “Hm, you know when you make a deal with a thief, it usually means you’ll have to promise your own favor to pay him back.”

I played along, praying Miraak would keep calm long enough for us to get settled. The tension surrounding the First Dragonborn was palpable.

“And what could I possibly offer in return for such generosity, thief?”

Brynjolf chuckled at my banter.

He extended a hand and said, “All I ask in return is a bit of your time, Dragonborn. I was tipped off to a nice haul right outside of town toward the southern mountains, and such a long night stroll would become much more bearable with a capable woman by my side.”

I resisted rolling my eyes at his offer. I agreed to his proposal and he clasped my hand, lifting it to his lips for a quick peck.

With a wink, Brynjolf told me it was a date and summoned the others to prepare a space for Miraak and I.

“I will have old Vekel start preparing you a meal. I think we’ve got some free space toward where Mercer used to stay”

A Guild member interrupted Brynjolf and the First Dragonborn’s presence commanded the space behind me. I twisted slightly and found Miraak staring down at me, frowning like usual.

“If you know the way, why do we still stand here and entertain this fool? Let us move.” He practically growled at me under his breath.

Thankfully, Brynjolf answered for me.

“Sorry, Skye. I was going to show you to your room but work never rests.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Make yourself at home, Lass. I’ll be by tonight to fetch you.”

Before leaving, the redhead reached out to shake Miraak’s hand in greeting.

“Afraid I never caught your name, man. I’m Brynjolf, leader of the Thieves’ Guild.”

Miraak flicked his dark gaze over Brynjolf’s extended hand, detest evident on his features. “You should be bowing to me, scum. You’re fortunate the Last Dragonborn is fond of you.”

I noticed Brynjolf’s features tense, as if he was debating whether it was worth confronting the ex-dragon priest. The thief sighed, lazily resting his hand on the hilt of his short sword. He sent another smile my way, muttering, “Yes. Yes, I am very lucky to have Skye’s favor.”

After his comment, Brynjolf spun to walk off. But not before addressing Miraak. “You should also be aware that me and my men have taken down bigger rats than you. The Lass’s bodyguard or not, don’t meddle in things you don’t understand.”

I barely caught the First’s arm before he charged Brynjolf’s form. “He’s not our enemy, Miraak. Let’s go eat and rest up.”

The force of his soul nearly dislodged me, yet somehow Miraak managed to quell its wrath when my dovah called to it, weak but not quiet.

“I know you haven’t been sleeping well and I’m sure you’re hungry.” I tugged on his solid form. “Come with me.”

When the priest finally yielded, the entire Cistern seemed to calm down. On our way to the rooms Brynjolf had indicated, Miraak grumbled, “If he dare insults me again, I will make him wish he hadn’t. If this were my era, he would already be dead. Or begging for it.”

After ushering him through one of the doors to our room, I followed and closed it behind us. “Listen, Miraak, I will not allow you to go around threatening my friends.”

He turned on me, spitting, “Friends are you? He didn’t seem to think so, Skye.”

I colored under the First Dragonborn’s accusatory glare but stood my ground. “Brynjolf has provided us warm beds, fresh food, and promised an explanation for where Dorthe could be so lighten up, old man.”

The Atmoran in front of me bared his teeth, snarling like the dragon within. “He promised only after you agreed to his absurd demands! Really, Skye, you let his silver tongue worm its way into your ears and goad you into a ‘date’ with the pickpocket. Do you have no self-respect?”

I assured myself that I would not allow Miraak’s short temper to get under my skin. I moved past his seething form and started unbuckling my gear. I answered Miraak evenly as I could.

“You act like I just let a complete stranger trick me. I’ve known Brynjolf for years. He isn’t some immoral idiot. He’s the leader of the Thieves’ Guild and good to his word.”

“Enough,” Miraak barked. “I understand now you would rather entertain the leader of criminals instead of the former head of the Dragon Cult.”
I stopped in the middle of my breastplate clasp, finally catching the First’s feelings.

“You’re jealous.”

He scoffed.

“Hardly. Why would the First Dragonborn be envious of a mere delinquent?”

I stifled my laugh and continued working off my armor pieces. “You tell me, Diist Dovahkiin.”

Miraak’s POV

He wanted to hurt the thief that had so casually laid hands on the Last Dragonborn. Miraak yearned to shock some sense into the redheaded felon, shout him to the edge of death for threatening one of the most powerful beings to walk across Nirn. But the way Skye had acted around the man… she had seemed happy, relieved even. And now she accused him of jealousy of all things!

“There is nothing to explain because nothing you speak of exists.”

Miraak met her mischievous expression and quickly averted his gaze as the last piece of her armor came loose. It felt wrong watching the woman strip down to her underclothes. Not to mention the garments she wore underneath her suit of scales was very form-fitting. Miraak didn’t think he would ever understand how such a small female could battle as well as Skye could.

“Alright, I’ll let it go.” The Nord stretched, unknowingly showing off her compact curves. “I’m going to take a quick rinse, then go get our food from Vekel. I’ll see if I can get you fresh clothes, but in the meantime just enjoy the peace.”

Miraak watched Skye’s pretty smile flash across her features and the sight momentarily made him forget the gnawing hole in his chest. Before she slipped past him again, Miraak stopped the Last. She looked at him questioningly.

“Yes?”

The First Dragonborn swallowed the strange knot forming in his throat. “Thank you. For the sustenance, garments, weapons, and… your company.”

Miraak liked her surprised expression. It gave him a better view of her eyes and disintegrated any lingering worry lining her features.

“You’re welcome,” Skye looked down, hiding her flush. “I’m happy I can give you some sense of normalcy after being away for so long, Miraak.”

He barely caught the last thing she uttered. Miraak stared at the spot where Skye had been long after she left to bathe.  

Chapter Text

They ate a rather tasty meal of cooked beef and chicken, grilled potatoes with leeks, and more than a few sweet rolls for dessert (on Skye’s insistence of course). The First Dragonborn had returned to their rooms following his bath and found Skye preening. She was wearing an unfamiliar set of light, leather armor that had been overly dyed as to darken the material. It was less bulky than her normal dragonscale or bone armor and fit closely to Skye’s skin. The woman was finishing styling her hair, tugging on parts of her braid that hung over her right shoulder to make it look fuller. When Miraak stepped into the space, the Last Dragonborn acknowledged his presence. He’d found nothing that would fit him outside of the bath, so Miraak had left his towel on for covering. The Atmoran had received a few glares from other men that had spotted him and lingering stares from a couple of females he passed.

When Skye spotted Miraak, she jumped. “How long have you been standing there?

Her blue eyes roamed over his scarred body. “Where are your clothes?”

The old priest sighed, replying, “I thought you were helping me with that. Nothing I found fits properly.”

He noticed she was ogling the newest scar that split his abdomen. Hermaeus Mora’s stab wound had finally healed, but the reminder it left was unsightly. He should not be alive, but the Dragonborn in front of him had performed a miracle.

“Right, uh, Brynolf should be bringing something to fit you.”

He was annoyed that her gaze kept flicking over a body that Miraak knew was maimed to hell.

“Dragonborn, I never knew you had such an affinity for scars. Can I interest you in a closer look?”

The First knew he was being difficult, but seeing Skye put in effort for some pompous thief soured his mood and having no clothes to cover the marks of humiliation and pain made things worse.

“You act like no one has wounds like yours.” Skye tugged the left side of her armor down until it revealed her shoulder. “I got these from taking on a whole camp of bandits by myself. And.”

She fixed her shoulder then unbuckled her middle plate and lifted her shirt. The Last had a series of jagged white marks raking her waist around to her back. “After they captured me for torture, I had to fight off their starved hounds in a pit. When the bastards watched me take down their mutts, they lit the arena on fire. I had to dodge incoming arrows, spears, and whatever else they could find until I sent them all to the Void.”

Skye looked unhappy as she recited the memory and Miraak wondered what kind of bandits they must have been to give the Last Dragonborn so much trouble. Also, why bandits? Miraak questioned why he hadn’t noticed her scars the last time he had seen her without clothes and committed to inquiring more about the female’s past. Just before the First could open his mouth to speak, Skye stopped him.

“And you’re right, my story probably pales in comparison to the rebel that started the dragon calamity, but I still feel the pain and embarrassment that can come with the horrors our bodies have endured.” She gave a mirthless huff. “I can barely look at my right side anymore without feeling nauseous.”

After the Last Dragonborn mentioned her poison, she clamped a hand over her shoulder and crumpled to the ground with a yelp. Skye started coughing up tiny black bits of blood. Miraak, completely disregarding his lack of decency, raced to her side. He knew he was too late; Mora was wrapping his tentacles around Skye’s precious, bright soul.

“I thought you were stronger than this, Skye.” Miraak hoisted her up off the hard floor, using his towel for her to sputter into. “Only I have claim to your soul. Focus on your strength, not your weakness, Dragonborn.”

Miraak understood how easy it was to fall back into the despair Hermaeus Mora could create.

His towel was quickly painted in black and red from her hacking. The ex-dragon priest never imagined he would ever be this concerned for anyone except himself. But here he was, nude, cradling a dying dragonborn that should owe him her soul, and praying to Akatosh for Skye’s health. He was about to attempt to transfer her some of his power, but the Nord finally quit coughing.

The aftermath of her episode left the First Dragonborn as frozen as he had been the first time he’d experienced her skin against his own. A part of him wished Skye had no armor on, desired her healthy and voluntarily within the circle of his naked arms… But the other part of Miraak was afraid, worried the Last Dragonborn was beyond his grasp. He was embarrassed by his sudden actions because it left the old priest exposed and his body wanting. Perhaps it was a blessing that Skye wore armor to protect her body from his own uncontrollable urges.

Just as Miraak decided to move a loud rapping started on the door. The noise was followed by the last person on Nirn he wanted to see right now.

“Lass, I’m ready for you. I’ve brought that ass of a companion clothes I think will fit…”

He trailed off and his footsteps stopped. It took every ounce of the dragon priest’s will to not murder Brynjolf where he stood for such an uncouth intrusion.

“Am I interrupting?”

Skye had recovered enough to yell, “Give him the clothes, now!”

The poor thief dropped the pile of clothes beside Miraak who was still hunkered down trying to cover himself. The Last was unceremoniously dumped and the First Dragonborn snatched his garments and stormed out of the room.

Skye’s POV

I heard Brynjolf curse Miraak for dropping me under his breath as the redheaded thief helped me to my feet.

“What the hell’s his problem, Skye? Are you alright? Something I need to kick his ass for?”

I still felt slightly dizzy from my episode of weakness but managed to brush Brynolf’s concern off. “No, he was helping me… Miraak isn’t from around here and his mannerisms are a bit strange, but he is not a threat to me.”

The words left my mouth without a second thought. It was true. The First Dragonborn had barely left my side since his break from Apocrypha and lately he’d done little to make me believe he wanted to finish what we started in Mora’s realm. Brynjolf stared at me with a disapproving frown on his lips. His gaze found the towel Miraak had used to wipe the blood from my face.

“Are you well, Lass?” The green-eyed Guild Master furrowed his brow. “We don’t have to go hunting if you’re not rested enough, yet. Just say the word.”
Brynjolf’s sweet nature was such a stark contrast to Miraak’s brash and overconfident one.

“No, Bryn, I’m alright. Just some lingering sickness I got from Solstheim. A treasure raid with you like back in the old days will do my head good.”

Brynjolf offered me a hand and pulled me up to standing. He caught my unbuckled middle piece and asked, “Want me to latch this for you?”

I nodded, thinking back to Miraak’s inquisitive look before I’d cut him off. I thought he was about to talk about the violence he’d endured, or the history etched into his body, but reconsidering now had me wondering if he had been about to ask how I’d ended up being beaten by bandits and their hounds. As much as he’d deny it, the First Dragonborn was human and did have feelings…

“Well now you look even more like the woman I fell for all those years ago.” Brynjolf finished securing my armor and stepped back in admiration. “I’m sure Delvin and Saph already told you they rarely let a day go past without reminding me how much of a short-sighted fool I was for not agreeing to step back from the life, go travel and make new memories with you…”

The thief ran a hand over his face and cut me a glance as we got ready to leave. I refused to return it, determined not to make the same mistake of thinking I could have a future with Brynjolf again. I was Dragonborn and as much as I adored Bryn, I could not deny the unspoken connection I felt with Miraak was not present with the Guild Master. It was better this way… right? Not that I was actually falling for the arrogant bastard. No way.

“You’re carrying all that?” Brynjolf commented when I strapped my shield and sword to my back and waist. “It’s a little bulky for a raid.”

I explained that I felt more protected with equipment I was familiar with, and that I had already forgone my regular dragonscale armor. The incidents stemming from my mark were starting to grate on my mind again, and having my weapons close by eased my thoughts somewhat. Brynjolf didn’t make anymore remarks, opting to describe where we were headed as I finished my preparations.

…

It turned out one of Brynjolf’s sources had directed him toward the southern forest, explaining there was a hidden cache adventurers had been searching for over the past several months. His contact had tracked the treasure’s whereabouts around the craggy cliffs nearby Lost Tongue Overlook.

“That could be anywhere,” I said as we ducked low-hanging branches.

Brynjolf laughed quietly and waved me up to his side. He cupped the air just shy of my lower back, guiding me in front of his body so his finger was level with my gaze when Brynjolf pointed.

“I’m betting it’s across the way and around that bend.”

 I could hear the mirth in his voice. Brynjolf’s excitement during a heist was catching. I teased back.

“And I’m betting on your blind luck to get us there, so I guess that makes me your sightless follower.”

He clapped me on the back, chuckling at my brownnosing. Brynjolf commented on how it felt just like old times thieving with his personal Dragonborn. We made our way forward, untangling ourselves from dense underbrush more than once, and sneaking by a couple of snoozing cave bears. I held my shoulder after being whipped by a small branch, wishing the throbbing would subside quicker. My eyes glanced at my hand that rested against the trunk of a tree while Brynjolf scouted further ahead. The skin did not look healthy, even in the moonlight, and the black tattoo had grown.

“Lass, we’re clear. We’ve got to climb a bit, but once we reach that overhang, I’ve a feeling we will be very close to our target.”

I came to a rocky mountain face Brynjolf stood in front of, testing a few protrusions to see if they could support our weight.

“Seems sturdy enough.”

The redhead nodded. “Aye, now the question is do I want to be the one to bust my ass first or should I be waiting below to catch you?”

I huffed and replied, “Give me a lift, would ya? I’ll be here all night waiting on you to make a decision.”

Brynjolf returned my smile and threaded his fingers together to form a foothold for me. I clutched his shoulder and lifted my boot to his hands, aware this position put my chest a little too near the thief’s face. When I glanced down at Brynjolf, his sparkling green eyes met mine.

“Up you go. Unless… you want me to make a decision?”

He made me realize my hesitation and I swiftly propelled myself upward. Brynjolf grunted at my sudden movement and lost his grip. I barely caught the edge of a rock before scrambling for a foothold. My attempts failed and I went tumbling into Brynjolf, knocking us both to the ground. Our leather plating made the landing uncomfortable, but he laughed just the same.

“Good thing you went first eh, Skye?”

I lifted myself off his torso enough to spy the Guild Master splayed helplessly under me, red locks tousled, and panting for the breath I’d knocked out of him. My arm ached even though Bryn had softened my fall. Briefly, I thought of how different this scenario would go if I had Miraak by my side right now instead of Brynjolf. We’d look at the cliff, I’d turn to him, Miraak would scoff and say scaling the cliff face was easier than walking, lift me off my feet, and have us float up to the top of that enclave like Neloth’s levitation magic did in Tel Mirthyn. Even as I jokingly told the thief lord to get a better grip, my mind yearned for how complex or time-consuming tasks seemed to be reduced to children’s puzzles when Miraak was around.

After scaling the first few feet, I ground my teeth together as I lifted myself toward the next handhold crevice, mindful of the searing pain that shot through my right shoulder. My dragon-headed stubbornness had decided to go against my body’s push for rest. A gust of wind made me shiver and tuck into the corner of the cliff. I heard Brynjolf call from below.

“Lass, not much father now! Once you round that next rock, swing up and there should be a haul like we’ve never seen!”

After steeling my nerves, I used my remaining reserves to clamber the rest of the way up and claw my way to the flat rock the Guild Master had indicated. It was quite dark, but the second I rounded the ledge, my dragonsoul became ruffled. It sensed a presence similar to a dovah, but the sensation seemed weakened. I was still, breathing hard from my climb, but listening for any sudden movement, scraping of claws and wings on stone, or a growl followed by a shout.

“That was not my best idea, I admit.” The redhead rounded the cliff and hauled himself up like I had. “But we made it, right? Now…”

He trailed off, noticing I was motionless. As silent as any master thief, Bryn slithered to my side, crouching like I was. I know he was looking at me questioningly, but after working together so long, the man learned to trust my instincts. Our breath mingled in the frigid air of the mountain, spots on my skin stung from the cuts I’d gotten during my climb. My insides were alight, pining for a danger neither Bryn nor I could see.

“Lass, everything clear?”

I fought my urge to cringe. Brynjolf’s accent sounded so loud against the silence of night. Again, I found myself yearning for Miraak’s ability to converse telepathically through our dovah sille (dragon souls). I nodded slowly, ears still straining to pick up on any noise from the strange power source I sensed. The Guild Master acknowledged me with a dip of his head and beckoned me to follow him deeper into the cliffside cave.

Pebbles crunched underfoot as we sneaked toward the cave entrance. I call it a cave, but it was really just a cut-out of the cliffside. We came to a rock wall and Brynjolf placed his hand against the cool stone, trailing it behind him as we skirted a particularly narrow portion of the walkway. We spotted it at the same time—a subtle glow illuminating the jagged corners of the cave. Likely a treasure hunter’s encampment.

“Think we got company.” I heard the joking lilt in his voice. “Probably waiting for others to come help with the haul. Tred carefully, Lass.”

The Guild Master’s daggers slid from his holders with a hushed rustle and he stalked forward. I followed close behind, debating over which shout I would unleash first if we were spotted. I would not draw my weapon and shield until we were seen due to the noise they made. However, as soon as the main encampment came into view, both Bryn and I stopped in our tracks, all but forgetting our stealth attack.

Five bandits were sprawled across the scene, two of their bodies tangled in their bloodied bedrolls, one broken on the cooking spit, and the last was half burned, char making the bandit’s face unrecognizable. Gold and silver ingots, jewelry, gemstones, septims, and a couple of precious circlets were scattered atop the corpses like a gaudy adornment for the dead.

“What in the name of Nocturnal…” Brynjolf stepped closer to the carnage, but I stopped him.

“Bryn, this doesn’t look like a good idea. We should leave.”

My inner dovah would be nearly deafening if she were at her full power. The Guild Master only had eyes for his prize and dismissed my concern with an easy smile.

“Not when what we came for is in front of us.” His green orbs shined. “Especially since someone else already came and wiped our competition.”

I grimaced at his foolhardy confidence.

“Someone or something. This does not look like the work of other humans or even a cave troll.” I swept my eyes over the mess of bodies. “For all we know there could be a dragon protecting his hoard.”
Brynjolf grabbed me by the shoulders, silencing my brooding. He met my gaze steadily and I was reminded of how reassuring the thief’s personality was.

“Love, you are the Dragonborn. Not even one of those winged lizards can touch us with you here. Troll, bandit, dragon… they’d be a fool to challenge you, Lass.” I felt him thumbing at the loose strands of hair that had escaped my braid during the climb. “Stand watch for me and give me your bag. We’ll take what we can now and I will send a party out for the rest of it later.”

I gave in, untying the satchels Brynjolf had borrowed for me: two linen bags tied together with leather strips. He flashed his teeth, patting my shoulders a final time before taking the sacks from me. I suppressed a sigh and positioned myself toward the edge of the fire so I had a clearer view of the perimeter. My inner dovah struggled against what felt like the sludge of Apocrypha— I cut that thought short. I needed to focus on something else quickly or I could happen upon one of those hacking spells again. My mind immediately recalled a very tall, naked Miraak bear-hugging me like he was playing tug-of-war with a dragon. Though I donned the Thieves’ Guild armor, I had still been able to feel the tightness of his muscles and the scarcely bearable heat rolling off his hide. Imagine if you’d been wearing no armor, Skye.

Gods, here I was thinking bawdy thoughts about the First Dragonborn to keep from horrifying ones of Hermaeus Mora.

Fighting embarrassment, I voiced, “Mir Aak Siv.”
The last Word sent a vibration from my tongue all the way back to the Guild. I landed at the head of a table of cards. Vekel, Rune, Delvin, and Miraak were playing a betting game and Vex was the snarky dealer. They must have been at the end of a match because Vex called for a show of hands. Miraak flashed his rare, handsome smile and tossed his cards down. Rune and Vekel had folded, leaving Delvin to grumble curses at his loss. The First Dragonborn took a bite of his honey nut treat and followed it with a swig of Black-Briar Reserve, smug bastard written all over his face.

“Damn, I thought you said you’d never played before,” Delvin complained and pushed a fat purse of septims toward Miraak. “That’s three lucky wins in a row for you. Might just have to ask Skye about your credibility.”

I controlled my urge to smirk at Miraak’s tiny show of distress. It was swiftly covered by the Atmoran’s scowl.

“I would be interested to hear what the Dragonborn has to say about me as much as you, thief. However, she is absent presently and that means you must suffer the consequences of your poor decisions.”

My gaze flicked to Vex’s attempt to conceal her snicker. Miraak’s bluntness was not lost on the Guild Members who were all quite straightforward as well. The old man was perhaps a bit more proper at going about his insults than they, but he seemed to be getting along better than I thought. Vekel piped in, berating Delvin for being a sore loser and offering another round of drinks to keep betting spirits up. Miraak declined, saying he still had some of his Reserve left and leaned in to gather his winnings and pass his cards to Vex.

My shout started to fade, but not before I caught the First Dragonborn eye the door Brynjolf and I had left through. Miraak was positioned where he had a clear view of who went in and out. The last thing I noticed was the slight downturn of his lips and tightening of the man’s gaze. An expression of discontent.

I blinked and found myself returned to the shadowy cave with Brynjolf to my back and darkness in front of me. I still struggled for breath, wishing the effects of my shout lasted longer.

“Bryn, how’s it coming? Ready to go soon?”

I listened to the clink of septims and gems as they filled our bags. He started to answer me, but a vicious snarl drowned out the thief’s voice. I sprang to action, ripping my sword from its scabbard and unhooking my shield from my back. A dark form shifted in the blackness. It lunged. Claws met my shield with the force of a mammoth behind it. The campfire gleamed against dark red scales and black points. A drake, the size of a horse had barreled into me, and I heard at least three more roars in the fog of night.

We were in for the fight of our lives.

Chapter Text

I did my best to yell for Brynjolf to take cover, but I was too late. Fire spewed from another drake’s mouth. The thief surged backward, some of the flames searing his boots. I barreled toward the jet of fire and shouted as loudly as I could, “Fus Roh Dah!”

The drake’s breath attack suddenly twerked backward with its neck and body in tow. I had put enough force behind my Voice to break its bones.

“Gods, Skye! Warn a man before you do that!” Brynjolf scrambled to his feet, hissing at the burns. “Small dragons are still tough as hell.”

“Drakes,” I corrected, growling in the direction of the hidden lizards. “They’re like miniature versions of dragons. Half the size, but all the deadly.”

“Dovahkiin, mu krii.” (Dragonborn, we kill)

One of the drakes spoke a broken form of Dovahzul. A set of claws came scrambling toward me and I crouched just in time to block the lizard off-balance with my shield. Its form tripped over my shield and I sliced upward through it. I grimaced as it managed to hook me with one clawed wing swipe and felt blood warm my skin. The drake fell wailing to the stone, a mess of scaly limbs and razor-sharp edges.

Slash! I screamed as jagged tail spikes dug into the back of my legs. I tried to counter the attack, but I cut too slow. My legs buckled when I attempted to steady myself and another weight slammed into my shield. Fangs tore into the side of my armor, piercing deep enough to reach skin. They were so incredibly quick and had the darkness to their advantage. Brynjolf sounded like he was struggling to fight them off as well.

I couldn’t lose him. These were measly worms compared to real dragons. A mockery of Akatosh’s greatest creations. I could be stronger.

“Mul Qah Diiv!”

Breath left my body with the force of a blow; my soul felt like it was being pulled and stretched in all different directions. Before the pain became unbearable, the souls of the dragons I’d consumed encased my human body in spectral scales. My veins lit with fire and I couldn’t feel the ache in my legs any longer. The light from my body was enough to see the drakes surrounding us. I glimpsed Brynjolf’s wide, almost worshipful eyes, the way the lesser dragons paused for a second, felt way the world seemed to bend to my will… And I unleashed my fury, backed by dragon souls. This mantle I had put on clamored for battle and I obliged. The next drake lunged for me; I spun to the side and struck with my sword, ripping through its ruddy scales.

It continued galloping forward toward a cornered Brynjolf. He was fighting for all he was worth. Bryn was always more of a counter-striker, waiting for his opponent to fire the first shot (and it worked great facing humans), but he was scrappier when facing beasts. One drake charged forward, breaking Brynjolf’s defenses and knocking him down. I roared at the animal about to tear the Guild Master apart and out of my howl came “WULD!”

Faster than the drakes, I manifested at the attacking beast’s side and plunged my blade through its back. I had crashed into the animal so hard, it was the only thing that broke my tumble. The energy blessed me with enough strength to easily right myself and rip my sword out of the drake’s hide. As I spun around, my gaze caught a brightness coming from the throat of another drake. Before it could douse the Guild Master in flames, I yelled at him to get up as I positioned myself in front of him, ready for the onslaught.

My shield took the brunt of the blaze, but the blistering heat was becoming too hot for my leather-clad gloves to bear. I was on the verge of fully recovering for another shout, but sooner than I could harness the Voice, a fourth drake pounced on me from the side. It shredded through my already weakened Dragon Aspect into the leather of my armor. The beast’s claws and fangs sliced welts in my armor’s material, pinning me. Fire scorched my exposed side as I used my shield to try and knock the other drake off me. Byrnjolf’s daggers sounded behind me. We were outnumbered.

I grunted from the pain of teeth cutting through my skin. The weight of the drake on top of me had forced my head to the side, making it where I could not shout unless I risked Brynjolf getting caught in the middle of it. Where was the strength that came from Miraak’s shout last time? It already seemed like my draconic shroud was fading, taking my power with it.

“Skye! Hold on!” Brynjolf’s strangled cry was stifled by the terrible snarls of the attacking drakes.

I thought of how pathetic this was: the Last Dragonborn taken down by lesser dragons for her stupidity in pushing her infected body past its limits. I was barely holding the drake from biting into my neck when I heard a roar loud enough to shake the pebbles littering the cave floor. My first instinct was alarm, fear that a true dragon had come to finish us off. A shout, followed by a frigid blast of frosty air enveloped the shrieking drakes. It bought me enough time to drive my sword through the side of one’s maw, heave myself up, and give the fire-breathing drake a taste of my inferno.

I shouted Fire Breath and a massive jaw belonging to the dragon that had saved me clamped down on the drake’s neck, snapping its spine in half. My eyes lit when I recognized the uneven fangs and trademark underbite of Sahrotaar. The blue dragon tossed the dead corpse off the cliffside and marched forward, his big form shaking the ground beneath me. Sahrotaar’s smooth form covered mine as he inhaled and loosed another fountain of ice on the remaining drakes that Brynjolf was still fighting. The thief danced just shy of the artic blast that was Sahrotaar’s Thu’um. He was bleeding and battered, but nothing looked broken or beyond repair.

The two beasts caught in the crossfire of my dragon’s breath attack went down, frozen beyond recovery. In my relief, I was nearly too late calling off both Sahrotaar and Brynjolf, for neither of them knew the other and were poised to brawl.

“It’s a dragon, Lass! You can’t tell me that thing’s on your side?” Brynjolf’s disbelief was fair. After all, I was supposed to be the destroyer of dragons.

Sahrotaar growled, “Thuri, zu’u saraan hin uth (I await your command). I can kill the joor if it pleases you.”

I placed a hand on the serpentine dragon’s shoulder, stroking to calm it and trying to remember any Dovahzul I translated from Miraak. “Fin, Sahrotaar. He is a friend.”

A low rumble vibrated my hand that rested on the dovah’s hide. “Aan fahdon. Geh, Thuri." (A friend. Yes, overlord)

I glimpsed Brynjolf’s features of astonishment as the blue dragon levered its beady eyes with mine. “Lok, I came because I felt you were weakened. Fent zu’u aam hi?” (Shall I serve you?)

I sensed my ethereal armor wearing off and my body started losing all its strength. Brynjolf noticed my grimace and the way I tried to steady myself against Sahrotaar. He tentatively approached the great dragon. “Lass? We need to get you back. Those wounds look bad.”

My dragon’s breath ruffled the thief’s hair, but Sahrotaar let him approach. Brynjolf shouldered my weight as the last of my souls’ light disintegrated draining all my power with it. I heard Bryn mutter how I shouldn’t have defended him, but I could barely lift my head. He was also injured. I knew he could not carry me all the way back to the Guild. I prayed the last words that left my mouth would get through to them.

“Bryn… fly Sahrotaar back to Riften. Get me to Miraak… He’ll know what to do.”

The redheaded leader, fumbled for my limbs as I lost consciousness. Sahrotaar’s high-pitched whine reverberated off the cave walls…

…

Miraak’s POV

Sapphire burst through the door, startling the card players. She warned that a dragon was spotted fast approaching the city. All except Miraak started to panic. The First Dragonborn smiled faintly at the prospect of a challenge and salivated at the thought of consuming another soul. He lazily finished counting his earnings from the betting game he had played with the other thieves. During the game, Miraak had learned more about the Last Dragonborn’s past and affiliation with the Guild. He also learned how well-liked Skye was among the other joor. She seemed to help everyone however she could, in turn, earning their respect and allegiance.

“And? What else can you see?” Delvin was hounding one of the Guild scouts for information on the dovah approaching Riften.

The recruit answered, saying it looked like a large, blue skinned dragon carrying two figures on its back. That tidbit of information caught Miraak’s attention. The dragon priest quickened his pace for the exit. Besides himself, the Last Dragonborn was the only other being able to tame and ride one of the beasts of Akatosh. Miraak did think it strange that Skye would so blatantly disregard her order to him in riding a dragon into the city. It was causing an uproar and if she wasn’t careful, the beast could get shot down from the sky.

The First Dragonborn made his way out through the passageway Delvin and Sapphire had brought him and Skye through. When he emerged, Miraak’s confidence started to waver.

Instead of Skye’s silvery blonde head, Miraak spied the redheaded delinquent she had gone “hunting” with holding on to what looked like Sahrotaar and clutching a smaller body to his front. The former dragon priest could hear the city guards’ confusion as they spotted the rider waving them off. The dragon was not attacking either; it had been given a goal from its master. A few Guild members appeared beside Miraak, and they muttered Brynjolf’s name in disbelief.

The First was uneasy. Why was Skye not piloting the dragon? The lifeless body in the thieving fool’s arms was too familiar. The serpentine dovah finally swooped in, landing roughly near where the Thieves’ Guild and Miraak were gathered. Miraak recognized it as Sahrotaar. Delvin ran up and asked Brynjolf if he had lost his mind. The Guild Master waved his second off, motioning for help with the body he carried. Sahrotaar sounded like it was distressed, lowering its smooth form so its rider could hand off the Nord. Brynjolf and the Last Dragonborn were bloody. Cuts and scrapes littered their exposed skin and bite marks and claw gouges were present along mostly the Last Dragonborn’s hide. Some of her armor had been scored; painful-looking blisters reddened the skin of her neck (the portion not protected by Skye’s armor), and it had singed some of her blonde locks, as well.

Mechanically, Miraak strode forward, his eyes never leaving the small frame of the Nord he kept denying was Skye. The First Dragonborn didn’t care for the mass of people Sahrotaar was snapping at. He did not register Brynjolf practically cry, wailing for help. No, the ancient Atmoran struggled to draw breath. For the first time since his banishment, the old priest felt afraid.

Brynjolf tripped and he and Skye both tumbled to the dirt.

Miraak shot through the mass of people gathered to see the slightly tamed dovah and acclaimed Guild Master. The Last Dragonborn had not budged. Miraak fell to his knees beside her, disregarding the babbling of Brynjolf. The back of her legs was torn through and bloody, there were deep punctures in her armor that dripped with red, and Skye’s shoulder and back had a rather nasty incision that was long, but not deep. The First Dragonborn gathered her, cradling the Last’s head close to his face, feeling for the air of her breath. She lived; however, Skye’s breaths were haggard and wet.

By now, Brynjolf had gotten to his feet and staggered to Miraak. “She saved my life at the cost of her own. We were attacked by drakes, outnumbered, but Skye shouted and started glowing with power…”

Miraak turned on the redhead, furious and more dangerous than any dragon. “What happened to her? She said you were looking for treasure, not a battle.”

Brynjolf scoffed.

The First wanted to break him.

“We found it but ran into company. I’d never voluntarily put her in danger.”

Miraak growled, but neglected to address the thief again, marching back into the tunnel and determined to make sure Skye survived. The First Dragonborn understood what was wrong; the Nord warrior was not one to be defeated easily, but the daedric corruption that infected her veins had become too much for her body to bear after using the strength from his Dragon Aspect shout. When he finally neared their rooms, Miraak caught the teetering footsteps of another on his heels. Brynjolf had caught up to the First, explaining Skye had saved his life and he wouldn’t leave the Last Dragonborn alone.

Miraak was at his limit. He disregarded what the Last might think and after Miraak set Skye on one of their beds, the Atmoran seized Brynjolf and trapped the smaller male against the cold stone of the room’s walls. Before the thief could draw a weapon on Miraak, he shouted, “Gol Hah Dov!”

The Guild Master’s bright greens faded, and his mind became a blank slate for Miraak to write his instructions.

The First commanded, “Give me your weapon.”

Brynjolf handed over the dagger he had been about to pull on Miraak and awaited more direction.

“You will leave us, guard the door and lock it behind you. No one is allowed to enter. Qiilaan.” (Submit)

Brynjolf bowed to Miraak stiffly and brainlessly went to close the door behind him. It left the First and Last Dragonborn in silence. Miraak stares at Skye’s heaving form. Her skin is pale. Sweat stuck grime and blood to her skin and she tensed with nearly every breath. The Last was in so much pain and Miraak blamed himself for not keeping her away, for not being there to defend the Nord in her weakened state.

The daedric prince of fate and knowledge observed his disobedient champion with the help of his recently confiscated Ogma Infinium that lay locked away within the vaults of the Thieves’ Guild. It had allowed Hermaeus Mora to spread his influence among certain members of the organization, possessing the humans to do his bidding in the mortal plane. He did not care if it ruined the Guild in the process; Mora would expend every resource he had to get back what was stolen from him. The mark Hermaeus Mora had placed on the Last Dragonborn vexed his champion, allowing the daedric prince to see how Miraak had changed since escaping Apocrypha. The actions of Miraak intrigued Hermaeus, for in the past, Mora knew Miraak would have let the Last die or kill her himself. For the First Dragonborn to expend all his resources to save the little Nord woman was an unforeseen development, indeed.

Hermaeus Mora would use this change to test Miraak. It provided the daedra an opportunity to interact with his servant because he sensed Miraak was lost and would be forced to engage with Mora for his knowledge. Though the First Dragonborn had changed some, his hunger for power and control would continue to be exploited by his keeper. Hermaeus started gathering his thoughts…

Miraak needed to see Hermaeus Mora’s mark. He thought it would provide some clue of what to do and so the First began slicing away at the straps he had watched Skye secure. Miraak supported the Last Dragonborn’s limp body as he slid the ruined armor off until Skye lay clad in little else than her underclothes. Feeling heat spread through his body as the dragon priest cut through the Nord’s clothes, Miraak whispered a prayer.

“Akatosh, aak dii minne, halle, ahrk hah nol daar unahzaal smoliin.” (Akatosh, guide my eyes, hands, and mind from this ceaseless passion).

Skye lay bare. The upper right side of her body was covered in writhing black tentacles. Her right shoulder was nearly enveloped in ink that slithered to the tips of her fingers, around her breast, up her neck, and across her back. The Last Dragonborn’s left side looked placid and Miraak noticed her veins appeared more prominent and darkened. His hands traced the scars Skye had revealed to Miraak earlier; the Nord’s skin felt cool to the touch. For millennia, the Atmoran’s experience with the female shape had come from books; however, it was painfully obvious to the old priest Skye’s form was a gift from the gods and Miraak became enraged at the mutilation Hermaeus Mora had inflicted on the Last. Miraak would ascertain the meaning of the daedric prince’s tattoo since he could now manipulate the taint without Skye’s interference.

The First Dragonborn hovered above the worst part of her shoulder—the area where that accursed Riekling spear had pierced her—and smashed his palm against Skye’s skin. It took every ounce of Miraak’s self-control not to let go as the inky appendages slunk across his fingers and twisted up the man’s forearm. The First released a gout of magic from his palm, roaring from shock as it was sent back into his body. Somehow, the Atmoran’s magic locked him in place and a sickly chasm of green and black limbs and eyes slowly manifested in the room with the two dragonborn.

“Praying to an aedra, Miraak?” Hermaeus Mora practically gurgled with laughter. “He has never helped his child before. Come, my champion… The effects of my gift should be obvious to you now.”

The great hemi pupiled eye blinked slowly at the First Dragonborn. Its tentacles danced around the priest. Waiting. Waiting while Miraak fought for his sanity. Hermaeus had pulled his conscious back into a newer portion of Apocrypha, and it was all the Atmoran could do to focus enough to see what Mora wanted to show him. In front of the Dragonborn rested an open book, the mark Hermaeus Mora tagged Skye with swirled about the pages, explaining its significance to the First.

“Why have I not witnessed this before?” Miraak wondered aloud.

Mora answered, “I created this after the Last Dragonborn freed you… It is poisoning her blood with mine.”

The First Dragonborn stilled, forgetting about his past master’s presence, his hand against Skye’s skin. All Miraak could think of was the solution to the Last Dragonborn’s death. His body had evolved, becoming immune to Hermaeus Mora’s poison sludge over the course of Miraak’s imprisonment in Apocrypha. For Skye to survive the killing substance, Miraak would have to give her his immunity. He had read about the forbidden ritual needed to accomplish this once, revolted by the effects on the caster and, potentially, the victim.

“Hmmm… I have seen that spark in your eyes before, Miraak.” The daedric prince purred, enjoying its game. “You have realized how to keep her from me.”

The First Dragonborn did not answer. He knew Hermaeus Mora was right. Miraak needed Skye’s consent to go through with the ritual. She was not here to give it to him.

The biggest eyeball squinted, glaring directly through Miraak’s dithering soul. “Hesitation does not suit you, champion. If you do not perform, she belongs to me.”

The dragon priest felt the cool stroke of a tentacle across his cheek and his breath hitched. “Demonstrate your mastery of my knowledge. Or watch as the one thing you believed to be yours is taken from you.”

Chapter Text

MIRAAKS POV

The ex-dragon priest was left alone with a dying dragonborn in front of him. Heal her or allow Hermaeus Mora claim to her soul? Miraak fingered the dagger Brynjolf had given him. Kill Skye and consume her soul? Or would Mora take the spoils for itself? A horrible, strangled feeling gripped the First Dragonborn’s heart at the thought of ending Skye’s life. This woman had never intended to go along with Miraak’s plan of killing. She had saved him from an eternity of torture at the cost of her servitude. The Last Dragonborn’s treasured, fiery soul was the only other match to Miraak’s in existence. Skye was one of the only females to ever be blessed with the ability to master the Way of the Voice without effort, best the immortal children of Akatosh, quell Miraak’s restless thirst for power and domination.

For the Atmoran to let her fall into the hell that was Apocrypha would be ludicrous. He needed the Last, and Miraak never believed he would admit to needing anything during his existence except more prestige and control. Yet, he yearned for that unspoken connection he sensed when Skye was in the room, wanted the female Nord close by where he could almost feel her warmth, craved the dazzling sparkle of her blue sapphires if he could get the Last to smile.

For once, Miraak did not resist cupping the Dovahkiin’s face in front of him. His big fingers nearly covered Skye’s features. The First Dragonborn vowed to see those blue eyes again. It was Miraak’s turn to pay the Last Dragonborn back for saving him.

…

If he recalled correctly (which, of course he did. He was Miraak, First Dragonborn, Gardener of Men), it was a blood binding ritual. In order for the female dragonborn to survive the poison venom in her veins, she would need to become immune to it. Miraak’s blood held the antivenom, the immunity Skye needed. He understood how to manipulate mortal lifeforce using his own. The First Dragonborn would have to bind his blood to Skye’s. The procedure was incredibly dangerous and painful.

“What a good thing it is that I am so strong, old, and wise, isn’t it, Dovahkiin?”

Miraak had developed a habit of talking to himself during his long confinement and he did so now to try and bring himself comfort. He half-hoped Skye would just open her eyes and smirk at his foolish words.

“I am going to have to help you like I always do.” He trailed off in a deep rumble. Nervous. “The true test to see which of us has the soul of the dov. And the strength of one, as well.”

Miraak rolled up his sleeves, exposing the pale flesh of his forearms and wrists. His thumb drug across the edge of the Guild Master’s dagger, testing its sharpness. It nicked skin. Miraak loathed to admit the rugged criminal kept his weapons up nicely. The blade would work well for their ritual. Miraak flipped the dagger until it rested against the tender skin of his inner forearm. He spared another glance at the beautifully still woman on the bed before cleaving his own flesh, unleashing a pool of blackish blood from his severed capillaries. Grimacing from the sting, the First Dragonborn dipped his fingers in the blood of his wound and painted the length of the Last Dragonborn’s arms, collarbone to fingers. Miraak wetted his digits again, this time traveling up Skye’s neck, over her jaw and around her eyes.

The dragon priest shivered, feeling cold since allowing his self-inflicted wound to bleed freely. His inner-dovah thrashed about, confused as to why both itself and its match were forced to endure this anguish. Miraak struggled to apply constant pressure across the swell of the Dovahkiin’s breasts, confounded at the plush softness that contrasted with the physical strength of her muscles. Still, the Atmoran continued down her waist, wishing nothing more than to grasp her hips and drag Skye into him rather than surgically smear her skin with his lifeforce. The ancient Dragonborn fought his blush as he trailed his blood-spattered fingers very near her sex, focused on the Nord’s femoral arteries instead of the light curls that brushed his hands.

Steeling his weakening body, Miraak swiped at the blood that dribbled down his arm and finished his work down to Skye’s feet. The First Dragonborn reversed his dagger, working swiftly to ensure his blood did not dry before he could fuse it with Skye’s. The woman’s skin yielded easily to the point of the weapon. Miraak’s incision was followed by the dragon priest’s hand. Black and red magic churned beneath his palm, harnessing the forbidden magic he had so innocently employed to cure Skye’s hangover before.

To meld his blood with hers hurt. By the gods it hurt. The studied Dragonborn had rarely used blood magic to perform acts of bodily manipulation and to manipulate his own was like ripping the substance from his veins and knitting it through. The Last’s blood seemed to be sucking his soul out, not the other way around. Miraak gave into his habitual comfort of glancing at the Laat Dovahkiin’s face and instantly regretted it.

Skye was in as much pain as he. She had broken into a sweat. Hints of pinkish tint buttered her skin, and crinkles formed at the edges of her eye sockets. They were both a bloody and sweaty mess. It did not matter. She was alive.

“Fah nu.” (For now)

Miraak’s voice sounded anguished. He was nearly halfway done, trembling like he’d done the very first time he had consumed a soul. New and alien sensations consumed the Atmoran. There was double everything-- his heart his breath, his exhaustion. It was all exponentially difficult to maintain. Miraak finally neared the end, agonized over the fact that Skye had stopped moving.

Heal her!

The First Dragonborn could not leave a trace of his tampering. Skye could never question his non-consenting decision. Sweet white and gold light replaced the red, black magic in his palm. Miraak’s hand travels a hair’s breadth above the Last Dragonborn’s skin, meticulously knitting her flesh back together. He felt like something crawled along his skin as he traced tinny blood and sliced open skin.

Keep going…

Miraak collapsed over Skye, Atmoran’s cheek pressing against her naked chest and his arms dangling off the other side of the cot. He blacked out.

When the First came to, the sharp angles of his cheek were dented by moist black slats and the air smelled musty with wet parchment. Dizzily, Miraak pressed himself up, flinching away as a tentacle swiped at his hand from underneath the twisted flooring. Apocrypha. No, he couldn’t be back.

The same glowing muck he’d watched for ages slunk about the edges of whatever portion of Hermaeus Mora’s realm Miraak resided in. As the ancient dragonborn stood, he wavered, hearing voices over the flittering pages.

“Why are we here?”

Miraak’s breathing stopped. That was Skye’s voice. He lumbered toward it, picking up speed as the First’s body adjusted to the environment. He slipped into the guise of the Champion of Hermaeus Mora well. Miraak was disgusted.

As he rounded the corner of another tower of stacked books, the First Dragonborn was paralyzed by another voice.

“Dii peyt, dreh ni faas.” (My Rose, do not fear.) Miraak’s baritone echoed among the endless shelves, chilling the First Dragonborn to his bones. His dragon bristled with ferocity, snarling at the imposter.

“No. We worked so hard to be free. I don’t understand. Why are we back? You look so different and I cannot feel…”

Your soul, Miraak willed her to finish.

First Dragonborn shook his paralysis off and proceeded to peek around the corner. What he witnessed was enough to cripple a normal mortal’s mind.

Miraak glimpsed his former self, cured of Apocrypha’s corruption, standing in front of the blonde-headed Nord Dragonborn. His double smiled at Skye, reaching for her hands. She seemed reluctant.

“I am happiest wherever you are, Dovahkiin.” The imposter’s fingers cupped Skye’s face, lifting her gaze to his, just like Miraak had done before. “You once told me you were glad I was around, Skye. Have your feelings changed on the matter?”

The First hated how this fraud was able to elicit such a hurt expression from the Last Dragonborn. Still, Miraak observed, slowly coming to his conclusion.

Her blue eyes searched the poser’s face, confusion plain to see.

“Dragonborn, I have been restored to my former glory! This is my true appearance before the daedric god of fate enraptured me… I pray you do not find my current state… unpleasant?”

The First Dragonborn caught that unmistakable enunciation between phrases. Though Hermaeus Mora hid it well behind Miraak’s accent, the Atmoran knew it was the daedra who was using his own visage to trick Skye into giving into its whims. For such a perfect replication of the First, Mora must be manipulating the portion of Miraak’s soul it held captive in Apocrypha. Seeing himself without all the scarring from war and his rebellion, deathly white skin, and fully colored eyes dredged up the old priest’s memories. It was as if the First Dragonborn was gazing at himself through a mirror of time, seeing what could have been. Reminiscences of how much he had sacrificed for complete control and how horribly Miraak had failed spread through the First Dragonborn’s gradually weakening mind. What a fool he was to think a daedra would uphold its promises.

The Last Dragonborn had known right after their first meeting. During their fated battle, Skye had countered his lies with truth—Miraak’s soul (at least in part) belonged to Hermaeus Mora. The evidence was plainly in front of him.

Hermaeus Mora sensed his champion examining them. The female Dragonborn remained blissfully unaware, so weakened by both his blood and her body trying to adapt to the trauma Miraak had put her through. An opportune time for the daedric god of fate and knowledge to make his move for her soul. After Miraak beheld his old body, the prince knew his champion would take time to deliberate. However, Hermaeus Mora also knew the former leader of the Dragon Cult had developed quite the short temper when feeling threatened. This meant all Mora had to do was continue to win the Last Dragonborn’s favor under the guise of Miraak. Always so predictable… his champion.

The First Dragonborn had mustered enough restraint to confront the nightmare transpiring in front of him. All it took was the invasion of Skye’s space. Miraak did not see his own, unmarred hands caress her, only Hermaeus Mora’s slippery appendages. The image of his beard grazing the Last Dragonborn’s chin, the way her form shifted closer to that monster’s embrace that felt like his own—it hardened the ancient Dragonborn’s resolve and Miraak became aware of his dragon surfacing. He marched from his hiding place, voice commanding and without a shred of fear.

“Uznahgaar dii piraak.” (Release my possession.)

Skye’s gaze skated to the real Miraak, stiffening up when he ran his eyes over her, making it clear that he noticed she remained in another’s arms. And the First wasn’t happy about it.

“You’ve finally come running, failed hero of a broken rebellion… welcome back.”

Miraak listened to the contempt in his double’s voice and at the sight of Hermaeus tightening its arms around the Last Dragonborn, the priest’s vision turned red.

“I said RELEASE HER!”

Following his exclamation, the First Dragonborn shouted Dragon Aspect and summoned a bound sword in one hand and a staggeringly powerful thunderbolt in his left.

When Hermaeus Mora did not budge, Miraak struck.

“Wuld!” As he emerged from the blur of the shout, Miraak ripped Skye from Mora’s grasp and unleashed a stored bolt of electricity from his spell hand.

His spell struck the daedra, but most of its shock had been blocked by Mora’s tentacles rising up from between the floor. Miraak managed to avoid the magic flung back at him with his enhanced speed and the distraction brought the First Dragonborn near enough to his own face to fence. The spectral sword bit into the slow prince disguised as Miraak, yet Hermaeus Mora’s expression did not change. By the next swing, Miraak was stopped. Tentacles had slunk their way around his sword arm. The First shifted to fire in his free palm and roasted the black appendages until they squirmed away, and he turned to face Mora, words of another shout formed on his tongue.

“Yol Toor Shul!” Gouts of flame engulfed Hermaeus Mora, buying Miraak enough time to rush back to the Last Dragonborn.

As he approached her, Skye took notice and readied herself for a fight. She wobbled on her feet. The Last’s eyes were glazed, more like a shell of the woman Miraak had come to know. Skye spat at him.

“Don’t come near me! I will make you regret trying to finish what we started on Solstheim.”

The First Dragonborn knew better than to heed her warning.

He had already harmed her so much.

Hermaeus Mora materialized behind the Last Dragonborn, still donning Miraak’s soul. The First had stopped, petrified to yell, lest the limbs that slithered behind Skye wrapped around her. The sparks from the dragon souls that surrounded Miraak sounded next to his ear. The First Dragonborn watched Mora bend toward the Nord’s ear and whisper something that looked suspiciously like Gol Hah Dov.

Miraak’s poser leaned back with a wide grin spread across his face. The Last Dragonborn locked eyes directly with Miraak, a killer’s intent behind her blue irises. She conjured a fireball in her left hand and gathered another spell in her right. Miraak scarcely dodged out of the way of her flame and released his shout the same time Skye did. She used Whirlwind Sprint to launch herself at the First just as he employed the same shout to move out of her way. However, as the Atmoran returned to normal speed, he stumbled. Skye had palmed his waist when she sped past, and her spell had burned right through his robes.

“What a strong soul she has.” Hermaeus observed, commenting on Skye’s ability to catch the First Dragonborn. “The match I’ve been searching for to complete my Dragonborn collection.”

Once again, Skye had Miraak on the defensive as she rushed the dragon priest throwing punches as hard as she could. He felt the wind from her fists, got grazed by them, and finally grappled the Last before she could shout again.

Though controlled by Hermaeus Mora, Skye still possessed the same strength, and Miraak was able to trap the woman’s body long enough to ask, “Does he have your soul?”

For a second, the Last Dragonborn relaxed and focused on her answer. It was hushed, but Miraak heard what he needed.

“Not yet.”

Skye broke free of the First’s hold and landed a kick directly in his side. Their dovahs roared in challenge. Miraak managed to meet her next spell with one of his, the explosion of fire and ice illuminating their battleground. The next they met, Miraak quickly directed his thoughts through the skin of her wrist he had in a lock.

We must escape. Resist his pull, Dovahkiin!

She thrust him back with a snarl and breathed fire. Miraak threw up a ward. Her breath burned his casting hand, but the First Dragonborn remained undaunted, determined to free Skye from the hold of his former master. He had one chance. It was all he could think to do.

Miraak transformed his sword into a dagger and charged the Last. She tried to flame him again, but the dragon priest barreled through her spell, ignoring the blistering heat. His Dragon Aspect was wearing thin (thankfully it had held up or Miraak would have already been bested), but it gave the First enough strength to wrestle Skye into submission, his dagger at her throat, other arm tight around her torso. Miraak’s face was buried in her hair; she still smelled of roses.

He felt empty whispering, “We will meet again, soon,” and drug his blade across the flesh of Skye’s neck. She screamed, thrashing in his arms. Her high-pitched wail pierced his heart. All Miraak could do was hold her until she passed. The Last Dragonborn’s screams were drowned in blood, her shrieking replaced by gurgles.

Miraak’s features were contorted in anguish. He shut his eyes against her cries, clutching her body closer as if that would somehow make the pain he felt lessen. A tear, so foreign to the First Dragonborn, slid down his face when the Last Dragonborn stilled, lifeless in his arms.

“So, you are still capable… my champion.” The desolate void that housed Mora’s eye blotted out the green clouds of Apocrypha. “Of killing the only woman to voluntarily touch you in centuries.”

The old dragonborn felt weak. He did not attempt to refute Mora. All the Atmoran man wanted was to sleep and wake up from this nightmare of hell. He crumpled over the dead dragonborn’s body, unmoving and unfeeling. Hermaeus Mora hummed above them, but Miraak blocked it out. He drifted off, dreaming of Skye's little cottage near the waterfall and the smell of ground coffee.

Chapter Text

After Miraak woke, he found himself alone with an unconscious dragonborn who was alive, but greatly weakened. Miraak could feel Brynjolf’s consciousness still connected to his, telling the First Dragonborn the Guild Master was just beyond the door standing guard. With a quiet Aura Whisper, the First saw the essence of the other members gathered round Brynjolf though the walls. He felt the fear rolling off their skin. Every question was dismissed wordlessly by Miraak’s thrall; no one was getting through the door without killing the redhead.

The ex-dragon priest sighed, squeezing his temples to ward off an inevitable headache. Miraak tired of the simple-mindedness of the joor. Though he knew these people had helped Skye in the past, they were still criminals and that meant they thought of the quickest and simplest way to gain wealth above anything else. Hence, the reason the thieves bickered and whined about the failed treasure raid rather than inquire what they could be doing to help the Last Dragonborn get well. She had done more than enough for them.

Miraak scowled, remembering when he had been as naïve as the Last. In his time, everyone the First helped gave thanks to the dragons that ruled them, never sparing so much as a handshake for Miraak. A cruel smile crossed the Atmoran’s lips. He would make them obey now.

The First Dragonborn slipped out of the room where he could better gage the crowd’s reaction as he spoke to them through Brynjolf.

“Peace, my people. I need your compliance.” Though Brynjolf spoke over Miraak, a few members of the Guild noticed the First Dragonborn’s intimidating presence behind the redhead and met his eyes.

Miraak held their gaze, daring the brazen criminals to speak against him. Only Sapphire and Delvin held his stare the longest, but even they dropped their eyes after the old dragonborn’s unrelenting glower.

“The Dragonborn has fallen ill and her companion, Lord Miraak, will be her primary caretaker.” Miraak willed Brynjolf to give one of those self-deprecating smiles he despised so much to better demonstrate he was not being controlled. “I would ask water and rags be fetched for their room, and that two warm meals are prepared and delivered by Vekel, my man.”

Once Miraak was certain he and Skye would not be threatened, the dragon priest addressed what was on the Guild’s mind.

“As for the treasure the Dragonborn and I found…” Miraak deliberately trailed Brynjolf off, commanding their ears. “It will be left to the dragon that carried us here as reward.”

Before he could ask for objections, the entire Guild started protesting, grumbling things like “Leave if for a beast?” or “What need does it have for such riches?” or Miraak’s favorite, “We should go kill it and take back the treasure for ourselves!”
Yes, you foolish crooks, go forfeit your life to Sahrotaar. It will mean one less imbecile I will need to deal with later.

The First Dragonborn squeezed the hooks of control embedded in the Thieves’ Guild Master, gathering any wandering thoughts as the thief spoke against his will. Brynjolf straightened, Miraak’s hold not letting him show pain. But the dragon priest knew it hurt… Mora had demonstrated the effects of Bend Will on Miraak. How could he forget the horror of being conscious, yet questioning his every move? The forbidden shout forced your body to perform the action of your master, regardless if your subconscious agreed or not. It was slavery of the worst kind. The First Dragonborn knew his boundaries; they were far from being crossed.

Miraak bent to issue his orders in Brynjolf’s ear, surprised when the thief turned ever so slightly to look Miraak in his eyes. In a moment of pause, Miraak read the emotion behind the leader’s green gaze. It was pleading and afraid. Brynjolf wanted to see Skye and was furious that he couldn’t. The man was also scared. Miraak sensed the criminal’s uncertainty after watching the First Dragonborn use Brynjolf to control the Guild with little more than a twitch of his fingers.

If Miraak did not possess the soul of a dragon, then perhaps he would have felt some modicum of pity or remorse. But the priest let his dragon speak for him, crushing the weakness of his human emotion and allowing his dragonborn nature to dominate.

“Fear not, thief, I am not after your pathetic group of criminals. However,” Miraak could almost taste the man’s fear as he closed more space between himself and Brynjolf. “I am after a girl named Dorthe, blacksmith Alvor’s daughter you miscreants held for ransom.”

He felt the Guild Master’s protest. Miraak knew the Guild did not have Dorthe (listening to Skye’s conversation with the other members had confirmed that), but the First Dragonborn did believe they could find her whereabouts.

“Hin fen siiv ek ahrk fun zu’u ahst ont (You will find her and tell me at once). Aam zu’u” (Serve me).

The thief dropped to his knees, vowing to comply. When Brynjolf glanced up in question, Miraak answered, “Leave me.”

After another bow, the redhead scurried away to perform his tasks and Miraak returned to Skye’s bedside. The First Dragonborn hauled a chair over to Skye’s bed to wait for one of the Guild’s lackeys to fetch him water and washcloths. The chair groaned under Miraak’s weight. While he waited, the First pondered. He had not felt this wearied since healing from Hermaeus Mora’s wound. Miraak decided he would also wash up and rest after tending to Skye.

His eyes found her face, trying to see past the blood painting her skin. Miraak wondered what the Last Dragonborn would think when she next saw him. Would she remember how he used to look- the face Hermaeus Mora took from him? What about the pain his hands had caused her when Miraak had wrestled the woman into submission and cut her throat? Did she feel him shudder as the First Dragonborn mourned her passing?

A sudden rapping at the door jolted Miraak from his thoughts. When he answered Sapphire stood in his way toting a bucket of water and a few rags. Miraak went to take them, but the woman stepped back. The First quirked a lip up in annoyance.

“You may leave them with me and go attend to your master.”

The female’s dark blue orbs narrowed as she growled, “Way I see it, Bryn isn’t our only ‘master’ now, Lord Miraak. I never heard Skye call you that and sure as Sithis don’t know why Brynjolf would address you as such.”

Ah, yes, there are always “smart” ones in the mix. Tragic that Sapphire had started a facts contest with the former champion of the daedric god of knowledge. As Miraak paused to determine the most efficient way to dissuade Sapphire, he made note for his next victims of Bend Will to not use his old title of Lord. Just Miraak would have to suffice if the dragon priest wanted to avoid suspicion.

“Sapphire, can I ask you something?”

He picked up on the twitch of her features.

She didn’t anticipate my response. Perhaps his bickering with the Nord Dragonborn did teach Miraak how to lead a conversation with a woman better.

Sapphire nodded a yes, brow still drawn in apprehension.

“Tell me, Sapphire. Would you rather be the one to let the next haul for the Guild slip through your fingers?” Miraak demonstrated with a splayed hand. “If it seems your leader is incapacitated, then Brynjolf needs someone to step up where he cannot.”

The woman in question tilted her head, pondering Miraak’s reasoning. He continued, reemphasizing how battered both the redheaded thief and Skye had been and contributing that to Brynjolf’s strange calling of “Lord Miraak.”

“Yeah, they were both really beat up.” Sapphire looked toward the ground, finally relenting and handing Miraak the supplies he would use to clean the Last Dragonborn. “I’ve got business to attend, but don’t think that means I won’t be watching you, Miraak.”

He managed a strained smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from an expert thief.”

The dark-haired woman pressed her lips into a thin line before telling him to take care of Skye.

“She was one of the first people to ever talk to me without some pretense or motive. She’s got a good heart and they aren’t many as strong as her that still have that.”

The First Dragonborn nodded, silently agreeing with Sapphire before leaving for Skye’s room.

Skye’s POV

Before I cracked open my eyes, I felt the exhaustion of my body. Like I’d been trampled by mammoths and then slugged into space by their giant caretakers. I felt different but could not place why. My skin was hypersensitive; the scratchy sheets were almost ticklish, and the damp air was tacky. My eyelids stuck together, lashes crunching when I tried to blink that sleepy blurriness away. I lay on one of the cots in the Thieves’ Guild room Bryn had provided for Miraak and me.

Miraak.

I had asked Brynjolf and Sahrotaar to take me to him after we had been attacked… Then I passed out. And woke up trapped inside of Apocrypha. It had seemed like I wandered for hours in that godforsaken place until Mora found me. The daedra had tried tricking me when Mora assumed the First Dragonborn’s appearance. I remember how odd it felt not sensing the Atmoran’s soul synchronizing with mine. Miraak had appeared, but the last thing I could recall was the words of Bend Will seeping into my brain and taking over.

Now, I concentrated. Ahhh, there it was. That slight buzz making my heart pound harder, and my mind focus better. The soul that matched mine. I turned the weight of my head with great effort and found him. Bathed in soft candlelight at the nub of its wick, the First Dragonborn slumped in all his Eldrich glory. His skin appeared a bit more lifelike from the tiny firelight and some of the lines of his muscle had stripes of dark dried blood on them. He looked so comically big sprawled across that chair, long legs spread and feet falling to the side. Miraak hand one hand curled in his lap, the other dangling.

My gaze slowed as it traveled up his torso. The Atmoran’s robe had fallen open revealing the First’s well-knit musculature. Miraak’s abdominals expanded and contracted with his gentle breaths, throwing shadows over his skin. The shadows stretched to a divot separating each peak of the dragonborn’s chest. They curved upward, disappearing under the cloth of his green garment. Miraak’s head lolled to the side, exposing the line of his beard and angle of his jaw. For once, the man’s jaw was relaxed and Miraak’s mouth was slightly parted. The veins around his eyes looked like dried black tears swimming underneath their sockets. His hair was down, wavy from his braids and the inky strands fell to broad shoulders.

I blinked, halfway expecting the scene to vanish when I looked again. The First was still there. I could not feel the pressure in my shoulder any longer and it felt like the wounds of my skirmish with the drakes were healed. No one in the Thieves’ Guild was skilled in restoration magic so I knew Miraak must have doctored me back to health. The sight of the man who was once my most daunting adversary asleep at my bedside roused my heart. I almost wished he was awake so I could thank the priest, but I knew Miraak had to be drained after saving my life.

I supposed we were even now. An unpleasant emotion surfaced when I tried to figure out what the First Dragonborn might do since he repaid his debt to me for rescuing him from Apocrypha. Miraak didn’t have a reason to linger, and he had given me the ability to seek him out if I caught wind of trouble. After traveling alone for so long, it felt strange wanting the First Dragonborn to remain by my side still.

I had closed my eyes again in thought but rustling grabbed my attention and my vision followed the sound. Miraak had shifted awake. He grunted trying to right himself in that small chair. I spotted the darkness of his eyes reflect the candlelight as the Atmoran’s gaze raked across my body to my face. The heaviness behind his scrutiny was enough to put the College of Winterhold’s Archmage to shame. I was thankful the dim light hid my blush because when Miraak noticed I was awake he spoke a husky, “Laat Dovahkiin.”

The First Dragonborn’s sleepy grumble muddled that alluring accent and I stayed silent to hear him speak more.

“Skye, speak to me. Tinvaak.”

A small smile spread my lips at the hushed urgency behind his words. When I did speak, my voice sounded ragged and dry, but I managed, “Drem yol lok, Miraak.”

He made a sound of disapproval and asked, “Can you move at all?”

Miraak so dutiful was almost overwhelming in my current state of incapacity. I attempted to press myself up, but all my body did in response was shake from my efforts and I plopped back down on the sheets. It was then I noticed how the bedcovers slinked across my skin, no clothing acting as a barrier between the two. I let out a gasp and flailed about, worsening my modesty situation. The First Dragonborn edged closer, believing I was in pain.

Since I couldn’t use my body well, I used my words. “Why am I naked? Where are my clothes? Wait!”

He looked upset as we fought for control over my sheets. I continued attempting to make my body obey and failing miserably. Miraak tried taking matters into his own hands (which were grappling far too near my bare form). When the dragon priest rose to his full height and loomed over me, I completely froze, eyes locked on the hard lines of Miraak’s brawn his open robe exposed.

“This feels familiar.”

Miraak’s breath ruffled my hair when he spoke, referencing the time he had woken after Neloth healed the First Dragonborn in Tel Mithryn.

“I’m pretty sure I was fully clothed when I came to see you.”

My heartbeat felt so loud I was almost certain Miraak could hear it, too. Surprisingly, he chuckled at my comment and teased out, “Does my current state of undress bother you, Dragonborn?”

I opened and closed my mouth, wishing it wasn’t so dry. I decided to shift the conversation away from Miraak’s ego and toward myself.

“I believe my current state of undress is what’s bothering me.”

The First Dragonborn leaned back a bit, realizing I no longer wanted to put up a fight. I spied quite the impish glint in his normally stern eyes and watched him begin to shrug first his right shoulder and then his left out of the robes. The smooth bastard came close again and inched his hand underneath my back where Miraak could hoist my upper body up enough to drape his robe around my shoulders with his other arm. His robes were warm as I sluggishly threaded my arms through the sleeves. The First Dragonborn gingerly tucked the cloth into itself, wrapping me in his scent.

Seeming satisfied with his work, Miraak held a slight smirk when he propped himself back in the chair. “You seem less bothered, mal Dovahkiin.”

My dragon was practically purring with delight as I relaxed into the endless folds of his robe. I opened my eyes to his bare front, scars nearly as attractive as the rest of his form. Maybe it was my healing sapping the energy from my brain, or just possibly it was me falling for him.

“I want to…” I glanced to and from the ground, meeting Miraak’s gaze meaningfully. “You could have had my soul if you wanted. There was no way for me to stop you. Why did you save me?”

The First Dragonborn’s features hardened. “Mora would have claimed your soul, not me.”

I swallowed, suddenly sensing my energy from Miraak’s presence drain. “So that was why.”

“No,” he said a little too quickly.

Miraak caught himself before saying more, looking almost torn in the dimness. His confidence was wavering. When the ex-dragon priest met my gaze again, he seemed uncertain of his honesty.

“I did not want to lose you, dii peyt. Lose my single grounding point in this godforsaken land. Perhaps you’ve not realized, Skye, but you are valuable to me. I am not measuring your worth completely by power, either.”

Did the First Dragonborn just admit to wanting me for more than my soul? I ran a tongue over my lips, unsure of how to respond to Miraak. He took my silence as something negative because the priest frowned deeply and cleared his throat, moving like he was about to leave.

“Enough questions, Skye. Rest more. When you wake again, I will have something for us to eat.”

My useless body refused to move, and I settled with calling out to him. Miraak did not stop walking toward the door. Summoning my remaining strength, I inhaled.

“Gaan!”

A wave of energy-sapping force spilled over the First Dragonborn, and he stumbled, growling fiercely. Miraak twisted and marched right over to my bedside. I could not restrain my smile when I noticed color darkening his nose and cheeks. So that’s why he turned away. I felt better after absorbing a portion of Miraak’s stamina and managed to finally press myself up enough to where he didn’t dwarf me as much with his impressive height.

Miraak’s POV

The Nord Dragonborn draped in his oversized robes was becoming a little too difficult to ignore. At the sound of her shout, Miraak’s dovah jumped to life, ready to challenge its match. But Miraak the man knew better, calming his fire and scolding the Last Dragonborn rather than jumping her.

“Vahdin, you are treading on dangerous territory.”

Her tired voice answered him.

“I wanted to thank you before you took off.”

Miraak almost laughed out loud at her innocent explanation. If he had felt less vulnerable after admitting how much Miraak had grown to care for Skye and dumbly awaiting a response, then maybe the First Dragonborn would have stayed. He tried sounding nonplussed.

“Well, it seems you’ve made it where I can’t go far until my energy recovers from your Thu’um. Which shouldn’t be long considering how weak of a shout that was.”

The Last narrowed her eyes. Miraak wished their room was brighter so his craving for those baby blues could be satisfied. After Skye remained silent, Miraak cocked a brow, prompting her to proceed.

“You’ve gone and made a big deal over it. I don’t feel like my thanks will have the same meaning now that you aren’t taking me seriously.”

When she shifted, one of his sleeves slipped off her shoulder. Miraak’s gaze fell over Skye’s bare skin, hunting for more signs of daedric corruption. Before he finished examining the Last Dragonborn, she readjusted the garment, blocking his view. As Miraak looked back to her face, he noticed Skye had extended her arms toward him, small smile across her lips.

“Thank you for everything.”

Fighting his feelings, the First Dragonborn hesitantly leaned down so the Last could wrap her arms around him. Her tiny hands left trails of fire in their wake as she struggled to envelop his broad back. Miraak froze only for a second as he took in the significance of her hug. When Skye realized the Atmoran did not seem to want to return her embrace, she started to let go. However, Miraak decided he didn’t want her warmth to leave him just yet and stretched his arms out as Skye released him. The First pulled her back into him and mumbled into her hair, “You call that a thank you?”

Before Skye had the chance to reply, Miraak cradled the crook of her hip and supported her back, drawing the Last Dragonborn flush against his front. She made a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and yelp of surprise. The dragon priest exhaled, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and squeezed her tighter.

“Now I know how he felt.”

Miraak sensed her shift across his skin, trying to look up.

“How who felt?”

Miraak cursed himself for even allowing the thought of Brynjolf enter his mind.

“That thief. When he held you close, I caught what he said.”

Skye seemed confused. Miraak demonstrated what he meant. The First wanted the Last Dragonborn to remember his embrace, not the redheaded delinquent’s. Miraak’s dovah, on the other hand, desired the female to remember the strength of his shout and the control he had over the Thu’um. Miraak chose to indulge both needs.

Freeing a hand, the First Dragonborn brushed the Nord’s hair away from her ear, tracing the curve of it with his pinky finger. His fingers tangled in Skye’s mane and lightly tugged her head closer to Miraak’s mouth.

“You came back to me, and I intend to make you stay.” He ventured a nip at her ear tip and the Last Dragonborn rewarded Miraak with her hands against his chest.

Skye turned until she was nearly nose to nose with the First Dragonborn. Her voice sounded breathy as she asked, “And how will the mighty Diist Dovahkiin keep me around?”

Feeling the color rush back to his cheeks, Miraak ducked for her neck, making sure Skye felt his lips skim across her exposed flesh when he murmured, “I have my ways, Dragonborn.”

To demonstrate, the Atmoran lowered Skye back toward the bed, secretly enjoying how easy it was for him to maneuver her form any way he liked. Only if the female Dragonborn allowed him, that was. As carefully as he could, Miraak summoned the Voice at a whisper, aiming to cool their hot skin.

“Iiz.”

When Skye felt the chill from the First’s voice, she pulled his robes tighter around herself. Miraak grinned down at the Last Dragonborn, wondering why he ever thought killing her for her dovahsil was a good idea. One more mistake to add to his hundreds. The dragon priest lost some of his playfulness when he thought of explaining what he did to save Skye and how one of her favorite people was under Miraak’s mind control. However, Miraak snapped from his reverie when he felt Skye’s hand tentative across his stubble.

“You’ve worn a mask for too long, priest. What’s troubling you?”

She sounded so weary. Miraak loathed to admit, but he may have to leave the Last alone so she could recover. It was likely best because the woman’s presence often seemed to make Miraak do and say things he wouldn’t if she were not present. Miraak was not ready to tell Skye what he had been up to since she had been out. The First Dragonborn took the hand she held against his jaw and pressed his lips against her knuckles.

“It troubles me that you are not still resting.” He hoped she didn’t see through his lie.

Skye sighed, dropping back on her pillow, Miraak’s robes fluttering about her tiny frame. “You have made it maddeningly difficult to fall back to sleep, Miraak.”

The First Dragonborn hummed at her offhanded praise. He liked getting the Last riled up.

“So, my ways are working, are they?”

Skye gave him a look that told Miraak she knew exactly what he was doing.

“Weren’t you going to get us food or something? It’s hard to sleep on an empty stomach.”

The Last ordering the First around? Miraak enjoyed her grumbling demands far more than he had any right to. After ensuring she was situated, the First Dragonborn went to fetch food from Vekel, completely forgetting he wore nothing more than a pair of loose-fitting pants. Needless to say, Miraak was the object of more than a few envious and fearful glares.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

Over the course of the next few days, I steadily regained my strength, but my body felt off. It was hard to explain. When I would stare at my skin too long, it seemed paler than usual. My veins appeared darkened and occasionally I would have to blink away blurriness from black spots around my vision. As I healed, it was as if my body was adapting to a new form of being that I didn’t fully understand.

Miraak came to visit me often, staying in the room with me for long periods of time, updating me on the status of the Guild, Brynjolf, and the search for Dorthe. How the Atmoran managed to balance all of this was a mystery to me. I wondered why no one had been by to see me, yet when I questioned the First about it, Miraak explained that many of the thieves’ resources were deployed or needed for other areas.

“How is Brynjolf doing?” I asked during one of our evening meals Miraak brought to my room. “I’m surprised he hasn’t come by.”

The Atmoran scoffed after swallowing his bite of roasted pheasant. “You saved his miserable life while risking yours. He’s probably too ashamed to face you, Dragonborn.”

I shook my head, doubt crossing my features.

“I know Bryn too well and he cares for everyone under him. The attack wasn’t his fault.”

I knew I was pouting, but I didn’t care. I worried for Brynjolf, remembering how he’d carried me all the way back riding Sahrotaar, which could not have been easy. Maybe his wounds were worse than I thought. The First Dragonborn likely never offered to heal Bryn considering their contentious first impression. I was still weak but felt like I could stand. After serving with the Guild in the past, I knew my way around the Cistern and could find Brynjolf on my own.

However, as I unfurled from my bed covers to stand, Miraak caught me. “Skye, you can barely walk. What do you need? Allow me to handle it.”

I brushed his hand away, telling the First I was fine and that I needed to stretch my legs a bit. Normally, my admission should not have alarmed the dragon priest. Miraak acted like if I took one step outside the door, I would break or something bad would happen. I never imagined the First Dragonborn would behave so protectively over another being as powerful as he was. Perhaps I should remind the man.

“Miraak, I am the Last Dragonborn. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m pretty sure a tumble or two will not be enough to stop me.”

My words struck his pride. The old priest backed off, posture ramrod straight as he observed me clamber out of bed. The whole room seemed so dark, but I pressed forward, impressed I was not wobbling as I walked. The first few steps took me toward the door, but my fifth had me trip over an invisible obstacle. I went flying to the ground, hissing as I bounced off the stone floor.

“Mey vahdin (Fool woman). You do not listen and so you face the consequences.” Miraak’s grumble was accompanied by his bulk as the Atmoran cast magelight to better see the damage I’d done. “How did you not see this, Skye?”

I glanced back at what I’d tripped over, blushing when I noticed it was my own armor. The dragonscale set was bulky and lightly colored enough where it was certainly noticeable. After Miraak reorganized the armor, he helped me to my feet. The ball of light he conjured lit our cozy space enough where I could make out changes to his eyes. I stared at the faint green and red that swam beneath the murky black of his irises. Before I could capture his pupil, Miraak’s gaze turned into one of hapless fury, darkening any color I picked out before.

“Do not leave this room. I need to go, and you will not search me out.”
The Dragonborn’s voice held no mirth, just barely contained animosity. His shift in demeanor was so sudden, I didn’t know what to make of our situation. The only thing that changed had been the light in our room. Miraak let go of me suddenly, shoving me back toward the bed. I reached out to catch him but missed my target again. My hand fell through air, and I was left staring as the First Dragonborn slung the door open with enough force to break the hinges. He marched out of it and all I could think was Miraak had finally decided there was no way I could stop him in my current condition.

But I could track the bastard. Even though my sight seemed to be failing, I still had full control over my other senses. The wrath pouring from Miraak’s soul would be easy to trace. I just needed to bide my time…

Miraak’s POV

He flung the shoddy door wide enough for it to slam into the wall and rattle on its hinges. The thieves stationed outside of Skye’s room jumped as he emerged, seething rage for himself the only thing preventing Miraak from dismembering the guards.

“She will live. Keep watch. I will return.” The dragon priest left without any more explanation.

Then that ratbag of a redhead intercepted him. Miraak had gradually loosened his hold on Brynjolf, ensuring the Guild Master remembered as little as possible about his incapacitation. The First also did not want Skye questioning his decision to take the Guild into his own hands so they could move forward.

“Slow down, Lad. Why did ya break my door like that? Is she alright?”

Miraak hated Brynjolf’s concern for Skye.

“She will be. Skye needs rest, but I cannot stay. Guard her.”

To his annoyance, Brynjolf laughed and replied, “I can’t keep that woman from what she wants to do, man. I don’t care if she is sick, Skye’s a lot stronger than me, and I can’t say no to those baby blues o’ hers.”

Miraak whipped around and invaded Brynjolf’s personal space. The thief was not pleased about this.

“If I find you have not watched over her, I will make your pitiful life a living hell.”

Miraak read the thief’s thoughts before he acted and caught Brynjolf’s hands mid-punch. The First Dragonborn twisted the redhead’s knuckles back on himself and brought his knee into Brynjolf’s stomach, hard. The First left him moaning on the cold stone beneath the sewers. The redhead’s lackeys were too afraid of Miraak to give chase.

It was a rainy night and Miraak welcomed the cool droplets against his heated skin. He needed to get away, far away from the city. From Skye and what he had done to her. As if the distance would somehow lessen his sin. Knowing people were tucked away from the storm within their homes, Miraak concentrated and soon levitated off the ground. He took himself higher until he soared above the town walls, across the great lake, and landed in a remote glade, occupied only by frightened deer and foxes.

When he touched the soil, Miraak let out a thunderous roar. He wailed and thrashed about the sodden clearing, trying every way possible to relieve himself of the anguish he was experiencing. Soon, the First Dragonborn became destructive. He gathered his magicka in his great palms and shot fireballs at the trees. They burned so strongly, the flames evaporated any rain drops that touched them, and his fire soon barreled into the trunks of the trees, singeing their bark and mutilating their limbs. He imagined tentacles he had incinerated with his fire and Hermaeus Mora writhing in agony, but…. All Miraak remembered was the Last Dragonborn screaming, squirming against his hold as he dragged his blade across her exposed flesh.

Miraak bellowed, hitting a tree so hard with Unrelenting Force, the First uprooted it and sent it flying into the bark of another. His lungs burned, but Miraak still shouted.

“Mul Qua Diiv!”

The First Dragonborn poured all his rage into the shout he created, feeling his soul practically rip itself from his essence, whirl wildly around him, and morph into spectral scales, horns, and wings that responded to Miraak’s movements. The Atmoran reached out to Oblivion and summoned two dremora, unbound so they’d engage him as soon as they fully materialized. A cold smile split the First’s dry lips as he drew his sword and conjured a devastating lighting storm in his other palm. Miraak roared, charging the gray-skinned demons as they sprinted toward him, intent on killing the man.

Crash! Miraak bared down with his strike against the dremora. The First Dragonborn had drawn Brynjolf’s short sword during his charge and now used his superior strength to breach the demon’s defenses and bite into its heart. The dremora screamed in that vibrating tone that set Miraak’s teeth on edge. Fire spilled from the First Dragonborn’s lips, damaging the dremora enough where it could not return to Oblivion. Its brother did not like that and taunted Miraak.

“You believe yourself to be above us?” It growled, ramming its weapon toward the space Miraak would have been if he’d not dodged. “I can taste your fear!”

The dark-skinned demon whipped around, catching Miraak mid-swipe, scattering his orange and blue scales with the rain. The Atmoran pushed its weapon away and landed a boot in the dremora’s middle. It stumbled and slipped in the mud of their battlefield.

“Zu’u los avokei wa hi (I am superior to you). Let me show you.”

Miraak pumped his great, spectral wings, hovering above the dremora who scrambled for a foothold in the muck. It could not respond to the First’s taunt because Miraak had knocked the breath out of it with his kick. After another inhale, the dragon priest shouted directly at the dremora on the ground.

“Fus Ro Dah!”
His Thu’um ricocheted off the surrounding trees and pummeled the dremora into the ground. Miraak had mashed the demon into a crater his Voice created. Rainwater quickly filled the hole, drowning the unrecognizable body of Miraak’s opponent.

It was not enough. As soon as his rage stilled, all Miraak saw were her eyes. Those magnificent blue eyes now flooded with daedric taint.

From his blood.

The First bellowed again, wings flinging droplets from the surrounding tree limbs as he conjured more pawns to destroy. In the back of his mind, Miraak almost wished they provided him with as much of a challenge as the Last Dragonborn had. The one person in this world he had found that accepted his failures yet made Miraak continue to try and be a better version of himself. The one soul he had inadvertently given a portion of to Hermaeus Mora by way of his own corrupted blood.

The daedra lied to you again, you fool. In his desperation, the First took Hermaeus Mora's challenge on like something he could overcome. Mora's challenges had always led to Miraak failing and the Prince of Fate and Knowledge getting what it wanted. This time the price of failure was steep.

A jagged bolt of lightning from the storm atronach he had conjured grazed Miraak’s cheek. The Dragonborn set his glowing eyes upon the rocky creature and decided it was time to give it a taste of its own medicine.

“Strun Bah Qo!”

Storm Call left him winded but energized as the First watched the rain clouds darken into ominous thundering. His shout bombarded the storm atronach; every bolt ripping shards of its body to pieces. Little rabbits and foxes caught in the maelstrom fell squealing to their death after being struck while Miraak, high on his power, soared through the deadly storm, summoning a frost atronach and then more dremora. He used his own shock magic to strengthen the heaven’s storm, tearing through the large, glacial monster and devilish dremora.

Wishing he felt something besides despair.

Skye’s POV

I spotted him fighting in the forest glen I’d tracked him to, and my breath was stolen as quickly as the first time I had watched Miraak battle. His grace, flow, and finesse in combat outmatched any warrior or mage I had ever encountered. However, as the dragon priest attacked his multiple summons, he became sloppy. Miraak let himself get hit when he could have easily dodged the blow from a frost atronach; he took a fireball to the back, laughed, and belted a ragged Frost Breath back at the flame summon.

I heard him yell, “That’s it? This is the best the mighty creatures of Oblivion can muster? Pathetic! You will all fall to my power.”

My eyes widened in shock as the First Dragonborn levitated, pumping his spectral wings, and unleashed a spell that sent pillars of rock up through both atronachs and blocked the incoming dremora from cleaving into Miraak. I watched the Atmoran crash to the ground, splashing muddy water and debris across his soaked robes. The unbound dremora charged at him from behind the rock and Miraak snapped his head up just in time to blow the creature away with Unrelenting Force. It disintegrated in the air.

Miraak coughed and blood dribbled from his lips. The final dremora took advantage of his weakness and sliced into Miraak’s arm. The First Dragonborn surged up and palmed the dremora’s neck, disregarding the daedric weapon wedged in his forearm. Its screams waned, fading completely when the First dropped it. The demon’s frozen neck shattered as it hit the dirt.

When he stopped, Miraak was heaving from exertion and rainwater dripped from his hide. The man was practically steaming in the cold. Winding tendrils of his dragon aspect still pulsed around his form. I studied the massive spectral dragon wings protruding from between Miraak’s shoulder blades. They drooped with his breaths. I also found his horns elongated, extending past his jaw. Armored scales decorated the Atmoran’s long torso and circled around his back.

I was enamored with Miraak’s incredible display of his Dragon Aspect, wondering how he’d pushed himself to this form. I hadn’t tracked him here to admire the man. The next step I took had me in the predatory sights of the First Dragonborn. Miraak’s head whipped around, fangs bared and ready to shout. However, when the old warrior saw it was me, it stopped him in his tracks. The man’s wings flared out, fluttering and his mouth dropped open, puffing the inhaled air of his unused Thu’um.

I suppressed a shiver in the cold, damp air. I knew the reason Miraak was so angry. I’d seen it after he had stormed out of the room. My body showed signs of Hermaeus Mora’s influence, and I believed Miraak had attempted to tamper with the daedra’s poison while I was unconscious. He had not succeeded in wiping Mora’s taint away completely. Miraak admitted not long ago how much he’d grown to care for me, and I knew the thought that part of me now belonged to the daedric prince of fate and knowledge was eating him alive.

“Why are you here?” The First Dragonborn prowled toward me, voice low and threatening. “I ordered him to watch you.”

My brows crinkled in anger. He meant Brynjolf. I had run in to the master thief and jumped on the man, thrilled to see Bryn well and able. The Guild Master had not returned my affections in kind. Brynjolf, normally so gentle, welcoming, and witty, stiffened in my arms. When I drew back, I found the man’s eyes shut tight and his skin paling. Afraid of me. He had shoved a piece of parchment in my hand and told me it would lead me to Dorthe’s last known location. Brynjolf said no more and disappeared with a noticeable limp around the next corner.

I bit back at the dragon priest, “Did you also order him to cower in our presence? Unlike our fellow joor and dov, a dovahkiin does not follow orders. He issues them.”

It was my turn to stalk toward the First, showing him I would not back down from his fury. Miraak looked vicious but restrained. He knew he was in the wrong, and the First could say nothing to change my mind.

Miraak’s fists clenched as he answered, “It was all to save you. No one needed to be involved so I sent them away the most efficient way I knew how.”

I stood boot to boot with the First Dragonborn, bracing against the power I felt emanating from his aspect.

“And you got to decide that for everyone?” I stared him dead in the eye, unafraid of their pitiless depths. “Including myself?”

The Atmoran Dragonborn dominated my space, the whirling strength of his soul spinning more violently.

“So, you’ve witnessed what I’ve done to you and that ungrateful thief.” Miraak’s voice was unexpectedly soft. “Have you come to get retribution, Dragonborn?”

I knew the man in front of me had changed, even if he did not believe it himself. The First Dragonborn had left an unbelievable amount of carnage in his wake. Miraak himself sported burn marks and other gashes, and one look into his eyes told me he was not thinking straight. The ancient Atmoran in front of me was dangerously unstable. Despite his power, I could sense his fatigue in my bones and the rawness of his throat (another side effect of waking up a survivor of Mora’s poisoning).

Did Miraak weaken himself because he thought that after I found out about his meddling we would come to blows?

“Miraak, I cannot condone what you did to Brynjolf. I’m starting to think you also used him to control the rest of the Guild. Everyone I saw clearly stayed away from me.”

I paused, noticing Miraak’s callous smile.

“Do you want me to confirm your beliefs? Shall you discipline me for my transgressions, Laat Dovahkiin?”

Miraak’s voice possessed an unnatural cadence, wavering from deep to almost questioning. Sounding like he was sliding from sanity.

“You are after all, my only challenge,” he purred, tugging my chin up roughly and smearing my skin with his blood. “My match, gro naal sus” (bound by blood).

I jerked away from his hand, provoked by his harshness. Miraak had not handled me so forcefully since our time in Apocrypha. He dropped his arm, dark red dripping from his open wound. Still grinning bitterly.

“A shame those beautiful eyes had to suffer from my mistake.”

After Miraak finished speaking, he straightened. His Dragon Aspect burned brighter, colors saturated into a bloody orange and electric blue. The breath rushed out of me, and I felt faint for a second. When my vision cleared, I beheld Miraak standing to his full height with lengthened spikes and scales, claws and horns, and wings spread to their fullest span. Power gushed from the First Dragonborn’s form and physically pushed me back. His voice thundered off the craters he’d created when he spoke.

“Look at what I’ve done to you! The way you look is because of my blood. I was the one who gave you my immunity, but at the cost of Mora owning a portion of your soul like he does mine.”

His great wings flared; the light of his soul became brighter.

“I have given you a fate worse than death, Skye.”

It was a miracle Miraak was still standing. I had to snap him out of his self-hatred. The man had already atoned for manipulating Brynjolf if his unhealed wounds and exhaustion were anything to go by. As for my body, well I had some explaining to do for the First Dragonborn since his reason happened to be slipping. I reached for the Atmoran’s face, hand trailing through the static of his Dragon Aspect. The atmosphere shifted. Miraak groaned though his expression remained harsh. When the Atmoran opened his eyes again, he looked addled.

“Vahdin, I... your touch.”

His voice strained with restraint.

I felt it, too. Before the effects of Miraak’s shout faded, I was able to run my hand across the strange, electrifying void of his scales and horns. The First Dragonborn wavered on his feet, breathing becoming heavy. I kept my fingers in place across the horns that curled around his head. The rain, now slowed to a little splattering shower, disintegrated when they fell on the skin of my wrist wedged through his aspect.

I went to move closer, and Miraak’s Dragon Aspect finally blinked out of existence. The bright colors of his soul dissipated, leaving us in the darkness of the destroyed glade. The First immediately dropped to his knees, squishing into the mud beneath our feet. I knelt, nervous about his labored panting and Miraak’s fingers digging into the mud.

“Miraak?” I grappled under his arms, trying to support the First’s body before he slipped into the dirt more. “What did you do to yourself?”

My explanation would have to wait.

Miraak’s POV

Something was wrong. Sure, Miraak had overexerted himself, but his recovery was normally instantaneous. After the Last Dragonborn had appeared, accusatory, but still so soft-natured, Miraak felt his rage settle into guilt. He had tried to mask the feelings with explanations the priest had rehearsed hundreds of times. They all came out jumbled or not at all, and just when the First Dragonborn began getting upset again, Skye had touched his soul. Her lithe fingers traced Miraak’s fullest expression of his nature, and it had felt incredible.  

He sensed all her emotion, her pain, the woman’s feelings for him. The Atmoran had connected them in a way where he was certain if one of them died, so would the other. Somehow, the binding Miraak had performed went deeper than just their bodies; he had physically linked their souls and vitality together. Miraak knew that was exactly what Mora had intended. The daedra knew the outcome of his actions long before Miraak did. It was that sense of manipulation Miraak despised the most. He still felt like he was being controlled, as if Skye’s actions to free him meant nothing.

Now the Last Dragonborn wallowed in the muck with him, bracing his overgrown body with her trembling one. Miraak listened to her ask what he’d done, catching the concern behind her accusation. The man ground his teeth together, clenching his jaw in frustration. Miraak surged forward and latched on to Skye’s arms. He smeared her pale skin with dirt

“Why?” He growls, holding her tighter than he should.

He would find bruises on her skin later.

“Why do you treat me this way? As if I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Skye stays stoic. She even smiles faintly despite the pain she feels from his powerful hands.

“Because I don’t think you have ever been treated fairly, or like your opinions matter. I do not think anyone, including yourself, has ever told you that you can make mistakes and still be considered a person instead of a failure.”

The First Dragonborn blinked away the collected water droplets on his lashes. They looked like tears streaming down his face as Miraak stared at the Last. Her hair stuck to skin from the rain; the woman’s eyes were blue peaking through stripes and speckles of black. This woman should not be real, yet here she crouched, dripping wet and coated in mud from his hands.

“I was the leader of the Dragon Cult of old. My opinion was law. How we were treated depended on our performance and dedication to the Cult’s ambitions.”

Though Miraak’s voice was stern, Skye looked at him with skepticism.

“You held a lot of sway, priest, but I know the things you wanted to happen were not accepted by the dragons. Their word was law. You were simply their favorite mouthpiece of communication.”

She was correct. Miraak smirked, concluding the Last Dragonborn was the reason he’d misplaced his journal in Apocrypha.

Dii peyt, what you must think of me…

Miraak looked down, letting his hands fall back into the mud. He heard the Last Dragonborn grumble about how strong his grip was and ask, “Can you get up? Or has your pride immobilized you?”

Miraak scoffed, replying, “My power was what drew you here. Most mortals would run after witnessing my display, however another dovah would hunt me down for a challenge.”

Miraak slipped and fumbled but made it up with Skye’s undeserved assistance. She shouldered Miraak’s weight, boots sinking in the slop they sloshed out of.

“Mh, you were impressive, Miraak. But destroying half the forest was a bit much, even for you.”

Briefly, Miraak considered staying quiet, but the First Dragonborn owned his blunders, knowing Skye would eventually state her piece. The First noticed she was blushing and decided to try skating back into the Nord dragonborn’s good graces. He had felt her need for tinvaak before he crumpled.

“‘Impressive am I, Skye?” Miraak allowed a smile to creep into his voice. “If the Last Dragonborn blossoms this exquisitely, then I readily await the moment I see you in a more… compromising position.”  

Skye choked and dumped the First Dragonborn’s weight so she could scurry away from the embarrassing predicament he had put her in. Miraak managed to right himself and give an exasperated sigh, arms spread and hands up, as if the flirtatious Atmoran had commented on the weather rather than the Last Dragonborn’s color.

“Dovahkiin, don’t be shy.” Miraak goaded her further, relishing in the positively peachy flush Skye displayed. “You’d have most men kissing the ground you walk on with such a brilliant figure.”

The First Dragonborn observed Skye as he said this, noting how beautiful the woman was even with darkened veins and black speckles that peppered her eyes. She finally managed to break through her shyness and ask Miraak exactly how he could know what her body looked like under her armor.

It was Miraak’s turn to be embarrassed.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I stood waiting for his answer, trying my hardest to look intimidating. I should say as intimidating as I could be to a 4,000-year-old Atmoran man that was well over a foot taller than me. Miraak avoided making eye contact which was rare considering hardly anything chipped away at his confidence. His focus was on healing the wound from the dremora he’d frozen to death. I decided to goad him further in attempt to reign in my embarrassment.

“I’m waiting, old priest. Or should I say old pervert?”

The First Dragonborn whipped his attention forward to me, a blaze of shadow darkening his cheeks and nose. “I am far from-.”

Miraak started coughing in the middle of his sentence. The Dragonborn’s rumble sounded hoarse when he tried to speak again.

“How dare you accuse me of-.”

Another hacking spell took over and I felt the smallest pang of sympathy for the First that I immediately shut down.

“You’re going to have to speak up, Miraak. I can’t hear you.” I sauntered closer to him, feeling emboldened by his weakening voice. “Maybe you need a little convincing?”

I caught the briefest hint of panic flash across his eyes before Miraak choked again. The man held his hands up in surrender and I stopped encroaching on his space. After observing him briefly, I concluded the stubborn dovahkiin had gone mute due to his overuse of the Thu’um. Miraak had no chance at defending himself with words. The First Dragonborn cleared his throat and attempted to speak again. He managed a wheeze that turned into a whisper, and I leaned in to hear better.

“What excuse have you come up with now, Miraak?”

He took hold of my wrist and pulled it from exaggeratedly cupping my ear.

“I said this has happened before *cough* it appears I’ve misjudged my power yet again.”

I listened to his raspy whisper trail off, delighting in the tickle it sent through my spine. One glance at his dark gaze glued to the ground and I knew my teasing would get to him more than usual.

“Saved by the shouts, then.” I tsked at him, enjoying Miraak at my mercy. “I guess that means I can only ask you one more thing before you turn completely mute on me.”

The First finally met my stare and I quirked a smile at him.

“Are you one of those men who would kiss the ground I walk on?”

Miraak’s brows raised, giving me a clear view of his gaze dropping to my feet and up again. Though he was dripping wet and streaked with blood and grime, the First Dragonborn regained composure.

“I would avoid the ground, dii peyt.”

He sighed his response into the air and the rain almost silenced his words. Damn his honeyed words, I thought, scrambling to change the subject before my blush did it for me. The First’s intention behind his words were clear: avoid the dirt and aim for me. I ran my palms down my sodden clothes, trying to sooth my frayed nerves, and brushed the paper I’d shoved in my pocket. My hand wedged itself into my pocket and found the sodden note Brynjolf had given me before I went in search of Miraak. I yanked the parchment out, dreading the inevitable.

“To Sithis with this rain!” I cursed, trying my best to unfurl the ruined note. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

The First Dragonborn inched closer to me, testing if he was in the clear by feigning concern.

“Water is not kind to parchment, Skye. Who is this from?”

Miraak thumbed the material and I jerked it away from him after witnessing mud from his fingers spider through the barely legible scrawl.

“I can hardly make this out as it is, Miraak. Keep your dirty paws off the directions.”

He frowned deeply and I explained that Brynjolf had given me the note before leaving the Guild.

“He told me they had tracked Dorthe’s last known location and it was marked on this paper. But…” I held up the scrap, helplessly watching the droplets cascade down the thing and take the ink with it. “Looks like we’re going to have to let this dry first.”

The Atmoran Dragonborn’s features tightened; his mouth twisted into a scowl.

“They finally delivered, did they.” Miraak stalked forward and snatched the note from my hand. “This is useless to you, now.”

The man leaned down and tapped the side of his head lightly. I swiped at my nose to rid it of the rain dribbling off Miraak’s skin.

“My intellect is the only thing you need to find the girl.”

Someone had already reported to Miraak, and he had memorized it all. I felt a pang of envy at the dragon priest’s command over the role of leader. I bet it was him that ordered the information be passed on to me.  While I did want to press forward with our search, I was not fully healed yet and tired from my trek around the lake. Out of the blue, the First Dragonborn’s rough palm grasped mine and gave a slight tug. I looked up at him.

“Come. We can set up camp in the forest and hunt for lunch,” he rasped, knowing light in his eyes. “I will explain over our meal, and you can rest more. You are practically dead on your feet.”

I chided the First for downing me. He chuckled at my halfhearted attempt at arguing and pulled me away from the carnage. The green, dewy glaze of the morning woods soon encompassed us, and I found myself thinking. I wondered still about Miraak and his mental state. The Atmoran was a typical traditional male in the sense that he hid any negative or sensitive emotions behind a façade most of the time. I was also not blind to the unsettled feeling I got when thinking of Miraak ruling over my friends. Our identity as Dragonborn differed in that aspect: the First felt like humanity owed him something for his ideals of freedom whereas I felt my nature as dragonborn meant I was fated to help those unable to help themselves.

I studied the leaves we stepped on, remembering Miraak’s story of how he’d decimated these woods long ago to quell a rebellion against the dragons. When I thought about how long the First Dragonborn had served the beasts, how he had denied his nature in order to survive, and how his rule was tarnished by betrayal of his masters for freedom, I understood why Miraak looked down on so many. He had turned on all his fellow priests and killed his masters to increase his power. Hardly any of his “allies” sided with Miraak. During the First’s rebellion, I think he lost his sense of purpose and settled with reigning over everything because Miraak could not see another way of breaking the dragons’ hold over humanity. He felt he could do a better job leading them.

I shivered at the thought of Alduin and the other dov I’d defeated presiding over the inhabitants of Skyrim and other parts of Tamriel. As Dragonborn, I did not have an innate fear or reverence for the beasts, but it was easy to see how lesser mortals would fall victim to the dragons’ cruelty. I needed to stop Alduin before he amassed an army even I couldn’t deal with. Or gather an army of my own to fight the World Eater’s legion. After all, I thought with a smirk, I had accumulated dragons of my own that pledged to serve me. Surely I could dominate a few more.

I am starting to sound like Miraak.

Hin lorot med aan vahzah dovahkiin (You think like a true dragonborn).

Hearing the First Dragonborn’s resonant accent snapped me from my musings. I looked over and found Miraak gazing at me with a rather pleased expression on his strong features. The man was proud I had just considered gathering an army of dragons to battle the World Eater head on. Any other person on Tamriel would think me mad. Not the First Dragonborn.

Miraak led me to a wooded clearing with a small creek flowing through it. The rain had stopped, leaving clouds of fog to float through the forest and the scent of fresh turf to hide our scent from any hungry predators. The ex-dragon priest released my hand and approached one of the larger stones laying in the area. I was about to follow him, but Miraak motioned for me to stay back. It was strange going by the Atmoran’s gestures instead of his voice, but it gave me a chance to observe without the pressure of conjuring a response to his endless tinvaak.

Once Miraak was sure I was far enough away, he steeled himself and spread his hands. I saw flames lick through the gaps of his fingers and rise higher. The male dragonborn curled his hands into fists, corralling the fire that nearly grew out of control within his grasp. Miraak’s scarred brow creased in focus. Seconds ticked by until he released his stored energy. A wave of scorching heat rippled out from his form, sizzling the damp ground and knocking me a few steps back.

It passed suddenly and the first thing I noticed was how scratchy my clothes felt against my skin. Dry. Miraak exhaled, straightening his robes, no doubt sensing the same dried mud and blood crinkling his garments. The Atmoran turned to me and swept a hand over the now dry rock and grass. I covered my giggle. Miraak’s hair was completely disheveled, black strands sticking up and frizzing in the damp air.

He cocked his head to the side and tried to speak, but all that came out was a wheeze. The First Dragonborn shielded his hacking with a fist; coughing fit only made his hair more tousled. The great dovahkiin was truly a mess. I walked over and asked if he was okay, still straining to keep my grin under control. Miraak nodded and cleared his throat.

“I will be fine as soon as you-”

I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but my fingers shushed the First. I told him, “Thank you for considering my comfort, old dragon. I will make camp if you can promise me food along with the warmth?”

I felt Miraak’s lips part under my digits, contemplating whether to speak or keep his mouth shut. I marveled at the soft prickle of his beard and balmy damp of his sigh. Those midnight dark orbs darted down the length of my arm, pausing too long on my biceps. A twitch of his eyes and featherlight brush of the back of his knuckles along the roundish bruises on my skin was admission. Miraak did not apologize; he bowed his head slightly and started toward the trees.

I began the process of gathering kindling for the fire, thinking how badly I wanted my armor and a different set of clothes to replace the dirty things I found myself in. Miraak donned the same robe he had wrapped me in the first night I’d woken after being beaten by the drakes. I missed the warmth and comfort his clothes provided.

Not to mention his smell. (Which I noticed had improved tremendously since the first several weeks we had traveled together). Miraak had once reeked of old, musty books, sweat, and blood. Yet now when the man was around me, I would pick up hints of pine and birchwood. The necklace Miraak had gifted me carried his aroma for a time but faded after I wore it so often, and it was currently stowed away with my armor back at the Guild.

“You hunted for me then, too.” I mumbled, stacking what I had gathered in a makeshift pile.

After the fire blazed, I plopped down for a rest. I leaned against one of the boulders and gazed at the blue peeking through the leaves above me. The morning slowly gave way to early afternoon and the sun’s rays steamed what was left of the dew splattered across the foliage. I closed my eyes and listened to the brook babble to the left of me. I would not let the dragons take this peace from Tamriel.

Miraak’s POV

Miraak could not keep his mind from it. The thought of he and Skye as the crown of his former masters, the dov subordinate to them. The First Dragonborn’s intellect paired with the Last Dragonborn’s likeability sent a shiver down his spine. Miraak had fantasized about how he would rule differently when he had served the dov. If only Miraak could sway Skye farther in her ambitions, move the female dragonborn to lead, to become sovereign over Skyrim and help reclaim his right to Solstheim… The First wanted it, but could Miraak convince Skye to want it as badly as he? She would be glorious as his second. His queen.

A rabbit scurried past and Miraak jumped. The First Dragonborn sighed. He missed his first chance at their meal. Miraak could not rely on his shouts because it would cause further damage to his vocal cords. Luckily, Miraak had been a very resourceful hunter in his youth. He remembered Skye had fixed them venison stew before and the First Dragonborn elected to do her one better and track an elk. Though the animals were normally found in mountainous areas, they often came down into the forests in search of food and water.

Even without his Aura Whisper, Miraak tracked antler gouges in the trees and the split hoofprints melted into the mud. In a rather short time, the First Dragonborn came across a shallow bay a family of elk waded in. He stilled, ducking so the wind would not carry Miraak’s scent toward the animals. There was a calf, doe, and large male sipping from the water source. Miraak slowly summoned a bound bow and arrow. He sensed the magic solidify in his hands and the Atmoran’s fingers closed around the magical fibers of the weapon.

Miraak steadied his breathing, honing his sights in on the male elk. Its ear flicked at flies buzzing around the animal’s head. The First Dragonborn notched a single arrow, lined the shot up, and loosed it. Before the elk even lifted its head, the projectile Miraak fired ripped a hole through its heart and it bawled, struggling to bolt away with its family. The female and calf bounded away, leaving the male to cry on the edge of the bank. Miraak hobbled to the creature, watching as the whites of its eyes showed and its legs galloped against air.

“Hin laas oblaan nu.” (Your life ends now) Miraak’s voice still cracked when he spoke. “Drem.” (Peace)

The dragon priest knelt and drug the tip of another arrowhead across the elk’s jugular. It stilled as the life drained out of it. Working mechanically, Miraak tore off pieces of his robe and tied the beast’s feet together. A moment later and the priest summoned his own frost atronach to make hauling his kill easier. The First instructed the summon to hoist the animal up over its glacial shoulders and follow Miraak back to Skye.

On the way, the First Dragonborn encountered an obstacle. It was a teenage girl, small for her age and thin. Her blonde locks were knotted and frayed, and Miraak noticed her right arm was shorter than her left. The girl’s doe-eyed stare trapped Miraak in her sights. Her eyes were almost the same color of blue as Skye’s before the ritual. When she saw the lumbering frost summon, the girl went rigid, but she stood her ground against both looming figures.

“Are you a wizard?”

Apprehensive, the First nodded. He found the girl’s unwavering gaze odd considering most would cower before the First Dragonborn.

She accepted his answer. “And it looks like you hunt.”

Miraak remained silent, keenly aware of any sounds coming from his flank. She could very well be an ambush. The small girl’s gaze flicked between Miraak and the ground. When she did next speak, the girl’s chin jutted out and her eyes conveyed sincerity. “Can we have that elk? Please. I have money and I can pay you well.”

Miraak heard nothing beyond the surrounding nature. He looked at the small human curiously. “Where is your family, child?”

“My mother is dead and my father ill.” She answered earnestly. “I have a little sister who can’t hunt, and my arm makes it hard to use a bow. I… We need help.”

The old dragonborn deliberated over her plea. He could kill another animal or even bait fish. If the girl had a family, then perhaps Miraak could barter for fresh clothes or weapons, things he and Skye would require if they stayed away from the Guild for a time. The First Dragonborn’s dark eyes found the girl’s. She sucked in a breath, blinking up at him to conceal her fright at seeing Miraak’s inhuman gaze. She did not look away. He was reminded of the Last Dragonborn’s undaunted nature when Miraak first encountered Skye. Miraak asked her name and found she was called Ismae.

“Ismae, show me to your steading.” He decided he would mention he wanted clothes instead of money later.

The girl gave Miraak a genuine smile, rinsing whatever doubt or apprehension from her features. The Atmoran struggled not to let his stare linger. Ismae’s grin had the exact shape of Skye’s; it was a smile that accented her face and crinkled the edges of her blue eyes. Miraak followed, feeling his reservations slowly trickle away.

…

When Ismae arrived with Miraak at her old cabin in the woods, the girl’s little sister came sprinting out to greet them. She gawked up at the First Dragonborn and he stared back down at her, wondering why the small thing was grinning so wide.

“Is- did you bring a real wizard to our house?” The little sister looked behind Miraak at his frost summon still carrying the elk. “Is that food?”

The girl slipped by Miraak, reaching for the ice golem.

“Emilette no!” Ismae darted over to her sister and snatched her sibling’s arm away from the frost atronach, making sure Emilette would not get hurt by touching it. “This man has agreed to help us in exchange for some of our money. Can you go find mom’s jewelry for me? Please, Emilette?”

Before the little sister could answer, Miraak intervened by dismissing his summon and stopping both girls.

“Actually, Lady Ismae, I would request something else than your family heirlooms.” The First covered his cough with a fist, thankful his throat seemed to be holding together. “My companion and I are in need of clothing. If you could provide for us, I would be apt to trade.”

After a pause Miraak added, “I am traveling with a woman, so female attire would be preferable. As for me… well, I will manage.”

He saw the girl’s eyes widen momentarily before nodding to him and instructing his sister, “Em, remember the old trunk with some of mom’s clothing in it? Go gather some for me and then find some of dad’s stuff and give it to this man.”

Ismae looked Miraak up and down commenting, “You’re a big guy, but something should fit.”

The First rumbled, “I’m used to things a trace tight.”

The elder sister chuckled. “Did one of your summons go wrong? Is that why you’re so big?”

Miraak cocked a brow at Ismae. Neither she nor her sister had ever seen an Atmoran. He sighed and called himself ancient, explaining that was how he grew so large. Ismae grinned as they dragged the elk to their porch to begin butchering it. Miraak wanted to go back to Skye, but he felt slightly obligated to stay and help these children. It was what she would want and, Miraak found himself thinking, it was what he wanted as well. Ismae reminded the First Dragonborn so much of Skye. Her smile lit his heart like Skye’s, and the girl’s cerulean eyes glinted brightly when she glanced at Miraak (which Ismae did a lot, the old priest found).

“All wizards are old and ancient. But I guess they’re not as strong as you.”

The dragon priest smiled to himself. The honesty of children had been lost on him.

“I can study books and battle with swords, can’t I?”

He watched the girl think for a moment while Miraak sliced into the soft hide of the elk, ensuring its pelt was salvaged for the family to use later. The First Dragonborn had unknowingly slid back into his pre-dragon cult persona: a respected mentor of the farming village he had been adopted into. It felt… normal.

“Well, I guess you can be good with both,” Ismae replied, cutting through elk’s shoulder meat. “I always thought if you had magic you’d never need a sword.”

The First considered Ismae’s logic. It seemed the girl preferred the magical arts. Miraak was glad to have found a difference in Skye and Ismae’s battle preferences. Miraak asked her if Ismae wanted to become a mage when she matured. She smiled sadly, keeping her big blue eyes locked on the elk she cut. Miraak was slightly impressed by her skill; he could tell Ismae had done this many times before.

“I practiced magic with my mother some, but after she died our father banned the practice of magic. He blamed mom’s death on it.”

Ismae kept her features still as she explained. Miraak understood the dangers of magic and the toll it could have on an unexperienced user, but for their patriarch to ban the practice of mythical arts was a detriment to his children. Back before Miraak had worked for the dragons, he had tapped into his magical ability and the First’s skill had served his small village well. The Atmoran knew how harmful no working knowledge of even healing magic was… it was why Miraak’s village had sacrificed so many for the dov before he presented himself to save them. Perhaps he could show the girls by healing their father.

“Your father,” Miraak began slowly, “What illness plagues him?”

Ismae seemed surprised the old dragonborn was interested. She explained that her father was physically weak and could not move as well as he once could.

“He got sick after fighting off wolves that tried attacking our cattle. I think one bit him.”

Rock joint. The First Dragonborn recalled studying the disease even before his imprisonment inside Apocrypha. It would take a very skilled healer to suck the infection from the bones of its victim and reduce the swelling enough for the body to start healing itself back to normal. However, Miraak was no novice healer, even though Restoration was one of his least favored schools of magic. Head of the Dragon Cult meant he had to be an expert in nearly every aspect of magic, combat, and diplomacy. Not that there was much diplomacy occurring under the service of dragons.

During Miraak’s reminiscence, Ismae’s little sister had returned bearing clean clothes. The Atmoran and Ismae had nearly finished butchering the elk; Miraak felt he could leave the carcass for the sisters to use for baiting and broth. Though Ismae had a slight arm deformity, she could still rig a trap and catch her prey. After he washed elk blood off his hands, Miraak squatted so he was level with Emilette. She had been waiting and gave the male dragonborn her full attention when Miraak met her eyes.

“Um, I got a couple shirts and pants my mom made for herself and these are our dad’s best hunting clothes from before he lost weight.” The little girl struggled containing the garments in her arms, and Miraak could not suppress his smirk as he reached for what she carried.

“This is most generous of you, Emilette.” The First gingerly relieved Emilette of her load and set the clothes aside so he could properly thank the young girl. “You have my gratitude.”

Emilette turned bright pink when Miraak took her tiny hand and kissed it. He bowed his head, listening to the girl’s nervous giggling.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Wizard. Thank you for our food.”

Ismae had finished washing up and stared at them with her arms crossed. Gods, how often had Skye given him that same look? He was beginning to wonder if Ismae’s mother was actually the Last Dragonborn. Miraak swiftly put that thought out of his mind.

“Aren’t you a charmer, Mister…?”

“Miraak,” he finished for Ismae, rising to his full height.

“Mr. Miraak. That’s a strange name. Some kind of code wizards use?”

“You can say that.” Miraak was discouraged to reveal his Dragonborn nature and past to the girls after the incident with Hod. “Before I go, can I ask to see your father?”

A look of suspicion crossed Ismae’s face, but Emilette happily said yes and stretched to grasp Miraak’s sleeve. He noticed the older sibling’s jaw clench, but Ismae did not protest so Miraak allowed Emilette to lead him to their bedridden father. He was sleeping in a back room that had seen better days. The sparse furniture was worn and broken in some places and the cot their father slept on appeared small topped with tattered blankets. A single lamp burned by the bedside, dimly illuminating the man’s gaunt features. Their father was not a large man: he was possibly mixed with elven blood. His skin was weathered from working outside and gray hair had begun to sprout around the man’s ears.

His boney fingers clutched at the thin blankets like a lifeline. The elder sister caught Miraak before he crept closer to the bed.

“You’ve seen him. Now what?”

The First Dragonborn gave Ismae his sincerest look and said, “I can heal him. Or I can teach you to heal him. One will only remedy this situation for a time. The other will ensure this never happens again.”

Emilette gasped at Miraak’s admittance, and glued her eyes on Ismae, eagerly awaiting her sibling’s response. The eldest seemed conflicted, no doubt weighing the consequences of using magic against her father’s orders or allowing Miraak to lay hands on her father. He knew Ismae did not fully trust him; the girl tracked him like a hawk the entire time Miraak had been inside her home. Just as dii peyt was the foremost time I faced her.

“I…” Ismae started. “I want to learn how to heal him. This never needs to happen again.”

The First dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Then allow me to show you how best to begin the process.”

During the short time it took Miraak to teach Ismae simple restoration spells and controlling incantations, the First Dragonborn sensed something flutter deep within his chest. It was a nice feeling. A warmth that started from his smile and spread across his inside as Miraak observed Ismae beckon soft golden light to her fingertips and guide it into her father. Emilette hugged her sister’s side, never taking her gaze from her parent as their father’s brow relaxed and his hold on the covers loosened.

Was this the sensation of fulfillment what Skye had meant when she justified her helpfulness to everyone? The First Dragonborn saw the girls’ happiness. Ismae glimpsed up and smiled at him as if to say ‘look what I am doing, it’s what you taught me.’ Miraak tentatively returned her smile, and his thoughts went to the Last Dragonborn once again. He wondered if she still expected him to explain his… transgression related to her nakedness and his approval of it. Somewhere in the back of the First’s mind, he almost wished Skye would. He would have plenty of time coming up with his answers on the way back from helping Ismae and Emilette.

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

Miraak arrived and found the Last Dragonborn nestled against the boulder he had dried for her. Skye slept, but it was a fitful rest. The woman jerked and scratched herself on the rock during her slumber. Skye’s hair was tousled, and her expression remained tight with anxiety. Miraak instructed his new frost summon to drop his fresh kill near the small pit Skye had made while the First had been away. Miraak moved to his female, concern wrinkling his features. The dragon priest knew the kinds of nightmares he had suffered after Apocrypha and worried that Skye was experiencing something similar. He also knew waking her could make things worse.

Miraak recalled the playful way she had referred to him as old dragon after placing that deceptively gentle touch against his mouth. The audacity of the Last. It fascinated him. The Nord Dragonborn, of all beings, knew how devastating even an utterance of one Word of Power from Miraak’s tongue could be. It was enough to take her finger off (his dovah’s thought), but Miraak the man’s thoughts rendered him speechless.

Then he had spied them. The dark patches on her skin, perfectly oval and matching his prints. Miraak despised the fact he’d physically hurt her. Again. You couldn’t even bring yourself to apologize. For the First Dragonborn to chastise the Last for treating him differently was an offense Miraak desperately wanted to atone for.

Except it was his wish for amends that confounded the old priest. Miraak the cult leader, the First Dragonborn, Champion of the daedric prince of knowledge never asked forgiveness for his destruction. But the Miraak who desired the Last Dragonborn had nearly begged for it. If it had not been for her slightly rough fingers against the sensitive skin of his lips, Miraak would have dropped to his knees in front of the woman and asked if she would be willing to pardon his lapse in judgement. He knows Skye would excuse him (the woman possessed far too much compassion in the First’s opinion), but he still yearned to hear his name on her tongue. Skye’s soft gently accented tone telling him it was alright, and she accepted him.

Miraak was shaken from his thoughts when his name slipped from Skye’s lips during one of her fits. The First Dragonborn used this as incentive to move closer, a plan forming in his mind.

Skye’s POV

The sound was maddening. The gentle flutter of papers and gurgling of the mutated squid monsters called Seekers was the only thing that pierced the silence of my existence. Apocrypha seemed darker and more ominous than when I had visited before. Maybe it was because the First Dragonborn had been here with me. Now I stood alone, gazing out across the vast expanse of pitch-black ocean that slithered more than vacillated before I found myself heading back into one of Mora’s endless libraries.

I had tried finding a way out by pouring over the innumerable volumes contained within Hermaeus Mora’s forbidden library. Some books took me to other sections of the daedra’s realm while others gave me headaches after reading to accompany the gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach. Nothing I did seemed to get me out of here and back to Nirn. It reminded me of how trapped I had been after passing out from the poison.

The slimy black sea below me beckoned. Tentacles stretched for me and wriggled down from the green clouds above. I took another step toward the edge of the platform I stood on. Miraak had likely occupied this same spot. Had he jumped? What had been the repercussions of the man’s decision? I ground my teeth together and shut the thought out. A voice sounded to my right, and I started.

“Careful, Dragonborn.” The daedra’s drawl worsened the pain in my head. “Wouldn’t want you to go tumbling off the edge and me have to, mh… fish you out.”

I glanced to my right, disgusted to find Hermaeus Mora had taken a human form that looked nearly identical to Miraak.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

The breath lodged in my throat when the daedra wrapped his arm around my waist. I had no choice but to let Hermaeus guide me back into the ever-shifting halls of his realm.

“Tell me, Skye, why do you not desire my company when you so obviously need it?” Mora paused at a shelf overstocked with books and pulled out one with a hideous design on its cover. “I’ve even assumed a façade I believed you’d enjoy taking a stroll with.”

I fought back the urge to shout the stupid book out of his hands.

“I have never needed you.”

The daedric prince smiled, showing strangely sharp teeth coupled with the First Dragonborn’s dimples. “That, my dear, is a lie… And you know it.”

Hermaeus Mora snapped the book shut, disrupting the ancient parchment flowing by us. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when he looked at me. Miraak’s eyes had possessed the same dark void the first few weeks after I rescued him. The version of Miraak Hermaeus Mora portrayed was warped. His fingers were black, color splitting into skin where it disappeared under the long sleeve of his robe. His build and features were similar, if not wirier and gaunter than the real Diist Dovahkiin.

“Admit it, Skye,” Mora slunk closer, letting the book fall from his hand and float back into its spot. “You need me to lead your small mortal self around.”

I shot him my best glare and marched past the daedra parading around in the First’s skin. I knew Mora was toying with me. Telling myself to ignore the pestering prince was easier said than done. I grabbed another retched book and started flipping through the pages, skimming for some inkling of how to escape this place.

How Miraak ever kept his sanity while trapped here was a mystery. I felt something tap my shoulder and I spun, reaching for a sword and shield that wasn’t there. Brain registered nothing and my next impulse kicked in. I sounded off the first two words of Unrelenting Force, fully intending to meet the daedric prince of fate head on. The space was blank; nothing but fluttering pages and green-tinted darkness.

“My… Self! Haha! Dragon more than woman indeed, Skye.” I whipped as fast as my breathless body would let me to my flank.

Hermaeus Mora stood as Miraak, arms crossed and grinning down at me. His repetition of what Miraak had said to me the first night we stayed at my house atop the waterfall made my cheeks flush with embarrassment. How many of our interactions had Hermaeus Mora witnessed? The prince’s expression shifted from playful to concerned as he stepped (floated) toward me.

His blackened hand rested against my forehead, then my neck. It was cold. “My dearest Dovahkiin, you feel feverish. Why don't you hm… come rest with me.”

I cringed at the way Mora growled into his last sentence and jerked away from his hand, moving deeper into Apocrypha’s library. I did not look back to see if he followed. A Seeker drifted among the rows of shelves in front of me and I froze. The creature gurgled and lifted its deformed hands. I spied energy magic swirl to life in its palm. I was weaponless, but my breath had recovered to shout. As I braced, hissing came from my right and I staggered out of the way as a large black form sprang from the shelves and completely obscured my target.

The shrieking got louder, echoing off the books. Just when I believed it was over, everything went silent. Even the maddening noise of swirling parchment paused. The shadowy mass in front of me morphed into an abyss. Tiny green eyes popped up from the outskirts and Miraakmora floated down from the center. Tentacles sprouted from his back.

“I have cleared the way for you, Dovahkiin.”

I hated the way Mora tried acting like Miraak and lashed out at the daedra, berating him for using the First Dragonborn like a toy.

“Why do you protect him so? Do you love him? Do you pity the dragonborn of legend? It would be fitting, considering the First’s tale.”

I felt the surge of my draconic rage surface. I marched forward at the daedra parading his body around like a trophy, teeth bared in a snarl. “You made him into something he isn’t! Miraak was not an evil man—you turned him, made him fear his nature enough to where he attempted to control it, knowing Miraak would make the mistake of succumbing to his dovah’s wishes!”

Hermaeus Mora burst out in laughter, the books rattled on their spines. It made me angrier.

“You are smarter than you look, little mortal. I see why he enjoys you snarling at him, giving him a piece of your mind.”

His eyes flashed green and Hermaeus stalked toward me. I despised the fact that I found no fear in his gaze. I vowed to demonstrate how dangerous it was to face the Laat Dovahkiin and summoned Words of Power in my head. When he was less than an arm’s length away, I shouted Fire Breath, expecting the inferno I’d breathed into existence would incinerate the monstrosity. Hermaeus Mora gestured with his blackened hand and wiped the fire away.

Hermaeus Mora took advantage of my shock and rushed forward, palming my throat, initiating the scene where Miraak had the perfect chance to finish me. Pressure cut my air off and tentacles slithered up my neck toward my mouth.

“You Dragonborn are all the same,” Mora growled low in my ear. His cold tentacles slipped closer to my lips. “Rebellious foolhardy beings yearning for something they’ll never attain.”

I kicked at him, slowly panicking at the restraints slithering over my body and face. One appendage hooked the side of my mouth, spreading to take control of my jaw. I stared Mora dead in his eyes, pleading through a look.

No.

“Miraak never understood… why I had to punish his disobedience. The angrier you are, the more knowledge you reveal to me.”

I tired to scream. Tentacles choked me instead. They probed, exploring, and inching down my throat. I jerked my arms against the gooey restraints and felt tears pool at the corners of my eyes from the burning poison eating into my skin. Struggle was in vain. No one could help me. My thrashing became weaker and weaker as the daedra’s slimy appendages took more of my body for its pleasure. All I could think was how Miraak had endured this for centuries.

Hermaeus Mora touched a particularly sensitive spot between my thighs, and I gagged on my cries of revulsion. The daedra purred and advanced, seemingly spurred on by my protests.

“Your voice is the first to be stifled… then I will know the inner workings of one of the only female dragonborn to exist.” Its voice dripped with anticipation, and I struggled to bring my legs together in any kind of meager defense.

“Your resistance is… admirable, Skye. But you’re not strong enough to defy me.”

I shut my eyes against the intrusion, praying for help. I felt the sharpest press of pain and Mora went still. I held my breath, blocking out the sensation of burning goo sliding down my throat, trickling past my defense...

Hermaeus made a throttled sound, and his tentacles withdrew fractionally. 

“What is this?!” The daedra again bucked against an invisible force and its hold on me loosened.

You will NEVER harm her as I! GOL HAH DOV!

My eyes went wide as saucers as Miraak’s thunderous voice sounded inside my head. I saw the First Dragonborn’s body fighting the tentacles that grew from his back. Somehow, Miraak had regained control of his soul and was forcing Hermaeus Mora to free me. He wrestled with a limb that stabbed into his shoulder, finally catching and shocking the thing with his magic. Electricity surged along the appendage, sparking to the rest of Mora’s limbs and making the daedric prince withdraw in pain.

I slumped against the bookcase Mora had pinned me to, coughing up black mucus and trying to salvage the tattered remains of my clothes. In my daze, Miraak stumbled over to me and roughly snatched my arms, hauling me to my feet.

“Skye, come! Mora has trapped you, but I can set you free. You cannot allow it to get a hold of you again!” I wanted to fight against the First’s harshness, but deep in my mind, I knew he was panicking. It was all Miraak could do to drag me through the halls of Apocrypha, searching for a way out of this nightmare.

Miraak’s POV

The First Dragonborn shook with exertion outside of the Last’s dream. He held her head and channeled his energy into Skye’s mind to enter her conscious. Miraak found Hermaeus Mora toying with the Last Dragonborn, slinking closer and closer until the daedra had bound Skye, forcing her into submission. It was all done while Mora used his body, Miraak’s soul and visage, to restrain Skye and defile her.

Screaming against his fear, Miraak made a rash decision and threw himself into her nightmare, knowing full well that Mora could destroy him if the prince could find Miraak’s connective point to Skye’s mind. Hence the reason Miraak so brusquely grabbed and hauled the Last Dragonborn to the nearest point of escape before the deadric prince of fate recovered.

He led them to a dead end and Miraak could feel Skye trying to drag on his arm to stop before they ended up trapped in the corridor. The dragon priest glanced back at the female sickened to find Skye’s garments in shreds, her tear-streaked face in shock. He pulled her under the cover of his arm and felt the Last trembling as Miraak shoved a Black Book in her hands, pressuring Skye to open it.

Seconds ticked by as she fumbled for the cover. Miraak could practically feel Hermaeus Mora breathing down his neck. Skye finally flipped open the book and the Atmoran relaxed for a moment until the unmistakable tentacles of Apocrypha latched on to her neck and she wailed, writhing against their pull. Miraak tried shutting out her screams and sealed the channel of his intrusion before Hermaeus severed it.

Both Dragonborn were flung back to reality. Skye gasped for air and Miraak struggled to regain his bearings after spending his magicka to retrieve the Last. The Nord could still think this is part of Mora’s trickery, Miraak thought, knowing the daedric prince had teased him with small tastes of the real world while he’d been trapped. Skye looked as tense as Miraak had ever seen her, tainted blue and black eyes locked on his form, fear showing the whites of her eyes.

“Tell me where I am,” she demanded. The usual softness Skye spoke with was gone.

The First Dragonborn tried to move so he could show Skye he meant no harm and that Hermaeus Mora was not Miraak. The Last Dragonborn pounced and Miraak thought he heard the whisper of Wuld behind her tackle. Without the Thu’um, Miraak didn’t think she would take him to the ground. Her clothes were matted from their previous encounter in the rain and mud, and Skye had fresh wounds from her thrashing against the rock she’d slept on. The female dragonborn’s eyes told Miraak she was still scared, in shock from what he’d witnessed Mora do to her.

“Are you real?” Skye spoke through gritted teeth. “Is this all a game to you?”

“Dovahkiin, drem (Dragonborn, peace). I am not Mora.”

The Last shook him, demanding Miraak prove his authenticity. Her knees dug into his sides and Miraak felt Skye’s dragon soul clamoring against its mortal shackles. The dragon priest once again felt at fault for what Skye had experienced.  

“Now do you understand the fate I’ve given you?”

He saw tears welling in Skye’s eyes, their wetness quickly dissipating the fire that had burned a second ago. Skye caught the First off guard when she loosened her grip on his shirt and twined her arms around his neck instead. The First Dragonborn went stiff as a board as he felt the Last’s softness press into him. His fingers curled into the grass blades rather than around the dragonborn on top of him. Miraak had no idea what to do with the woman hugging him like her lifeline. The normal rosy musk to her hair had faded with the rain, but with Skye’s head mashing into the underside of his jaw the Atmoran was able to smell the faintest hint of rose.

Between sobs, Skye manages, “He did that to you?”

Miraak swallows and gives up the fight with his better judgement. He wrapped her little form in the folds of his arms, willing her shaking to quiet.

“It’s in the past.” He shushed her.

She violently shook her head. Miraak felt the wetness of her tears dissolve into the fabric of his shirt. “No, it’s not! Y-You… I’ve seen you dreaming while you sleep. He attacks you in your dreams, doesn’t he?”

Gods, when had he last had to comfort someone? Miraak’s heart throbbed with uncertainty, worried that the Last Dragonborn would remember Mora’s use of his soul to torture her. She felt so cold…

He remembered the fire left unattended.

“Ah, Skye, I must move to our fire before our meal burns.” Miraak struggled, but her grip stayed solid.

“Just… I don’t want to let go, yet.”

Her words gave the First pause. As did her bleary-eyed gaze as the Last lifted her head to look at him. “I know you’re strong enough to carry me, mul dovahkiin.” (strong dragonborn)

The old priest wanted to leave her so she wouldn’t sense his heart beating out of control, spy the flush creeping across the bridge of his nose, hear the pride in his voice as he preened from her request. But he did as he was told and carried the Last Dragonborn over to their fire in time to rotate the skewers of elk he’d readied for them. Miraak tried hard pretending his focus was on the charred edges of the meat instead of the handful of her ass he supported as she lay against him.

You’re studying the food like it’s sprouted wings, Miraak.

Her voice inside of his head jostled the First Dragonborn to attention. He glanced to the side and found Skye peering at him from her position against his shoulder. Miraak felt himself becoming hot under her scrutiny. He blamed his lack of response on an overuse of his magicka as of late.

Skye shifted in his hold. The motion made his fingers slip closer to her center; the Atmoran sensed the supple flesh of her breasts yield against his muscle. A rumble of indulgence rose unbidden from Miraak’s chest. The Last Dragonborn stiffened at the sound and the priest cursed his lack of control, knowing she’d been on the tail end of recovery from Mora’s trauma, worrying he’d revealed too much.

After a steady breath, Miraak said, “Dragonborn, I believe it best if I leave you by the fire while preparing our meal.”

When the woman’s lower lip started to pucker, Miraak added, “I will hear no more protests. I’ve entertained your belittling request long enough.”

Despite his callous talk, the First Dragonborn was overly gentle in lowering Skye to the earth. He kneeled long enough to search her eyes for any signs of lingering distress before tending the fire.

Skye’s POV

I avoided those penetrating eyes that roamed over my features, embarrassed by my incompetence. I immediately missed Miraak’s warmth the moment he set me down. Trying to comfort myself, I wrapped both arms around my knees and directed my thoughts to the skewers of meat roasting over the fire pit I had built. My eyes found the First Dragonborn’s hands as he fiddled with the skewers. Miraak had cast a ward over his fingers to stave off the fire nipping at his skin. The sleeves of a clean shirt I’d not seen him wear were rolled above his elbows, giving me an eyeful of the Atmoran’s strong forearms rippling as he worked.

I wondered if he’d strained them holding me and then I blushed at the thought of his hands digging into my hips, the sturdiness of his front and shoulder. That noise he’d let slip when I’d intentionally pressed closer to him… it warmed me to the core. I wanted to hear more, but I knew I likely wouldn’t unless I could dispel Miraak’s idea that he had given me to Hermaeus Mora.

Since waking from my poisoning, the First Dragonborn had been more reserved when it came to our contact. He still made his intentions clear, but more so through words instead of his touch. I had grown used to the former priest’s forward nature and frequent physicality- it was part of his charm and something I never saw him engage in with another being.

Mora’s words found me again.

“Why do you protect him so? Do you love him?”

I cared for Miraak deeply, and lately I found myself thinking of the man in his absence. And not all those thoughts had been pure… Miraak affected me with more than just his looks and voice, though. I liked watching him grow less indifferent and let his walls down for me. Was it love that I felt toward him?

“Hungry or tentacles still plaguing your mind?” 

I gave a half-smile at the First’s shoddy attempt at humor, and took the skewer Miraak offered me. I lifted it to my lips to test the heat and the scent made my mouth water. My teeth sunk into the meat and the lean taste of elk mixed with char from the flames elicited a hum of pleasure from me. 

I opened my eyes to find the First Dragonborn, pausing to gauge my reaction, with food midway between his open mouth and hand.

Apparently, I’d caught Miraak unawares because he awkwardly cleared his throat and croaked, “Judging from your carnal outburst it must be better than I thought.”

To spite the man, I caught the juices dribbling down my chin and sucked it from my digits, groaning more. Miraak visibly reddened, tucking into his meat when I complimented the priest’s cooking to avoid eye contact. Who knew the First Dragonborn flustered so easily?

We finished the rest of our meal in comfortable silence. Miraak gifted me clean clothes that I graciously accepted and changed into. Though I felt vulnerable without my armor, the blouse was light and clean, and the pants fit well enough after I cuffed the bottoms. Before my nightmare, I’d loosed my hair from its braid and it had dried into a wavy, crunchy mess. I sighed and decided to tie as much back as I could, though a few curls still framed my cheeks.  

As I emerged from the darkness of the woods surrounding our campsite, I spotted the First Dragonborn near the water’s edge scrubbing his hands. He deliberately trailed his fingers through the liquid of the lake. The water didn’t burn like that of Apocrypha. I suppressed a shiver from the thought of Hermaeus Mora and approached the Atmoran, squatting to rinse my own hands in the chilly waves. I felt his eyes on me and a moment later, Miraak hummed approvingly.

“Domestic female clothes I can get used to seeing on you, dii peyt.”

I ducked my chin so he couldn’t spot the scarlet sheen that plastered across my nose. Did I dare?

“And something other than those stuffy robes befit you, wuth dovahkiin (old dragonborn). Dare I say they make you almost look younger?”

The Atmoran dragonborn’s expression was priceless: scar-accented brow cocked at a sharp angle, lips parted and upturned, eyes showing that rare glimpse of mirth. We laughed at the same time. It felt natural.

I basked in our small moment of connectedness before asking, “How’d you like to take a walk with me around the lakeshore? I need a good stretch after sleeping against that boulder.”

The First Dragonborn’s smile righted itself as he considered my request. It was simple. No pretenses.

“Don’t you need your rest still?”

I could not help but smile at his unguarded rumble.

“No. I think an evening stroll might help clear my head.”

Miraak nodded and started, “Well then,” prompting me to glance up and be met with his extended palm. “Allow me.”

I accepted the First Dragonborn’s hand and let him pull me to my feet. I stumbled into him. Miraak steadied me with a hand pressed into my waist. I held my breath and peered up at him. His dark eyes sharpened.

“Careful, mal dovahkiin (little dragonborn). We haven’t even begun and here you are tripping over yourself.”

I leisurely spun out of his arms, teasing, “I might be careful. If you weren’t here to carry me again.”

The First gave me a knowing smile and we walked the lakeshore side by side, two legends brought together by an odd, yet welcome twist of fate.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

The first thing I noticed was how he kept pace with me. Miraak had long legs and thus his strides often outpaced my steps by a length or two. However, during our stroll, the First Dragonborn walked in tandem with me rather than in front like he did before. And he stayed close. Near enough where our fingers brushed occasionally and where one of us would splatter a bit of water on the other if the waves tumbled in too quickly as we walked.

The second thing I observed was the passage of time and how it seemed to slow to a crawl. As if nothing else was more important than the First and Last Dragonborn toddling along the lakeshore. Every so often, I would take my gaze from Miraak to the water. The gentle waves churned the shore, blurring the dusky sky reflected above us.

The third thing I noted was the crushing pressure of the Atmoran dragonborn’s soul to my right.

Miraak was holding back.

I tired of the continual denial we still traveled in. I had made my piece and come to terms with my feelings for the First Dragonborn. Enemy turned ally turned… something more than friends if he’d have me. Miraak stopped to gaze up at the hastening retreat of the sun that brought the galaxies with it. The Atmoran had a wistful look about him that softened his normally sharp features.

I looked up and asked, “Do you like stargazing? After so much reading, I bet you could name more constellations than I could.”

Miraak cracked a small smile. “I can, though it’s not from my years of solitary study. The stars have not changed since my banishment… It’s an odd thing to be confronted with.”

The world Miraak once knew was gone. Relics and resurrected dragons were all that was left of the Merethic Era. At least the sky was as he remembered. Selfishly, I imagined perhaps my presence had made the ancient dragonborn’s transition easier, but the more I thought about it the less likely my theory was true.

“Could you ever see the sky when you were trapped?”

Miraak blinked and his brows drew together at the unpleasant thought of Apocrypha’s prison. “Rarely in the beginning, but yes, as I worked to find a way to free myself, I could catch glimpses of the world shifting as I remained.”

I considered his answer, wondering how much the First had seen over the millennia. Luckily, Miraak offered up an explanation without my prompting.

“Much of what I witnessed was clouded or conjured by the daedra to pacify my restlessness.” A flash of anger crossed his eyes. “Especially when I first saw you. I nearly went mad trying to disprove your existence.”

“Why?” I asked.

The First Dragonborn held my stare.

“Because it gave me hope. After centuries of denial, having my hope extinguished every time a flicker dared show itself… it was nigh impossible to have belief in a figure that was the answer to my escape.”

I think Miraak was describing to me one of the first times he felt true fear. It would explain why the man had acted so cold and power hungry when he’d met me in person. He had to maintain some amount of aloofness less his plan failed.

My curiosity piqued, I pressed him for more answers. “Is that why you sent those creeps after me proclaiming I was the ‘false dragonborn’?”

“Those weak-minded fools sought you out all on their own.” He paused, then added, “Mostly.”

I hummed, nudging a few pebbles around with my shoe.

“I had known of you much longer than that, Skye. I… found ways to connect my spirit near spots you frequented.”

When I gave him a dubious look, Miraak explained, “It helped with you being the only other mortal walking Nirn with the soul of a dovah, but you also tended to make an impression when dealing with other mortal’s problems.”

My mouth hung open in surprise for a moment before I checked my expression. “What do you mean by ‘make an impression’?”

There was no mistaking the impish glint to his eyes and barely restrained smile. “Where to begin?”

He held up a finger in his moment of recollection, grinning like a wizard would at a new discovery. “Ah, how could I forget. The woman who fled her miserable husband to become leader of a group of ruffians. I applauded the shock on your face when she asked you to tell him a lie. I’m surprised you didn’t kill her after murdering the woman’s lackeys.”

My cheeks reddened as I defended, “She was the one I came looking for! How was I supposed to know she didn’t actually want to be found?”

Miraak shot me a wry look. “I figured it out after the first bandit you cut down. It was obvious you took him by surprise because the brute was looking for her pathetic husband. Not a female dragonborn armed to the teeth.”

I pursed my lips, considering the First’s observation and concluding he was correct. Every bandit I’d fought was clearly taken off-guard.

To my dismay, Miraak continued, seeming quite proud of himself for invading my privacy from the confines of Apocrypha.

“There was the time you went inside of that shrouded barrow only to find it was ‘haunted’ by some novice mage who’d made a potion to turn himself ethereal! It had all the townsfolk worried.” Miraak looked at me pointedly. “You, too, might I add.”

I forced myself not to respond to his teasing laughter, trying instead to take delight in the fact that my ghost hunting antics for the small town of Ivarstead was enough to make the First Dragonborn cackle in amusement.

“I got the job done, didn’t I?”

With dimples deep enough to get lost in, a grinning Miraak shrugged and admitted I did a “satisfactory” job. I attempted to needle him, asking why Miraak had merely stood by to observe rather than make himself known. He recounted my visit to Old Hroldon where I’d encountered that dreadfully confused ghost that kept proclaiming I was his former comrade.

“I’d finally convinced myself that it couldn’t hurt showing you who I was, and since you’d rented Tiber Septim’s room, I’d concocted a plan to make it seem like I was Tiber Septim coming to contact you from beyond death. Dragonborn to Dragonborn.”

The Atmoran dragonborn faltered a bit with his story, knowing how silly it sounded.

“Imagine my distress when I found your attention captured by a bumbling foot soldier instead of the First Dragonborn when you woke.”

No wonder I’d felt so weird after sleeping at Old Hrlodon: I’d had not one, but two ghost vying for my attention! Watching me while I slept!

Trying to sooth the appalled expression I wore, Miraak assured me that he scared the old ghost off because it watched me in my slumber. Like he’d done me a favor.

“Have you ever considered yourself a tad possessive, Dragonborn?”

When his gaze came to rest on mine, Miraak’s voice was next quiet. “It is in our nature to protect what we covet.”

His words hung in the air long enough for me to catch their meaning. Before I could respond, Miraak focused on the ground, a pained expression dominating his features.

“Even when our attempts to protect what we cherish fall short.”

There it was again. The First Dragonborn’s self-hatred, self-inflicted doubt that he had failed to safeguard me from Hermaeus Mora. After a moment of deliberation, I placed my hand on Miraak’s shoulder not caring if it seemed like I was coddling him.

“Listen to me, Miraak.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I would not be here if you hadn’t bound us together. My entire soul would belong to Hermaeus. I would be his prisoner if not for your actions. What’s happened to me is my fault. Going into his realm, making a deal for Bend Will, trying to… kill you. It was my decision.”

He finally looked at me, and the guilt festering in the depths of his eyes ripped through my resolve. My hand slipped off the former priest’s shoulder and fisted tightly at my side.

“Have you asked yourself who led you to Solstheim.” Miraak referred to himself.  “Who influenced your decision to enter Apocrypha?”

My nails cut into the skin of my palm. “It does not matter who gives me the information I need to decide. What counts is my final choice.”

It still did not seem like my words were getting through to the First Dragonborn so I skirted the boundaries of what I knew was painful for him to admit.

“When you first learned of your dragonborn nature from Mora… Did it matter that he was the one who told you? Or were the consequences from discovering you were Dragonborn more meaningful?”

I tensed from the sudden way his head jerked up and the intensity marring Miraak’s features. His expression was a step away from a snarl. Defensive. I showed the Atmoran he could do nothing to scare me away.

I told him, “I had the choice to come to Solstheim or stay in Skyrim and deal with its people’s problems.”

After a breath to steal my nerves, I spoke.

“I chose the First Dragonborn over everything else.”

He moved so quickly, I barely had time to react. Miraak swept me into his arms and crushed me against his form. I felt his fingers tangle in my hair, squeezing my head against his chest hard. I could hear the rhythm of his heart thud against its cage. The dragon priest’s other hand clawed into the material of my blouse at the small of my waist, fastening our bodies together.

Miraak’s voice sounded breathless as he whispered to me, “Say it again.”

I felt the prickle of his beard and breath hot against my scalp when the First Dragonborn pleaded me.
“I chose you.”

With the gentlest of tugs, Miraak pulled my head from under his chin, sliding his fingers down to cup my cheek and lift me to look at him. It felt like I was drowning in the depths of his eyes. I was thankful Miraak held me because I didn’t trust my feet to stay under my knees at this point. If he still planned to steal my soul, now was the best chance the First Dragonborn would ever have.

“Would you believe me if I told you I wasn’t interested in stealing your soul any longer?” Miraak’s gaze flicked down to my lips.

My huff of laughter ruffled the stray hairs framing his jaw. His nearness made it difficult to breathe.

“Not interested in my soul.” My tease sounded so hopeful. “Yet, you still follow me… Something you’re hiding, Dragonborn?”

As if rushing this moment would break the peace between us, I slinked my arm around Miraak’s waist and freed the one trapped between us. My fingertips ghosted over his scars, tracing their shapes, and memorizing the feel of past wounds. I paused at the deepest gouge in the Atmoran’s brow; my thumb rested halfway on the soft hairs of his brow and the jagged skin of his forehead.

Moonlight reflected off the First Dragonborn’s dark irises; silver shimmered within their depths, hinting at the tenderness to come from Miraak’s voice.

“I want more than just your soul, Skye.”

Miraak urged my face toward his. The male dragonborn grazed across my cheek with his lips, “Vos zu’u ken hi, dii peyt (Let me taste you, my rose).”

All it took was a turn and his mouth covered mine. I sensed his sharp inhale; it was but an instance before Miraak maneuvered so he took up more of the space in front of me, lips fumbling for a sample of mine. I returned his kiss in earnest, dizzy and breathless, and elated that the First Dragonborn, despite (and maybe because of) everything that had happened between us, kissed me back. His lips hungrily sought mine, oblivious to the inexperience of us both.

Miraak would miss occasionally, landing on the corner of my mouth or below my nose, but the grin against my skin told me the dragon priest cared not for his ineptness. We had to part for breath. Even while he panted, Miraak still dusted those lips over my face, ducking to nibble at my neck. He triggered a gasp from me when the First drug his teeth over the exposed flesh.

Miraak noticed and held my head in place, giving himself more access to make me squirm.

My hand slipped around his back, scratching at the muscle wound tight underneath. Miraak responded to my groans with his mouth pressed against my ear, “Luvmah zuk fah zu’u (Cry more for me).”

Miraak’s POV

It took every ounce of his restraint not to drag her down and consume the Nord Dragonborn right there. Skye leaned into his caresses, letting him finally feel the velvet of her skin and explore the movement of her body against his hands. The Last Dragonborn whimpered from his touches, and her sounds were in equal parts the sweetest and most sinful noises Miraak could remember. The First Dragonborn wanted to hear more, and he savored the way Skye shivered when he urged her to be vocal for him.

She rasped from his attention. Miraak knew the Last Dragonborn could handle more. He repositioned his hands, squeezing Skye into him, and nipped at her ear. The Nord gasped Miraak’s name, igniting the fire in the pit of his stomach as he basked in her pleasure. He felt her little hands clawing at his back to try and stay upright. The First Dovahkiin obliged her needs (satisfied his own) and scooped Skye off her feet. They ended much like they’d began earlier that evening: one of Miraak’s hands digging into the supple flesh of her backside and the other supporting the female’s spine.

Miraak hefted Skye until he could look into her heat-glazed eyes. He sought her permission to continue. Skye looked ravishing, and the knowledge that he was the one who’d made her lips swell, her golden mane tangle, and her skin blush filled Miraak with need. Unthinking, the male dragonborn chased her mouth, only to have Skye pull back and place a hand against his chest.

“Eager, aren’t we, mul gein (strong one).”

The First hissed, teeth bared in a smile. She was the most tantalizing kind of torture.

“It’s only been a few milliena, dii peyt (my rose).”

Despite his protests, the First Dragonborn felt winded and like he was surviving on adrenaline alone. If he was going to please her, then Miraak be damned if he wasn’t going to do it in the best possible way. And dead on his feet was not the First Dragonborn’s way.

Skye noticed his slump in mood and gingerly cupped the Atmoran’s jaw. “I can sense your dragon’s restlessness. Believe me, I feel it too, but we don’t have to rush things.”

The skin her thumb dragged over buzzed with warmth. Miraak did not recall a time when his mind was at the same time so focused, yet so distracted by another being. A good thing he heard Skye suggest they sit and watch the stars together.

Who was he to deny the Laat Dovahkiin such a simple pleasure? Miraak tore his eyes from her and found a rather gnarled looking tree stump near them. He decided it was as good a place as any to stargaze. Not that he would be looking at the twinkling dots much while the object of his affections was within the circle of his arms.

Skye shifted like she would be set down, but Miraak had other ideas.

“Fin, ni fod zu’u’m het wa brud hi (No, not while I’m here to carry you).”

Playfully, the First Dragonborn hooked his arms under the Nord’s thighs like a makeshift seat. It left her back unsupported, and Skye had to wrap her arms around Miraak’s neck to keep herself from falling backwards.

“So, you haven’t entertained my belittlement long enough?” Her lips brushed against the skin of Miraak’s neck as Skye spoke and it sent a thrill down his spine.

He smiled and kissed the side of her head to quell the quiet little objection Skye had to being carried by him. He had waited so long to have Skye this close that not even her dovah’s ire would stop the First from savoring his prize longer.

However, as Miraak moved to sit he spotted a terrifyingly familiar outline on the horizon. The dark figure cut through the air with dangerous dexterity only afforded to Akatosh’s immortal children. His heart sunk to the pit of his stomach; burning rage slowly bubbled to the surface. The beast would pay dearly for interrupting Miraak’s bonding with the Last Dragonborn. The Atmoran suppressed a sigh of irritation and went to break the news to Skye.

“Dii peyt, we have a slight problem interrupting our… activity.”

Skye commented on the aggressive tone of Miraak’s voice, likening it to the same tone of someone about to rip a person’s head off.

“I’m planning to rip something’s head off for disturbing us.”

A roar pierced the sky and the Last scrambled out of Miraak’s hold. The Nord reached for her sword and shield that weren’t there, giving Miraak enough time to intercept Skye. Despite knowing Skye was the Last Dragonborn, Miraak’s protective instincts skyrocketed at the thought of her taking on another dragon. Another male dragon provoked by her sheer strength and mastery of the Thu’um made the First Dragonborn’s blood boil. He wanted to be the one to present the dovah’s head as Skye’s trophy.

“Miraak, if you’re thinking about stealing this soul from me, think again.”

Skye wanted to fight as badly as he did. Without showing his reluctance, Miraak responded, “My rose, if you think you can keep me from this battle, I implore you reconsider.”

She smiled at him, light of her inner dovah burning brightly.

“You know what they say. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

Another bawl from the approaching dragon electrified the air. It’s silhouette descended so it was almost skimming the treetops surrounding the lake. Skye and Miraak braced, Words of Power ready on the tips of their tongue. Miraak could sense how powerful this dovah was, yet the dragon had not come for a confrontation like the Dragonborn expected. No, it was flying much too fast for that…

“Yol Ven Strun!” (Fire Wind Storm)

A millisecond after the dovah unleashed its shout, Miraak countered with one of his own. A vicious cyclone formed in front of the Dragonborn, but it wouldn’t be enough to dissipate the fiery wind that threatened him and Skye. Luckily, the Last caught on to this and followed Miraak’s shout with her Frost Breath. Ice shards twisted with the wind from Miraak’s Voice and collided with the winding flames of the dragon’s fire storm.

An earsplitting cry overpowered the raging blaze as the dragon banked through the sky, stirring its fire with the beat of its wings. Miraak threw up a ward and ice cloak in swift succession, rushing to cover Skye from the worst of the flames. She screamed at him to get behind her as the Last rushed into the very thing Miraak was trying to shield her from and unleashed a devastating Fus Roh Dah the moment the dovah swooped in, talons outstretched to grab one of the Dragonborn and fling them from the sky.

Her shout threw the dragon off its course. The beast whined in frustration, pumping its wings to regain lost altitude before plowing into the shore. It’s claws cleaved through lake water; the tips of its wings plunged into the liquid with each desperate push. The scaled creature soared once again, albeit much more wary of the two Dragonborn below.

“It’s not coming back.” The Last’s tone was concerned.

Miraak agreed, noting the dragon cut a wide swarth around their position and took off in the direction of…

The First Dragonborn stopped breathing momentarily as the beast’s intention dawned on him. They had to hurry. Miraak barked orders to follow him at Skye, not waiting for her response before releasing Whirlwind Sprint in the direction of Ismae and Emilette’s cabin in the woods. He stumbled out of the shout in a mad dash, dreading the thought of what would happen if they were too late.

Chapter Text

Hi everyone! I hope you are all well. I have seen the multitude of sweet, frustrated, and such encouraging comments you all have left and felt I couldn't just respond in a thread. My work-life balance has been tipped a little too far toward work lately and I've not been able to write this fic like I wanted. I have another chapter in the works and probably two more after to finish up this part of our Dragonborns' story. Not sure when I'll have it up, but I'm shooting for sometime during Memorial Day weekend since I should have a little time off. 

Until then, I thank you for your patience and attentiveness. I've enjoyed connecting with a community as supportive and positive as this one:) I leave you with a snippet of my next chapter to come.

Skye's POV

The little girl sprinted toward Miraak as fast as her little legs would carry her. Miraak mutters the child’s name and kneels to catch her crashing into him. I turned slightly, taking in the view of the First Dragonborn coddling Emilette. My heart did a strange little flip as I discretely watched him stroke her short hair and use his shirt to mop up her tears.

The scene was short-lived. I heard Emilette’s father bellow for her to get away from Miraak accompanied by the patriarch’s charging footsteps. Miraak gathered Emilette protectively and I shot him a glance saying I’d take care of this.

“Get out of my way, wench!” The father barreled into me.

I stood my ground and shoved the man off, wary of harming him. He threw punches at me. I dodged, ducked his third one, and rammed my shoulder into his midsection to force space between us.

“We are not your enemies here!” I shouted while preparing for another set of blows. “We’re here to get you to safety!”

The elvish-looking dad snarled in disgust. “Like Sithis you are! If you wanted to help, you should have shown up far sooner than that abomination who stole my other daughter!”

He took another swing.

Miss.

The man followed with a low kick that landed.

“We can get her back!” Anger crept into my voice from the sting of his boot and the stubbornness of the man.

He lunged forward for a jab, but I managed to evade in time to catch and twist his arm, locking the father in place. He glared at me, expression transforming to one of shock before more wrath took its place.

“You’re tainted, woman. Just like my wife was before she killed herself! I can see it in your eyes.”

He used my surprise to land a headbutt in my face. I clutched my nose and stumbled back. The scent of blood overwhelmed me. Warm liquid trickled between my digits. A flood of energy made me cringe as whatever new connection between me and Miraak lit up after I was struck. It was like I could feel the First’s emotion watching the male hit me. He was furious.

Fear for the father’s life forced me to my feet to absorb a kick aimed toward Miraak. The pain I suffered from a normal man’s onslaught was nothing compared to the First Dragonborn’s power. I had made a mistake. Miraak’s vast palm clasped my arm and yanked me behind him.

I managed to squeeze the thought of don’t harm! into my brain during our brief contact. In his fury, the father continued throwing punches at Miraak. He may have well attempted to break Daedric steel. Miraak brushed the man’s jab aside and landed an open palm against the father’s left shoulder. The man screamed and tumbled back from the strength of Miraak’s strike.

“You would ruin Ismae’s work so quickly?” Venom laced the former dragon priest’s voice. “Perhaps I should have allowed fate to run its course.”

The father’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “You know her name?”

The First answered coldly. “A privilege that I cannot enjoy in her absence.”

The little girl beside me had started crying after Miraak knocked her father’s shoulder loose and I did my best to gather her without dripping blood on her clothes.

“You spoke of my rose’s eyes like they represented a curse to you.”

I cursed my breath for catching at Miraak using his term of endearment for me.

“Your witch has tampered with demons. Daedra more likely.” The ever-present snarl faded from the man’s features. “Her eyes are the same as my wife’s before she killed herself.”

My mouth fell open in shock. Both my and Miraak’s eyes revealed we had dealt with Hermaeus Mora. It was the defining feature of the daedric prince’s followers. If his wife took her own life under the influence of Mora, it made sense why the man bore such a deep hatred for the magical arts.

Emilette slipped out of my arms with a yelp. “Stop hurting each other!”

She darted over to Miraak and started pounding her tiny fists against his leg. “You hurt daddy! I thought you were here to help find my sister!”

I trusted the Atmoran to keep his cool around Emilette, but when the father yelled at his daughter to get away from “that monster,” Miraak bellowed, “NAHLOT!” (SILENCE)

He shouts with the authority of a king, I thought, my mind wondering once again what kind of ruler the First Dragonborn was like. The patriarch scrambled to his feet, clutching at his dislocated shoulder. I expected Emilette to run to her dad. The girl froze, gazing up at Miraak with an expression of fear.

“The dragon said something similar.” Her words were barely a whisper. It gave us away.

Miraak noticed and turned his attention to Emilette. “Emilette, can you remember what it sounded like?”

She backed away from him and shook her head. “I was too scared… No.”

Miraak’s dark eyes narrowed in frustration. He exchanged a glance with me that told me he had a difficult decision to make. The First could get the information we needed to find where the dragon had taken Ismae. I had a feeling the process involved magic only Miraak knew from studying in Apocrypha.

“Em, come here.” The father extended his good arm to his daughter.

His hand shook slightly.

“We will find little Ismae, I promise.” The hateful energy had left the man. He looked exhausted, worn down from the recent loss of his daughter and home.

Chapter Text

Skye’s POV

I chased him through the forest. My clothes snagged on broken branches, and I tripped more than once. I could feel a ravenous pull from Miraak’s soul; it tugged us both toward the glow that breached the forest thicket. Crackling flames greeted my ears. The sharp sound of splintering wood told me either the trees had caught fire, or someone’s dwelling was being burned down. If the pace of Miraak was anything to go by, I was betting on the latter to be true.

The giant red dragon’s cry sounded far off. I felt a sinking feeling crush the pit of my stomach. It had already gotten what it wanted. The First Dragonborn and I broke through the tree line and into a clearing where a cabin once stood. The dwelling was engulfed in dragon fire; two figures lingered on the edges of the carnage, their soot-stained skin marred with blood and handprints of loved ones clinging to each other. I heard Miraak call two names: Emilette and Ismae.

Unease bleed into his deep intonation.

The smaller figure’s head shot up at the sound of Miraak’s voice. I could hear sobbing as the little girl swiped at tears falling from her eyes. Miraak approached and she wailed, “Make it stop! Please, don’t let it come back! My sister-.”

She choked back another cry. I hurried to the First’s side and placed a hand on his arm to stop Miraak from rushing forward to comfort the girl. The other figure (which I made out to be an older male) held the child tightly to him. The Atmoran’s eyes connected with mine. The intensity behind his gaze was smudged somewhat when Miraak looked at me. My heart skipped when the First Dragonborn clasped his hand over mine and squeezed. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I… helped their family before the attack. My involvement may have led to their downfall.”

I considered Miraak’s admittance.

I won’t ask how you’re involved. These people need us, but they are scared. Help me put out the fire.

I started to summon the Thu’um, but Miraak moved in front of me. I huffed my stored air out, giving him a look of confusion.

The father of this family does not trust magic users, and I believe he’ll trust Dragonborn even less. Miraak’s voice of judgement sounded inside my head. However, they’ve just endured great trauma and it is possible they may see our interference as positive.

His gaze flicked to the little girl, still crying.

Her name is Emilette. I helped her and her sister while you slept. She will protect us from the wrath of her patriarch. If not… The Dragonborn’s sigh was heavy enough to ruffle my hair. Zu’u fen mur mok mindoraan. (I will make him understand)

 I wanted to assure Miraak it wouldn’t come to that, but I had witnessed the ferocity spurred by people’s fear of us firsthand. The family we confronted now had faced a dragon- something Miraak and I were more powerful than- and it had decimated their life within a matter of minutes. My eyes found the blaze again.

I could not let their home be reduced to a pile of ash.

“Miraak,” I addressed him gravely. “Put out the fire with your magic. They won’t know we are Dragonborn if we don’t use the Thu’um. I have an idea if you’ll trust me.”

I spied the slightest attempt at argument, but the Atmoran didn’t fight me like I expected. Miraak turned toward the fire. His magical aura swirled to life, whipping wildly around the First Dragonborn’s form. A sudden chill cooled the air. I marveled at Miraak’s ability as he coaxed the temperature around us to freezing. Frost magic soon rushed at the burning building. The flames thrashed angrily against the snowy barrage. A white film soon blanketed what was left of the cabin. Wood stopped crackling, now frozen from Miraak’s spell. The clearing remained noiseless as the First Dragonborn’s magic dimmed out of existence.

I looked once more toward the two figures on the outskirts of the wood. The father was tugging his daughter away from Miraak while she struggled to break free.

“Emilette, stop!” The father’s voice rang out against the silence of the clearing.

The little girl sprinted toward Miraak as fast as her legs would carry her. Miraak mutters the child’s name and kneels to catch her crashing into him. I turned slightly, taking in the view of the First Dragonborn coddling Emilette.

The scene was short-lived.

I heard Emilette’s father bellow for her to get away from Miraak accompanied by the patriarch’s charging footsteps. Miraak gathered Emilette protectively and I shot him a glance saying I’d take care of this.

“Get out of my way, wench!” The father barreled into me.

I stood my ground and shoved the man off, wary of harming him. He threw punches at me. I dodged, ducked his third one, and rammed my shoulder into his midsection to force space between us.

“We are not your enemies here!” I shouted while preparing for another set of blows. “We’re here to get you to safety!”

The elvish-looking dad snarled in disgust. “Like Sithis you are! If you wanted to help, you should have shown up sooner than that abomination who stole my other daughter!”

He took another swing.

Miss.

The man followed with a low kick that landed.

“We can get her back!” Anger crept into my voice from the sting of his boot and the stubbornness of the man.

He lunged forward for a jab, but I managed to evade in time to catch and twist his arm, locking the father in place. He glared at me, expression transforming to one of shock before more gall took its place.

“You’re tainted, woman. Just like my wife was before she killed herself! I can see it in your eyes.”

He used my surprise to land a headbutt in my face. I clutched my nose and stumbled back. The scent of blood overwhelmed me. Warm liquid trickled between my digits. A flood of energy made me cringe as whatever new connection between me and Miraak lit up after I was struck. It was like I could feel the First’s emotion watching the male hit me. He was furious.

Fear for the father’s life forced me to my feet to absorb a kick aimed toward Miraak. The pain I suffered from a normal man’s onslaught was nothing compared to the First Dragonborn’s power. I had made a mistake. Miraak’s vast palm clasped my arm and yanked me behind him.

I managed to squeeze the thought of don’t harm! into my brain during our brief contact. In his fury, the father continued throwing punches at Miraak. He may have well attempted to break Daedric steel. Miraak brushed the man’s jab aside and landed an open palm against the father’s left shoulder. The man screamed and tumbled back from the strength of Miraak’s strike.

“You would ruin Ismae’s work so quickly?” Venom laced the former dragon priest’s voice. “Perhaps I should have allowed fate to run its course.”

The father’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “You know her name?”

The First answered coldly. “A privilege that I cannot enjoy in her absence.”

The little girl beside me had started crying again after Miraak knocked her father’s shoulder loose and I did my best to gather her without dripping blood on her clothes.

“You spoke of my rose’s eyes like they represented a curse to you.”

“Your witch has tampered with demons. Daedra more likely.” The ever-present snarl faded from the man’s features. “Her eyes are the same as my wife’s before she killed herself.”

My mouth fell open in shock. Both my and Miraak’s eyes revealed we had dealt with Hermaeus Mora. If his wife took her own life under the influence of Mora, it made sense why the man bore such a deep hatred for the magical arts.

Emilette slipped out of my arms with a yelp. “Stop hurting each other!”

She darted over to Miraak and started pounding her tiny fists against his leg. “You hurt daddy! I thought you were here to help find my sister!”

I trusted the Atmoran to keep his cool around Emilette, but when the father yelled at his daughter to get away from “that monster,” Miraak bellowed, “NAHLOT!” (SILENCE)

He shouts with the authority of a king, I thought, my mind wondering once again what kind of ruler the First Dragonborn was like. The patriarch scrambled to his feet, clutching at his dislocated shoulder. I expected Emilette to run to her dad, but the girl froze, gazing up at Miraak with an expression of fear.

“The dragon said something similar.” Her words were barely a whisper.

Miraak noticed and turned his attention to Emilette. “Emilette, can you remember what it sounded like?”

She backed away from him and shook her head. “I was too scared… No.”

Miraak’s dark eyes narrowed in frustration. He exchanged a glance with me that told me he had a difficult decision to make. The First could get the information we needed to find where the dragon had taken Ismae. I had a feeling the process involved magic only Miraak knew from studying in Apocrypha.

“Em, come here.” The father extended his good arm to his daughter.

His hand shook slightly.

“We will find little Ismae, I promise.” The hateful energy had left the man. He looked exhausted, worn down from the recent loss of his daughter and home.

Miraak’s POV

“I can find her if you let me.”

Gods, had those words just left his lips?

Make them tell you, his inner dovah grumbled. You don’t have time to waste on these pathetic lesser beings. You are the First Dragonborn with all of the world’s knowledge at your disposal.

Miraak’s eyes slide to Skye. The sight of her broken nose enraged him. He had allowed a moment of weakness overtake him.

You just let a dovah escape with its life! Find it. His gaze switched to Emilette. Relive her memories and listen to what the lesser being said.

Miraak knew that meant shocking the girl with dark magic, subduing her conscious enough where he could slip past her mind’s defenses and probe her memories.

“Let you do what?” Bitterness returned to the father’s voice as he referenced Miraak’s statment. “Break my other shoulder while I defend my daughter? Take your demonic ways and leave us alone.”

Mentions of Hermaeus Mora had surprised the First. Yet, the more he thought on the situation, the more things made sense. The man of the house falls ill trying to provide for his family. The wife, proficient enough in magic to have healed him before, now failed. She saw her daughters suffer and searched more frantically for a cure. Hermaeus likely sensed the mother’s distress and took advantage of her desperation, teaching the matriarch stronger magic she couldn’t control, knowing she would seek the daedric prince of fate out once it gave her the knowledge to master the spells. She never healed her husband. Mora consumed her mind that she willingly gave. The explanation Miraak conjured paralleled his own experience with the daedra when first discovering he was Dragonborn.

“Let him read her mind.” Skye’s voice broke Miraak out of his reverie. “Without Miraak, you will never find your missing daughter.”

Miraak missed the expression of disgust on the father’s face because he stared in disbelief at the Last Dragonborn. How did she know what he was thinking? What he could do?

“Miraak,” the man spat his name like it was poison. “That was the name my Ismae gave when I asked her how she cured me. You gave her the idea magic is a gift and not a curse.”

“Daddy,” Emilette commanded her father’s attention. “Without Mr. Miraak’s help, you wouldn’t be here. Ismae distracted the dragon with her magic long enough for me to run from its fire.”

The father’s resolve appeared to waver. Emilette was braver than Miraak first thought. She leveled with the First Dragonborn, looking far older than she was.

“If you promise you will save my sister like you did Daddy, then I’ll let you see my brain.”

Her father fussed over his daughter’s decision. Miraak regarded the man’s discomfort with suspicion. The First Dragonborn had a knack for recognizing liars. After all, Miraak had hidden his Dragonborn identity for years before executing his rebellion, and he’d done it right under the dragon’s snouts. Filing the father’s behavior away, Miraak squatted so he was eye-level with Emilette. The Atmoran wanted to question her certainty but kept quiet when the younger sister gave him a big smile.

“Ismae is gonna be so jealous,” she whispered, pink blossoming on her cheeks. “I think she like likes you.”

The child’s honesty helped ease Miraak’s nerves since seeing Skye hit by Em’s father.

“Oh?” The ex-dragon priest smoothed Emilette’s hair back in place, dropping small amounts of magic into her skin so the invasion wouldn’t be as shocking to her nervous system. “And what makes you say that Miss Emilette? She seemed terribly stand-offish from what I recall.”

The girl fidgeted and looked down at her toes. “Well… Don’t tell her I said this, but my sister couldn’t stop talking about you after you left.”

The First Dragonborn hummed in the tone he knew Skye found pleasing and spared a swift glance in the woman’s direction. The Nord dragonborn had wiped the blood off her face and had fixed her nose. She had noticed their interaction and Miraak felt heat rise to his cheeks as he continued conversing with Emilette while Skye observed.

“I see… want to share anything embarrassing with me?”

The girl giggled and nodded. Miraak was glad he could distract her while he prepared the spell in his mind.

“She called you ‘mysterious’ and ‘tall’ and ‘really cute.’ Ismae wanted you to keep teaching her magic, but she was too busy acting tough to say it.”

He heard Skye’s chuckle from Ismae’s calling him ‘really cute.’ The Atmoran made a mental note to get the female Dragonborn back later. Miraak spied the father with a hand over his face, no doubt wishing he had not heard the inner musings of his oldest daughter over the First Dragonborn.

“Well, you tell Lady Ismae that her tough girl act isn’t enough to scare the mysterious wizard away.”

Miraak returned Emilette’s beaming smile with a small one. He asked if she was ready for the memory read. The girl’s grin disappeared; she nodded solemnly.

“Please find my sister.”

Miraak said nothing in reply. He settled his fingers lightly across the sides of her skull.

“You will feel pressure, but nothing will hurt. It might tickle a little bit.”

Emilette chewed her bottom lip and nodded. He gathered the free-flowing streams of magicka in his veins and concentrated it in his palms. Miraak imagined Ismae’s wide, blue eyes and the world spun. It transported him to the last time Emilette had seen her sister.

The normally peaceful dawn sky was obscured by the hulking form of a blood red dragon. Its roar sliced through the tranquil sounds of the forest, scattering the animals in hiding. Heavy beats of the dovah’s wings stirred the tree limbs. Miraak heard the girls inside of the cabin squeal in terror. The dragon banked hard in midair; its attention suddenly fastened to the panicked cries inside the dwelling.

“Zu’u sizaan siiv hi” (I’ve found you). Miraak barely heard it speak before loosing a gout of flame near the cabin. “Meyz luft zu’u mal zahhe!” (Come face me little mortals!)

The family had bailed out of the burning house. Miraak noticed Ismae’s appearance looked ruffled, and her eyes were puffy and red. The father gazed upon the dragon in horror and screamed at the older sister.

“This is all magic brings, Ismae! Destruction! It’s here for our reckoning.”

As if answering the man’s howls, the dovah bellowed, soaring across the treetops low enough where branches cracked against its armor. Miraak experienced the all-consuming fear of the joor as he viewed the scene from Emilette’s memory. The girl’s emotions were a muddle of fear, sadness, and anger, and the First thought the last feeling had something to do with the way her father had just scolded Isame.

He did not have time to ponder long, for the scaled beast descended with a resounding CRASH! To Miraak’s utter disgust, the father fled from the snapping jaws of the dragon, tripping over his own feet in the hurry to escape. Isame let loose a shock spell that struck the dragon in the side of its horned head. The creature left the father in favor of its more ambitious prey. Snarling, lips curled, fully revealing dagger-like fangs, the dovah lumbered toward the two sisters with murder in its glare. Miraak thanked Akatosh he and Skye had weakened it fractionally before it found the family, or they would already be dead.

“Em, get away!” Isame shoved her little sister hard, but Emilette snatched Isame’s arm and dragged her along.

“No, I’m not leaving you!”

Miraak heard his shout echo in the distance; the noise distracted the great beast, buying the girls enough time to scurry away. Back in Emilette’s point of view, the First caught Ismae’s frightened whisper. “Whatever made that sound made the dragon nervous, Em. We’ve got to get away and maybe that thing will fight it off.”

The former dragon priest felt a pang in his heart for he knew that had been his Voice the girls heard, and he was running to battle the dovah on their behalf. Despite even the power of Miraak’s Thu’um he had arrived too late. He watched the sisters tremble at the dragon’s roar, and they screamed as its fire seared the trees around them. It was followed by what would sound like growls and snarls to an untrained ear, but to Miraak, it said, “I smell your fear, mortals. The golden-maned one must come with me to Broumjunaar. I am tasked to deliver you!”

Miraak desperately wanted to see more so he could determine how harsh of a punishment he would inflict on the father for abandoning his kin due to fear, but the mention of his former masters’ capital made the Atmoran lose his focus on the spell. He fell into a sort of limbo state inside of Emilette’s mind. The First Dragonborn summoned all his will to maintain control of what should have been forbidden magic because his failure could mean putting the younger sister at risk of losing her mind. He was shocked after hearing Ismae had been taken to the same place as Dorthe.

Miraak had not informed Skye of the news he had received from the Guild concerning Dorthe’s whereabouts due to their… moment of admittance. The Atmoran had questioned Brynjolf’s informants about the nature of what they called “Labryinthian”, and he found it used to be the capital city of Skyrim. The very same Miraak had ruled over as Head of the Dragon Cult, except in his time the capital was called Bromjunaar. The Dragonborns’ quest seemed to be becoming less of a coincidence and more of a pre-mediated plan of someone (or something) nefarious.

In the depths of Emilette’s conscious, Miraak heard her wail. She was scared—unable to truly awaken without the First’s permission. He summoned the girl to his position and Miraak caught her, holding the younger sister by the arms, and asking her to look at him.

“Emilette, be strong for your sister.”

She sniffled, finally looking at him through the blurriness of her mind’s eye. Miraak coaxed her more. She had to rematerialize fully before he could sever the connection, less the girl be put into a vegetative state.  

“Look into my eyes, Emilette. It’s almost over.”

Miraak hated his eyes, but it was the only focal point he could control. When the girl did meet his gaze, she stiffened, mouth dropping open slightly. Tiny tears leaked out of her eyes. When she spoke, her voice sounded awed.

“You have very pretty eyes, Mr. Miraak. Nobody can see them clearly. I don’t think… they know where to look.”

The breath left Miraak. His heart stopped for a beat.

The First Dragonborn lost his words before he managed to choke out, “What color are they?”

He had forgotten. Hermaeus Mora’s darkness had consumed Miraak’s eyes so long ago the old priest could not remember what they looked like.

Emilette searched his irises, naming the colors she stumbled across. “Gold, green, red…”

In an instant, they were back in the forest glade. Miraak sunk to his knees, enveloping a weakened Emilette in his sturdy embrace. The woodland breeze carried scents of charred wood and scorched earth. As his senses returned, Miraak heard Skye arguing with the girls’ father about letting her heal the man’s shoulder. Memories reminded the First of his anger toward both sisters’ father; the man’s treatment of his daughters and utter panic when facing the dragon that had razed his home and stolen his little girl repulsed Miraak.

“Don’t waste your strength, Skye.”

The Last Dragonborn ceased at Miraak’s words, no doubt catching the scorn in his tone.

“You’re back.”

The worry in her voice irritated the First Dragonborn. Did Skye not think he had the skill to return? If the woman of his affections carried so little faith in him, then Miraak had more work to do. He looked at her as if to ask, did you expect anything less?

The smaller sister roused in his arms, drawing the Atmoran’s focus. Miraak thought back to the way Emilette had described his eyes. Not endless depths of darkness, but resplendent hues rivaling that of the dragons.

“Did you get what you needed to find my Ismae?”

The First Dragonborn glared up at the father, dissecting the fine lines of his brow drawn taught along with the demanding tone of his voice.

Lip drawn back in a snarl, Miraak taunted, “By the grace of her sister, yes, I secured the information needed to rescue the child. And I discovered their father is an unworthy swine more concerned for his own life rather than the life of his children.”

The patriarch balked at Miraak’s audacity. Skye was bothered and confused that the Atmoran she’d trusted would attempt to insult a grieving father. Emilette stiffened in the circle of his arms.

“You dare ridicule me in front of my daughter?”

Miraak released Emilette, standing to his full height and replying, “I speak truth and do not lean on assumptions.”

The Atmoran grasped Emilette’s shoulder, infuriating the father further. Miraak smirks.

“Miss Emilette, can you validate my words?”

The First never took his eyes from the father as he made the request. He watched as the girl’s dad shook his head ever so slight, as if trying to tell his daughter not to reveal what Miraak had witnessed. The little sister craned her neck to stare up at the ancient Dragonborn, likely wondering if there would be consequences to her tattling on the man who raised her.

Clasping her hands nervously, Emilette nodded, muttering, “Well… Daddy had been shouting at Ismae, a-and he made her cry because she had been practicing magic.”

She hung her head in remembrance, while the First continued to bore a hole through the father with his glare.  

“Emilette, I explained the dangers of magic to you both. It’s an unpredictable danger and your sister’s antics are what brought that monster—”

“No!”

Emilette’s outburst had nearly the same effect as Miraak’s due to her normally soft demeanor. The First Dragonborn found himself giving her the slightest squeeze of encouragement as Emilette stood up to her dad.

“No, my sister’s magic did not bring the dragon to us. You are wrong for thinking that.” She peered up at Miraak through rising tears. “What did it say?”

The ex-dragon priest clenched his jaw and explained the dovah’s intent.

“That was Skyrim’s old capital,” the Last mused. “Could it have something to do with the World Eater’s return?”
“Bromjunaar, as the Dov referred to it.”

Miraak watched her lips part in recognition. It was where he had once ruled.

The father had approached Miraak, who wasn’t releasing Emilette. “How do you know what the beasts say?”

Ignoring the warning he felt from Skye, the First Dragonborn clarified, “I once served them. The knowledge of their language was beaten into me. Speaking it became second nature.”

The Atmoran’s admission had the patriarch bleed fear, as he knew it would. Miraak waited for the accusations.

“Unhand my daughter, you traitor!”

The mention of his former title stoked the fires of the First Dragonborn’s dormant rage. His dovah roared to life and Miraak hoped the little girl near him could not sense the power seeping from his true nature. If he harnessed it, Miraak could bring most mortals to their knees. It was an old trick the dragons he served used when “council” was called. After so many years slaving for the creations of Akatosh, the First compiled their ancient knowledge and used it for his own purpose. He had desperately wanted to overthrow the Dov and take the throne for himself.

“You call me a traitor as if you forgot your treachery toward your own kin.”

Small beads of sweat prickled the back of Miraak’s neck as he felt his dovah vying for control over his body. He had kept it together so well since the time he’d fought Sahrotaar and Kruziikrel. Certainly, the First Dragonborn had succumbed to minor moments of rage like when he’d forcefully thrown Skye to the ground before escaping to hunt. Or when he had assumed control of her Guild Leader prior to Skye’s complete poisoning. Miraak’s uncontrollable fit of temper in the glade was tempered by the woman who he’d… invaded. Skye had told the First Dragonborn he had no choice but to go through with the blood ritual. For Akatosh’s sake, she had even allowed him a kiss. Multiple kisses. If that damned dragon hadn’t interfered… This feeling is becoming intolerable. My control is slipping.

The father continued to agitate Hermaeus Mora’s former champion, even when the Last Dragonborn confronted him.

“You betrayed your own kind for the winged monstrosities of the sky! You let them do as they wished, no matter if it was pillage and destroy. You failed us.”

That last comment unleashed the torrent of regret because Miraak had failed those he’d sworn to protect. Wrath followed his guilt. If I’d not been ratted out, my plan would have succeeded, and the Dov would have experienced every ounce of suffering they’d inflicted on us. The rebellious dragon priest would have brought glory. All would have bowed to his majesty. The power of the First Dragonborn would have conquered all…

Miraak was at his end.

Though the First hoped things wouldn’t come to this, he was truly too exhausted to keep his dovah at bay. It kept purring in his ear… Miraak knew how easy it would be to just relinquish control, allow the all-consuming power of what was left of his soul run wild.

He’d done it before.

And he had ended up slaving for Mora.

Hi los laagus, wuth Dovahkiin. (You are tired, old Dragonborn.)

Miraak was exhausted.

Little to no sleep or food, his fight with the summoned dremora and atronachs, the amount of magic he’d consumed saving Skye from her nightmare, extracting Emilette’s memories—everything added up and equaled a Dragonborn surviving on willpower alone.

“I did not betray my own kind because they did not exist for me to betray.” Miraak’s voice was low, inviting no question. “I murdered thousands of dragons and enslaved hundreds more. My exploits have been forgotten… but I have never let myself forget.”

The Last yelled at him for what Miraak was about to expose, but her warnings fell on deaf ears. The Nord was dealing with a dragon more than a man now.

“Forget what?”

Miraak’s smile held no warmth as he answered the father.

“The utter ungratefulness of mortals like you that I saved from extinction and enslavement under their immortal rule.”

Skye caught the glint of malice in his eyes and stepped in front of the father as his shield.

“Miraak.” Her tone signaled he needed to back down.

“Step aside, Dovahkiin.”

The was an audible gasp from the man behind her as he repeated their designation in a whisper.

Miraak saw the Last’s jaw clench. The black flecks in her eyes seemed to swim.

“I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking,” Miraak growls through his teeth.

The woman who’d traveled alongside the First Dragonborn for months readied her stance for a fight she wasn’t sure she could win. Miraak was conscious enough to notice Skye on edge, but his human thoughts were soothed by his draconic desire to see the Last Dragonborn in action. Her grace and power would be exposed; no longer would the Dragonborn hide her nature with Miraak’s prompting. He closed his eyes and smiled, listening to the echo of his dovah’s roar.

Chapter Text

Hermaeus Mora watched from his most recent victim’s eyes. The daedra tightened the few hooks he still had inside of Ballion’s soul. He’d embedded them in the brief period between the husband’s grief and inevitable denial when the half-human was the most vulnerable. Now, every tug from Hermaeus made his puppet spit what the daedra knew his Champion hated… Miraak’s old title of traitor, mentions of his betrayal, the fact his soul was fundamentally different from all he was supposed to rule.

It gave the daedra some modicum of satisfaction, seeing his slave consumed by his ever-present rage. Mora had allowed some of the soul he  owned to seep back into Miraak’s body as the First Dragonborn used a forbidden spell Hermaeus Mora had taught him on Ballion’s little girl. It was driving his dragon mad. It was also making it more powerful, more able to exert its will over Miraak’s human judgement.

It was time Mora’s other plaything discovered who she was dealing with, for the First Dragonborn had deliberately shown the female his best traits and downplayed the mannerisms he’d picked up from serving as a dragon priest. The daedric prince of knowledge and fate wanted to see just how the Nord would deal with the Dragonborn outside of time in time. Hermaeus Mora let his influence coax the dragon inside of Miraak. During the First Dragonborn’s venture with the Last of his kind Hermaeus noticed Miraak’s soul thrashing about in its human cage every time they would near each other. His rebellious little champion had never experienced the confounding emotions the young Nord could draw out of him. With the daedra’s influence over Miraak’s soul, Mora could exploit the portion he held and allow the Atmoran’s dragon to take over.

It was time he moved his pawns to the place where Mora’s plan would occur, and a certain god’s intervention would help it do just that…

Skye’s POV

He hadn’t attacked, yet. I still held my ground, attention claimed by the formidable man in front of me

“You!” The father accused to my chagrin. “You called those monsters here to burn down my home!”

I signaled for the man to pipe down, but he continued despite my insistence he was risking his safety. Miraak broke. He started laughing, crazed and hysterical. The First Dragonborn glared straight through me to the one taunting him.

“You want me to call dragons?” His voice reverberated low and dangerous, curling into something that mimicked enjoyment. “They bow to my will alone. Witness my might.”

To my utter disbelief, Miraak began shouting ancient names into the ether. The sound waves rolling off his tongue pounded through my head and body, tore at my heart…

He would never listen to me. What a fool I was to think I had the slightest chance of changing a tyrant with this much power.

I should have shouted back at the Atmoran. I should have lunged at him to disrupt the terrible names rolling off his tongue. I should have killed him like I was supposed to before the First wormed his way past my defenses and into my heart.

“I am what Akatosh designed to rule them all! I am the First Dragonborn, Gardener of Men.”

I shut my eyes against his mania, bracing against Miraak’s next shout of Bend Will.

“Qiilaan wa zu’u, dii atumei zeymahhe!” (Submit to me, my lesser brethren! [brothers is the literal translation])          

His roar was echoed by that of the dragons he’d summoned. The little girl let loose a terrified wail and tittered away from Miraak. Her wide gaze swept the sky above that was now littered with three of the Dov. I yelled for her to run toward me and her dad because I did not know what the First Dragonborn intended. Had he not told me that he’d helped this family before? Why put them at risk again?

Emilette tore past me and into her father who was frozen in place, no doubt shocked at what was happening in front of him. I made the terrible decision to take my focus off Miraak and snatch the patriarch to snap him from his reverie.

“Get out of here! Find somewhere to hide and I promise you I will find your daughter.”

The man was having trouble focusing on me, but I managed to get him to spit out his name so I could search him out later. Ballion.

“I will find you, Ballion. Run before—”

A rough paw at my throat drug me back and into an overheated wall of muscle. Another limb locked my body in place. I fought against steel. The only reason I’d not attempted to hurt the Atmoran pinning me was because of his hold over the beasts circling above us. If he lost his control over them, the dragons would kill what was left of Ballion’s family.

I felt exposed. His hand forced my neck up and the back of my body was crushed against his front. I felt the heat of his breath stir the hairs of my neck. It seemed like the Atmoran was smelling me. His strong nose bent against the slope of my shoulder; the scruff of his whiskers made gooseflesh rise across my skin.

“Zu’u koraav vahr rok peyl hi peyt.” (I see why he calls you rose)

“Let me go.” My plea was far too breathy to be considered serious.

Miraak’s arms tightened in adverse response.

“And why, mal vahdin (little woman), would I do that when you fight so poorly against me? When our prey is in front of us, begging for mercy.”

My eyes flicked over the father and daughter cowering before both the First Dragonborn and his dragons. I racked my brain for an answer, praying the father and daughter would flee.

“I’ve always been the one you wanted. Why waste your time with mortals?” I hated the words rolling off my tongue.

Miraak growled and I bit back a yelp of pain when he forcefully jerked my head so he could ground out, “You still do not understand. I am tired of obeying your commands, Dragonborn, for they are not furthering our goal of dominating this world.”

I struggled against his clutches in vain, my mind still hunting for something that would save the family before Miraak unleashed his dragons.

“So you’d hunt those who could serve us later?”

A disturbing light flared in the Atmoran’s eyes, and he smiled knowingly. “They would betray us. Trust me, Skye, I think I know more about an untrustworthy nature than you. The father already turned against his kin so what is to stop him from turning against us?”

“Don’t do this, Miraak,” I begged him. “You are a better man than this!”

His laugh shook me as much as the roars from above.

“Zu’u los faal Diist Dovahkiin (I am the First Dragonborn). Zu’u pruzaan pah, muz ahrk sunvaar ney!” (I best all, men and beast alike [both is the literal translation]).

I surged upward with a lungful of air and yelled, “When I shout, run!”

Miraak snarled and sunk his teeth into my neck, eliciting a scream cut short from me. His hand came up swifter than I could counter, cast a spell that immobilized me, and shouted something in Dovahzul that made two of his dragons give chase and the other descend to his side. I tried to move my hand to stop blood oozing from the male Dragonborn’s bite.

The wound continues to bleed.

Once the dragon lowered its neck, Miraak dragged me atop of the beast and mounted behind.

“Bo!” (Fly!)

I managed to shut my eyes against the dizzying ascent, shivering over the events Miraak had put in motion. Where was the man who had held me while I wept? Carried me, kissed me? I had only been handled this way by my enemies and when Miraak thought he needed to kill me to earn his freedom.

The First Dragonborn repositioned me so I was fully supported by his bulk, my head lolling against his shoulder, crown tucked under his chin. Whatever spell he had cast on me was not as potent as his last paralysis, for I was beginning to quake in the prison of his arms. I choked on my inhale when I sensed a warm tongue lap over the mark he'd inflicted.

My body turned to lead as Miraak’s low timbre vibrated my brain. “Dovahkiin, I will not have you quivering in fear alongside me. Tol los ni aan vahzah dovah’s strah.” (This not a true dovah’s way)

The effort it took for me to ground out a response was immense. “You never talk of yourself as a dragon. What has happened to you, Miraak?”

Mh… Mu los gein ahrk faal rinis.” (We are one and the same) The man’s fingers stroked roughly through my hair. “You cannot tell me you prefer his weak, little mortal traits over his draconic strength and cunning.”

It was my turn to snarl.

“Since when does the First Dragonborn refer to himself in the third person?” My resolve helped me break free of his incantation.

I had to hold steady until I spied an opening to take over the dragon before Miraak could stop me. Admittedly, I was terrified that the First had become possessed by Hermaeus Mora like inside my nightmare. His speech doesn’t exactly match… Has he ever acted this uncontrollable before?

The winged beast we rode banked in the air and Miraak’s figure covered mine as he leaned forward and to the side, completely detaining me with his sheer mass. The blood on my neck smeared onto both of us, but he seemed not to care. A permanent smirk stained his features, reminding me of Miraak at his most dangerous.

My eyes widened in realization. His words came back to me: “Do you know why I am so strong?”

Miraak had explained times where he lost “human reason.” Where his inner dovah consumed his thoughts and actions, directing them with rage and reckless abandon until the dragon got what it wanted- dominion over what it was that made Miraak so angry.

“I can’t believe you bit me.”

The Atmoran behind me snorted.

“I had to put you in your place, vahdin. You do not listen well, and you are fortunate I did not do more.” I thought I felt a thrum against my back. “He has thought of much worse to do to you.”

I jerked away (or tried), giving Miraak’s smirking face a look of disgust. “There’s a big difference between thoughts and actions.”

His next display of tenderness threw me completely off-guard. The First curled one arm lovingly around my middle, pulling me back against him softly. I felt the immense heat from the other palm he hovered over my neck before a familiar prickly sensation seeped into my skin. Miraak healed my abused flesh. He then lifted the tangled blonde from my shoulder and tucked it behind one ear, giving himself access to skim his lips over the skin of my neck.

A shiver followed the rasp of his beard as I felt him growl, “What a good thing it is that I prefer to demonstrate my affinity for you then, Laat Dovahkiin. You should consider showing me greater respect if we are to be fair.”

I gaped, then remembered how bad of an idea that was soaring thousands of feet above Nirn and quickly shut my mouth.

“You expect respect for trying to murder an innocent father and daughter?”

The unoccupied hand settled on my thigh, grip too tight for comfort. “That man was far from innocent, Skye. He did not deserve to be their father.”

I couldn’t help myself and shouted, “You are not the one who gets to decide that! You don’t get to pick who lives and who dies!”

The dragon roared in time with his laughter, and we flew higher with the great pump of its wings.

“I am their king. They simply don’t recognize it, yet. The joor are too short-sighted to know what is best for themselves. They are too weak to decide on their own.” He stooped menacingly into my ear. “You seem to forget, Skye, that I was the one who determined who lived and who perished long ago.”

I swallowed my fear and answered him with the only truth I knew. “You did the dragons’ bidding. Those were not your decisions. You were following orders.”

Miraak reached down to pat the beast we sat astride. It grumbled in response.

“And now they follow my orders. As it should be. As Akatosh willed it to be whenever he unleashed my power and created the First Dragonborn.”

Control.

All Miraak ever wanted was control over his chaos, over his bloodthirsty dragon soul. The power to help those unable to help themselves. His dovah sought that strength through Hermaeus Mora and was betrayed, brutally wronged for centuries.

 “Do you believe Akatosh willed me to stop you?”

I caught his pause. It was in the way Miraak’s nostrils flared. The man’s features take on a ruggedly attractive countenance as he considers my words. The First Dragonborn’s gaze falls to me. I hold my breath against the flint in his eyes.

“No,” he grumbled, tone much more subdued than before. “He created you to rule beside me. We will be unstoppable."

Miraak squeezed me in too tight a hug like if he released his grip I would slip away. His whiskers tangled gold strands of my hair as the Atmoran Dragonborn’s whispered words electrified my skin.

“You gave me a second chance when you struck Mora down and we escaped Apocrypha.”

I felt a chill seep down my spine at the mention of the daedra’s realm. My mind was consumed by a glorious golden dragon surrounded by whirling soul energy. It unleashed a thunderous blare of fire that destroyed what was left of Apocrypha’s shadow. A purring warmth dwelled in power’s wake. I was ensconced in this well of power, not knowing where mine began and when his ended.

“Together, we are indomitable, Dovahkiin. All will bow to my might and to your grace. We will usher in a new, better age. One where…”

I closed my eyes against Miraak’s beguiling voice. It felt like the first time I’d listened to his mantra after touching the Earth Stone. He’d completely coerced me into becoming his slave.

But you resisted me.

My eyes snapped open. Had he read my thoughts?

You were the only one who ever refused me, Skye. I became obsessed with discerning your abilities, your Dovahsil’s potential… How such a feminine form could harbor the raw animosity of a dovah was, for once, beyond me. Everything we’ve witnessed, Laat Dovahkiin, has driven the man and the dragon mad with the desire to make you ours.

I caught the most incredible glint to his iris as I turned to look at Miraak. Gold splintered out from a ruddy center; green bolstered the gold and all was shaded by black. I had glimpsed his true eye-color and it stole my breath away. The swirling emerald and red gold of his gaze was dimmed but not contained by Hermaeus Mora’s darkness.

Only the sound of the beast’s roar beneath my legs shook me from my stupor. It reminded me that the man seated behind me had sent two other dragons after the father and daughter. They intended to kill. I was the only other being able to sway the Dov’s course, and I had to intervene. And it looked like now was the perfect chance to overthrow the First Dragonborn.

Gods, I did not want to do this, but Miraak left me with no choice… I turned my focus on the dragon’s head and inhaled audibly. Almost without missing a beat, the Atmoran clamped a hand over my face and forced my head to the side, tucking me under his chin.
“Ah-ah, mal Dovahkiin. It is my turn to call the shots. You’re safe here. No need for rash decisions.”

My teeth ground together. I shoved the guilt threatening my resolve back down. The First Dragonborn’s grip loosened as I pressed against his solid form. The soft way his hand combed through my locks and rested gently against my hip almost made me think his dragon had receded and reason had returned. Images of Emilette and her father’s burning home and terrified faces flashed in my mind. I drew my breath in slowly, taking in the lingering frost burnt scent of magic, smoothed over by Miraak’s natural fiery musk. Falling for the enemy was a dangerous game. And I’d sunk deep enough to drown.

Ever careful of alerting Miraak that something was off, I shifted so I could strain and look up. He looked tired. Dark circles shadowed from his eye sockets. Miraak’s braids were frayed and grimy and his beard overgrown. His pale skin stretched tight across sinewy muscle. Yet those eyes glowed, their intense gleam ablaze with purpose. It was that resolve that made the First Dragonborn unbelievably strong.

I would rob him of that resolve.

By the time he’d noticed the beginning of my shout, it was too late to stop.

“Gol Hah Dov!”

Miraak received the brunt of my Thu’um. His features twisted, hands flying to cover his ears. Ignoring the burn of my throat, I bellowed again.

“Gol Hah Dov!”

I clutched at my neck as if my touch would help quell the pain. Miraak staggered, a ragged growl escaping his tongue.

“Skye, niid! Cease this foolishness!”

Through our body’s contact, I was met with a wall. Miraak slammed into it, hands clawing into the invisible barrier. He panicked and somehow managed to surge through and clasp my hands in his own.

Dii peyt, don’t! Please… I know my control has slipped, but I promise I would never harm you—dragon or not. A shock of light had the First Dragonborn reeling, and his pained face tore into my heart.

I was hurting him.

He is killing innocents!

I glanced up, regretting the sight I’d created. Miraak knelt against his will. His gaze was locked on me, pleading through the pain.

I shouted one more time, putting everything I had behind it.

“GOL HAH DOV!”

I coughed up blood.

Miraak’s hands dropped from his head, and he looked through me.

“Ziistmaas zu’u aam hi, dii jud?” (May I serve you, my queen?)

I swallowed the stone wedged in my throat and instructed, “Make this dragon chase the other two you have under your control. They need new orders. Quickly.”

He bowed low enough to kiss my crown. I caught the First whisper, “Nii fen kos drehlaan.” (It will be done.)

My body stiffened as Miraak directed our mount with his words and legs. I felt myself slipping and I had half a mind to just fall and let fate claim its due. You’re no better than his slavers. The dragon’s that ruled over him at least let him keep his free will. You are just like Mora! Manipulating Miraak at his weakest to fulfil your own agenda.  

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

She had used Bend Will on him and… well if anything, Miraak thought it made them even. The First Dragonborn had succumbed to his lesser half, his inner dovah. Certainly, Akatosh had blessed Miraak with an exorbitantly strong Dovahsil, but it cost him his sanity at times. Hence the reason for the Atmoran’s behavior.

The sensation of sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of the Last Dragonborn’s neck rippled throughout his being again.

Gods, how base the dragon priest had felt… How he had reveled in the act of marking Skye as his. The tang of blood mixed with her skin’s scent of rose and Skye’s own sweet musk drove Miraak the man into an obscene frenzy. He had allowed his dragon to take the Nord and sling her atop the alpha dovah Miraak had summoned and subsequently dominated with a mere trio of forbidden Words of Power.

He had spared not a thought for the father his other two scaled slaves chased, but little Emilette would haunt the First.

Gruntil. Traitor.

It was the name they had given Miraak long ago and it seemed he continued to live up to its definition. Miraak knew his dragon’s decision pained Skye, and that’s why Miraak attempted to hold her close to stave off their chilly ascent. He had healed Skye’s sore neck, but the scar would remain. The First had marginally broken through her barriers as he told the Last how glorious they would be together as rulers.

He continued to feel her mind resist, for Skye could not let the family they had “saved” be hunted and slaughtered. That was where they differed, he thought, as he watched Skye’s eyes widen when she gazed into his. Skye felt it was her duty to serve as protector to those who would just as soon see her dead. The Nord Dragonborn believed her powers were gifted to help her protect the rabble, ensure their safety from the creatures above.

Miraak might admit it someday, but hers was a special existence. Skye was better than even he…. And he would never stop trying to convince her those she helped should at the very least bow to her, worship the ground she walked upon.

There was no time to ponder convincing her now. Miraak turned his attention on his current predicament: becoming a slave to the female Dragonborn through her use of Mora’s forbidden shout.

Miraak’s dovah resisted more fiercely than the man, but it’s struggle was futile when faced with the Voice of the Last Dragonborn. The ex-priest winced each time she shouted. The sound was deafening this close, and Skye used the Thu’um consecutively like Miraak had before. He watched her body become racked with coughing fits.

He pleaded with her to stop.

The third time would be the last as three immutable words ravaged his will and tore it to pieces. Miraak’s inner dovah receded back into its flesh cage. Brackish blood dribbled from between Skye’s lips, matching what Miraak had smeared on her shoulder.

The First could do little else save hinge on the Nord’s every word. Each syllable drug him further under her spell. Miraak felt drunk; his actions were no longer his own. The Atmoran stared though her essence as she commanded him to force the dragon they rode to chase after the other two Miraak had sent to hunt down Ismae’s family. He obeyed without question, promising the woman he would deliver.

Miraak had never wanted to please any master the way he did Skye.

I called her jud. I named her my queen… damn this hex. It angered him. Miraak wanted to call her that from his own volition, not be forced into it. Skye’s actions made him question whether she truly was different from his previous masters who’d wanted nothing more than to exploit Miraak’s power to elevate their own status.

When next Miraak glanced at the Last Dragonborn, she appeared haunted. She had stopped existing outside of her thoughts. Miraak never thought his practice sustaining a state of heightened consciousness after millennia of exploitation from Hermaeus Mora would serve him.

If he concentrated very hard, Miraak could force his limbs to move along with his intent. It was slow, agonizingly so, but he could do it.

Unless Skye demanded he cease. The binding words of Bend Will would shackle him back in place until he could muster the mental fortitude required to try again.

Rather than dwell on how easily he could lose, Miraak focused solely on the Last Dragonborn who was not leaning into the dragon’s turn like she should and began the laborious task of stretching for her waist.

Sweat beaded across his brow and upper lip. Each tendon protested, every joint burned, muscles shuddered against any movement. Seconds ticked by and the Nord slipped further from their dragon’s back. He wasn’t going to make it before Skye fell. Miraak made a split-second decision. It took less effort to move one arm instead of two. So began the torturous process of lifting a single limb to the Last Dragonborn’s blood-stained lips.

Miraak figured if he could show that he was semi-cognizant, then Skye would snap out of her daze. When the dragon priest had strained enough to move his arm from his side, Skye noticed and leveled her gaze with his. Miraak tore his eyes from the arm he willed into motion and locked with the gauzy blue of the Nord’s. The Atmoran yearned to speak, but the instant he tried forming words on his tongue, Miraak felt a vice clamp over his jaw and lock any communication behind his teeth.

The frustration of it all nearly ended the man. Stiild (Calm), the First willed. Restrain yourself and save her. Show Skye you aren’t the tyrant she believes you to be. His mouth opened. Miraak’s tongue was lead; no sound escaped his throat. The Last Dragonborn watched with rapt attention. He saw her hand dig into the dovah’s scales.

She still wasn’t safe.

His name escaped her lips. A mere whisper, but the spell lifted enough for the Atmoran Dragonborn to answer.

“Whatever you need, Dragonborn, I shall provide. But… may… I..?”

As Miraak attempted his question, brackets clamped his mouth shut. A small droll sounded from his throat (the only sign of the First’s inner turmoil).

Skye noticed Miraak’s struggle and said, “Speak.”

A compelling force rocketed through Miraak. He swiftly quashed any superfluous words and managed to choke out, “Allow me to steady us, or you will fall.”

The Last’s gaze faltered. “I deserve a more painful death. I don’t know how to release you. I can’t—”
“Dragonborn.”

Miraak experienced a flash of anguish for interrupting his “master.” The strength of the rebuttal he experienced petrified the First Dragonborn, his pain rivaling that of when Mora had stabbed Miraak through.

She stared at him in horror. Regret lined her eyes. Somehow, the Atmoran’s suffering earned him the softest of touches across his white knuckles. He flooded her mind with thoughts of holding on tighter, pressing the Last to put his broken will out of her mind. Miraak caught the whisper of her intellect admitting the way he protected her and just managed to lift his hand enough to maintain contact where he could continue.

Always. Protect.

Skye’s entire body froze. Nothing showed on her features, but a monsoon of emotions swirled within the blue black of her irises. The ancient Dragonborn’s gaze never faltered from hers. It was Skye who broke away first. Her words were void of tenderness when she spoke.

“We should be close. I want both dragons dead. Their souls ours to devour.” The Nord’s eyes returned to Miraak’s. “Do you understand?”

Without his consent, the Atmoran bowed his head, words of affirmation escaping his lips. “Your command is absolute, dii jud (my queen). Their destruction draws nigh.”

She said nothing in reply.

Skye’s POV

They were in my sights. I had pushed my domination over Miraak to the very depths of my mind in order to focus on destroying the other dragons before they found Emilette and Ballion. Tightening the strings in the First Dragonborn’s mind, I instructed Miraak to release me and take down the blood dragon he’d summoned while I would battle its match.

Immediately, the feeling of Miraak’s objection almost made me second guess myself.

“I will let you use this dragon to fight the other, but first I need you to fly us close enough so I can land on the back of that one.” I indicated the beast below and to the right of us.

I didn’t look back, but I could imagine the Atmoran’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared in annoyance as he tried to dispute my order. He could not protest no matter how badly he wanted to.

Or so I thought.

“Loveliest of masters, I beseech you to reconsider.”

I covered my expression of pain, letting the ire of my dragon begin to overtake the guilt. I would entertain the First. His need for tinvaak.

“Reconsider a lesser being’s demise? Allow our souls to go undevoured?”

As I twisted to look Miraak in the eye, I watched as his gaze fell to my lips, lower, and back with a growing hunger.

“I will never deny an opportunity for us to show our dominion. I merely ask my master to reconsider her approach… It would be far more entertaining to watch the Dov kill themselves. With our assistance, of course.”

I had wiped Miraak’s entire goal of hunting the humans. Changed his mind enough so where he wanted to make the dragons hunt each other.

I realized the First Dragonborn was awaiting my response.

“We will go with your suggestion. Show me how powerful you are, Miraak.”

“With pleasure, Dovahkiin.”

Miraak pulled me into him where I could feel the contractions of his muscle as he maneuvered us into position. My inner dovah lit up from the contact, sending a heatwave throughout my body. The human portion of my brain was disgusted by my dragon’s delight in commanding one of the strongest Dragonborn to ever live to do my bidding. I felt the dragon under us take a great inhale, it’s throat rumbling as it prepared to shout. Our target was less than two dragon-lengths away.

I felt more than heard Miraak urge me to join. My body responded without thought. I summoned the Words of Fire Breath and gathered the frigid wind into my lungs. One… Two… A beat of it’s wings…

“YOL TOR SHUL!!!!!”

Three infernos erupted in a blaze of color. As the yellowed tips of fire scorched the blood dragon’s scaly hide, it squealed and veered off course. The beast broke several treetops as it clawed to regain altitude. I felt a smile spread my lips as I watched the flames melt through the dovah’s scales and eat away at the flesh underneath.

Miraak yelled, “Bovut!” (Dive!) and tucked us tight against our mount’s spine. We dove headfirst at this blood dragon who unleashed a gout of fire that all but singed our hair. A breath before we collided, our dragon pulled up and flung its talons out. Claws punctured seared flesh and scale. Our enemy screamed, it’s howl melding with that of crackling wood and foliage. Both dragons crashed through the forest canopy. As we fell, our dovah sunk its teeth into the injured one’s neck, cutting its yelp short as our flier thrashed its head side to side, ripping through the other’s jugular.

Suddenly, the light of the dead dragon’s soul started to gleam. Flesh began to peel off its body. The soul rushed at Miraak, but rather than melding into his body, it colored the atmosphere around the First Dragonborn orange and blue. Miraak bellowed “Daar sil los iils wa du!” (This soul is yours to devour!)

His hands twirled the dragon’s life force around and into me. Pure energy ignited my veins. Through it, I felt the caress of Miraak’s soul vying gently for my approval, apologetic as a man, preening as a dovah.

I locked eyes with him and found the Atmoran panting while he studied my body absorb our kill. His thoughts flooded my mind.

Rek frolok reh (She looks divine). A demigod caged in human flesh. The light of our souls far outshines the Dov’s ancient ones. Dii jud, vir zu’u lingrah wa genun hi fos mu vust kos (My queen, how I long to show you what we could be), how I could please you…”

Emotion choked me. After everything I’d done to him, Miraak wanted nothing more than to stay by me and have our names go down in history as the strongest Dragonborn, the only two Dragonborn to exist at the same time…

My enhanced senses picked up on the incoming danger before Miraak did. The threat of an angry dovah made me force my feelings back down and decide to get the brainwashed Atmoran out of the way before he and I were both killed. I put the force of Whirlwind Sprint behind me as I jumped the First Dragonborn and tackled him off the back of our mount. He grunted and tucked me into his chest to absorb the brunt of our impact. As we landed, the other dragons fought each other.

I started to panic because we would need one alive to carry us to Labyrinthian if we planned to rescue Dorthe and Ismae quickly. I struggled to wiggle out of Miraak’s arms as the giant, scaled beasts thrashed about the woods, tearing each other apart and flaming what they couldn’t reach with talons and teeth. While I flailed, the First Dragonborn settled his big hand against my jaw. The warmth I felt captured my attention.

“You asked me to show you what we can do. Lingraav.” (Watch)

I blinked and Miraak shifted me to one arm as he sat up enough to witness the dragons, bloodied by their skirmish, continue battling.

“Keep one breathing to fly us to Labyrinthian, Miraak.”

He glanced at me and nodded. “As you command, Laat Dovahkiin.”

With that, the ancient Dragonborn conjured sharpened icicles from thin air and launched them directly at the smaller dovah. They shattered against its hide, but the magic was enough to make it angry at him.

“Meyz luft hin alt! Ziil los di du!” (Come face your destruction! Your soul is mine to devour!)

A massive shockwave of energy slammed into the dragon facing us. It encased the dragon in a translucent barrier that leeched its life. Flesh and scale were torn from its body, leaving it to combine with the shimmering forcefield of Miraak’s shout. After the dragon was completely stripped to the bone, the power of its soul flooded the First with as much force as the one before it had me.

I suppressed a shudder at his mastery of the Thu’um. Miraak could down one of the most powerful beings on Nirn with his Voice in a matter of seconds.

I heard the last dragon growl as it leveled with us. When I turned, Miraak had blocked my view.

“Qiilaan!” (Submit!) He ordered, using his full height and wide stance to look as intimidating as possible.

At his words the dragon’s rumble morphed into a trill, and it lowered its head to us. Miraak inclined his own head to me and offered a hand. I took it wordlessly and let him guide me to my feet. The unexpected press of his lips to my knuckles was enough to warm my cheeks. He is still in there.

“At your order, we will depart.”

I glanced from my hand to his face, startled to find those eyes peering up from under his messed forelocks and into mine. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but they didn’t seem as soulless as before. I held Miraak’s penetrating gaze, wondering if I’d just caught the corner of his mouth twitch up as I continued to stare.

“Um, yes, w-we should go soon.”

After my utterance, Miraak straightened and stepped to the side. He still held my hand within his own. The other he used to offer a path to the dragon’s back. I strode forward, letting my palm fall from his with grief. I perked back up when Miraak moved with me. The gentle press of his hand at the small of my back was a comfort I didn’t know I wanted. It left too soon as we approached the waiting dovah.

Before I could place my hands on its hide to climb up, Miraak caught my wrist and stammered, “Dii jud, I cannot allow you to ride with such a hinderance. If you permit, I will heal our mount and remove the marks of battle.”

I cursed myself for being so single-minded. Of course the dragon wouldn’t be able to fly at its full capacity with the wounds it had sustained. I told Miraak he could do as he pleased. As healing magic cured the gouges in the dragon’s scales, it unleashed a great huff of relief.

Before I could stop, I laughed. Mirak turned to me with a strange look.

I covered my mouth but spoke through it. “Sorry, I’ve just never heard a dragon sigh in relief before.”

The Atmoran chuckled, finished his work, and came to stand before me again. I craned my neck to look up at him, remnants of my smile staining my lips. Miraak looked like he wanted to say something. I wanted to hear it, so I asked, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Immediately, he answered, “I am pleased my actions can bring forth such a beautiful expression. It is… what I want most from you, Dovahkiin.”

I noticed he hadn’t said my actual name since I had taken Miraak’s will. Yet the First Dragonborn displayed that he was aware of what was going on and could function without my input. It made me think I could reach him and somehow break the effects of Bend Will. 

If only I knew how.

The thought of asking Mora crossed my mind. What price would I pay?

We mounted up and charted the course for Labyrinthian. Finally, this entire quest of ours would come to an end. Destiny would change course. There would be two Dragonborn to end the World Eater once and for all.

Chapter Text

Miraak’s POV

They circled ruins inlaid within snow-covered peaks for the fourth time, searching for Ismae or Dorthe. There was no sign of the missing girls nor any indication of where they might be. Skye suggested they traverse some of the rubble on foot. Miraak agreed without pretense, directing the beast underneath them to land in front of one of the last standing structures within the gates.

It was a dome-like building with small, circular windows near the top. The First Dragonborn’s memory flared to life at the sight. Could it be the old sanctuary where he and the other dragon priests had kept their masks?

Their dragon had taken flight with a long, droning roar, and the First and Last Dragonborn had made their way inside.

Or they’d started to anyway.

He and Skye were ambushed by the World Eater’s army. The dovah that had flown them to Labyrinthian must have alerted the other dragons lying in wait, biding their time until he and the Nord lost their advantage. They attacked the two Dragonborn at the order of Alduin. Miraak jumped in front of Skye without thinking, shielding her from incoming dragon fire.

The pain was as blinding as it had been the first time he had been flamed. He couldn’t help but cry out as old scar tissue on his back reignited in the wake of the World Eater’s maw. The utter anguish brought Miraak to his knees. He couldn’t get back up. Skye acted savage, as though she’d tear the dragons’ skulls from their necks if they landed. The woman put up a convincing front, but her continued glances toward Miraak gave away Skye’s fear. Alduin recognized they were no ordinary mortals because he signaled his army to stop and land in front of their human kin.

Skye stood gallantly before seven fully resurrected dragons, disregarding the First Dragonborn’s pleas for her to escape. The Last Dragonborn would not leave him at the mercy of the World Eater, just as she had denied Hermaeus Mora its way with Miraak. The old priest knew, powerful as she was, Skye couldn’t face all the beasts alone in her current injured state. Miraak heard Alduin taunt her in Dovahzul. He tried warning Skye before the black dragon unleashed its Thu’um, but any attempt at movement was thwarted by the burn he’d sustained. The male Dragonborn shut his eyes in briefest prayer before hearing the shout.

“Fus Roh Dah!”

The Nord had countered, her Voice strong enough to press Alduin’s flame away. Earth rumbled as the combined cries of the World Eater’s dragon army roared in unison.

“Nahlot! Drem, brothers (Silence! Peace). The mortal possessing our soul has piqued my interest…”

Miraak imagined Alduin lowering his jet-black head of horns to level with Skye. His suspicions were confirmed when the First felt the blazing hot exhale of Akatosh’s firstborn heat his prone form. Putrid smells of rotting flesh and sulfur stained the air around them. The Atmoran had experienced Alduin’s intimidation many times during his service to the Cult, and he refused to allow it to happen to the Last. Miraak surged toward his female despite his body’s opposition. He was determined to dissuade any attempt by Alduin to turn her into the dragons’ slave.

The dovah’s growl shook Miraak’s insides and its footsteps rattled the ground beneath him.

“Niid! Your business is with me, not him. Tinvaak.” The sound of her voice in the language Miraak deemed all their own set his heart aflame, making his passion and worry for Skye burn more fiercely than before.

“Ful hi dreh mindoraan un sahkren. (So, you do understand our tongue.) How useful you can become to us.” Alduin almost purred with contempt.

Miraak ground his teeth together, body shaking with rage that had no outlet.

“Zu’u los faal Laat Dovahkiin (I am the Last Dragonborn). I bend my will for no one. Especially not for a dovah.”

The noise of Alduin’s great, sweeping tail stirred up sparkling flurries of snow as he reared his head and snorted.

“I am no mere dovah, mal Dovahkiin.” Alduin lowered his massive head again, this time tilting so he could stare at his former slave’s burnt body. “It seems you’re more than capable of bending another’s will. Though this traitor was broken long ago.”

The First Dragonborn held his breath, not out of fear for Alduin’s wrath, but out of silent hope Skye would not fall for the dragon’s bait.

The Last’s whole body stiffened, and she growled, “It was no simple decision.”

Miraak heard her voice catch at the end. A sign of weakness. The World Eater did not miss it, either. Alduin let loose a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

“You can’t even control your power, and you call yourself Dragonborn. Not even I can teach such a fool!”

The dragons howled together, mocking the Last Dragonborn’s incompetence.

Skye shouted, swift and direct. A blazing gout of fire whisked past Alduin’s skull, narrowly avoiding his horns. The valley became silent. After claiming the attention of every single dragon in the area, the Nord exclaimed, “You will not insult the ability of one who can best you!”

Skye’s voice echoed in the clearing of ruins. Seconds ticked by. Miraak could almost see the gears spinning within the World Eater’s brain. Alduin allowed his draconic instinct to overpower his poor negotiating skills and roared in retort.

“None can best Akatosh’s firstborn son! I am a god, and you, nothing more than fodder for my army.” Alduin spit fire along with his threat.

The great black dragon reared up on his hindquarters and shouted at the snow-studded heavens. The gray sky transformed into a twister of meteors. Skye answered with a shout of her own, one that sent time to a crawl. Before he could comprehend, Skye was on top of Miraak’s large form. She gathered all her strength and hoisted the Atmoran up where his arm was draped across her shoulders. The first few flaming meteors crashed down and all the dragons took flight. Gritting through her exertion, Skye commanded him to move with her. Ignoring the hurt, Miraak staggered alongside Skye. Every step was an explosion of pain.

He buried his nose in her hair, forgetting the chaos that rained down around them. Skye led them toward the meager shelter in the center of Labyrinthian to ride out the dragons’ onslaught. The First Dragonborn focused on his breathing instead of his suffering; he concentrated on matching his hobble with her strides.

“Why did you have to save me from their fire?” Skye’s voice was choked with emotion. “After everything, Miraak… Why do you still protect me?”

Miraak was compelled to answer, but in attempt, his steps faltered, and they crashed to the stone ground. He hissed as the Last’s hand grazed his back. Skye apologized, immediately putting herself between the entrance of the building and Miraak. Another giant, flaming rock smashed into the ground. Skye threw up her arms and ducked her head, saving the First Dragonborn from the worst of the impact with her body.

When she next knelt beside him, Miraak noticed little tracks of blood along her cheeks where the ruffage had lanced through skin. Worry marred her features. Bracing himself with one hand on the ground, Miraak swiped at the streaks of red on Skye’s face. Before he could say anything, a brute of a dovah slammed into the roof of their shelter, its talons literally crushing the structure into rubble.

The Last Dragonborn tried to spin them away from the falling debris. Miraak acted with seconds to spare. Snaking his free arm around the Nord, Miraak yanked her close and bellowed, “Ven Gaar Nos!”

The winds from his Thu’um gathered falling rocks and spun them back at the attacking dragon. It shrieked as the stone bit into its scales and tore at its wings. He felt Skye’s hands digging into his arm, trying with all her might to move Miraak deeper into the ruin for safety.

“Come on, you overgrown bastard.” She pleaded against his body’s suffering. “I’ve seen you survive worse than this.”

Miraak scrambled to his feet, boots dragging with every step they took. Dragon fire seared through any holes in the structure. Burnt hair and cloth assaulted the Dragonborns’ senses, but they pressed further despite Alduin’s taunting.

“Ru, mal Dovahkiin. Bovul mu dii bah! Hi imzik hin dinok hes fah zu’u.” (Run little Dovahkiin. Flee before my wrath! You make your death sweet for me)

The First felt himself fading. His pain was starting to overcome his will. You will stay strong for her. Two of us can best them. It’s all I’ve ever needed… The Last helped lower Miraak down against one of the inner walls.

“Miraak, I’ve never been much of a healer, but I can try to get rid of some of the burns.” She tried desperately to keep the First Dragonborn’s focus on her and not on his collapse. “Stay with me, old man.”

“As you will, Dovahkiin.” He ground out, gasping as her weak spell revived charred skin. “Would that I could be of better use to you.”

“No!” She barked, silencing Miraak’s self-deprecation. “None of that. You and I are-are a team. Partners. The two best Dragonborn to ever work together.”

“The only Dragonborn to ever fight together,” Miraak chastised under his breath.

“We are getting out of this alive,” Skye finished.

Miraak didn’t know whether she said it to reassure him or herself.

The whole earth shook. It seemed the meteors were endless. Their ancient shelter was taking a beating. There was a slim chance it could continue to withstand the dragons’ onslaught. Neither Dragonborn had any idea of what to do.

Miraak watched Skye pace in front of a sanctuary that was long forgotten by time. His mind recalled the last time he’d witnessed every effigy covered with the corresponding priest’s mask. The constant bombardment of the dragons that swarmed their shelter rattled it. The Atmoran’s ears picked up on a sound that didn’t belong. Noise of a wooden spoon being dropped on stone floors sprang to mind, and Miraak’s eyes searched for the culprit. Directly in the center of the unmasked statues was a skeleton with a note and a wooden mask beside it. The bones of the carcass clattered against stone, but that was not what drew the First’s attention.

The mask, fully wooden and nothing remarkable, depicted a crude representation of one of the dragon priest masks of old. It showed no signs of age or wear. The carving almost glowed with a strange energy. If Hermaeus Mora had not collected records of every dragon priests’ exploits, Miraak would have dismissed the mask. The First Dragonborn had studied Morokei’s chronical of time-altering enchantments and Miraak recognized a few of the auras emitting from the mask.

Another battering ram of a dragon knocked against the side of their structure. The racket signified falling rubble; a sign the dragons were getting closer to their goal. Mustering the last of his strength, Miraak tested his luck against the binding words of Bend Will. A push against the dull oppressive force that was Skye’s mind racked the First Dragonborn with pain, yet Miraak continued to press further.

Time was running out.

Miraak survived a final explosion of pain, gasping as his free will surged back. Fog cleared from the Atmoran’s mind, and everything became clear to him.

“Skye.” His use of her name got the female’s attention. Miraak did his best to ignore the way her blue eyes sharpened. “Grab that mask and come here.”

She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and hope. Skye did as he asked. On her way over, another blast from the Dov and Alduin’s meteors shook the building. The force of it rocked the Last Dragonborn. She tumbled the rest of the way toward Miraak, landing between his spread legs with her hand on his chest for support.

The Atmoran smiled through his body’s hurt, knowing Skye had not meant to cause him to suffer.

“I—”

“Should not be sorry,” he purred, noting her characteristic flush from his voice.

Miraak adored the look of awe that crossed her features, and he answered the question he saw there.

“Geh, dii peyt, I speak from my own mind.” He grazed her flushed cheek with the back of his knuckles. “It is a good thing you are not as proficient as I when it comes to ancient knowledge.”

Skye shook her head in disbelief. “How? I don’t understand… You—"

One of the loudest and most destructive barrages yet broke part of their shelter’s roof. Skye tensed and Miraak instinctively pulled her close, shielding the Laat Dovhakiin from his hungry slavers. Large, fanged snouts snapped through the hole they’d created. Skye tried whipping around, but Miraak put a hand to the back of her head and pulled the Nord close as he dared without causing himself more pain.

In the seconds it took for one of their maws to inhale for a blast of fire, Miraak summoned his own Thu’um first and belted, “Ize Slen Nus!”

Shockwave met scale, literally freezing the snout of the dragon to the top of the ruin. He heard massive claws scrape at stone as the stupid creature tried to dislodge itself from Miraak’s Ice Form. Miraak grimaced as he slumped against the hard stone of their crumbing haven.

“Are you strong enough to fight them?”

Skye had leaned back when Miraak’s hands slipped off her from so she could look at him. The fire of battle burned brightly in her eyes. Miraak nearly affirmed that he was fit enough to take out an army of immortals with his other half. However, the burn he’d sustained from Alduin’s fire was slowly sapping Miraak’s energy to the point he knew he stood no chance.  

The First took the mask Skye had retrieved out of her hand. Miraak felt a surge of magical energy as his skin made contact with the wooden carving. He hoped his hunch about time travel enchanting was right.

“This artifact is imbued with energies matching time warping magic,” he explained to the Last. “Put this on and escape. We harbor dragons inside our mortal flesh, but we cannot best seven. We don’t know how many more he’s summoned, either. I am injured and you are still weak, despite what you tell me.”

The Nord’s brow cinched together as she struggled to process Miraak’s words.

She traced the nicks in the mask’s material, frown deepening. “We can’t trust this thing. I’m not leaving you, Miraak. I can’t let you go again. Not after I just got you back!”

The Atmoran’s lips formed a tight line, determined Skye would not sway him. “We are in no shape to take on Alduin’s army single-handedly, Dragonborn or not. I lived with that mistake once, and I’m not foolish enough to try again.”

The Last rejected his statement. “I won’t let you get hurt. We can bait them, strike when the dragons are distracted.”

“Skye, dearest, listen to me for once.” Miraak applied pressure to the Last Dragonborn’s head and drew her steadily closer until their foreheads rested against each other. “I am loath to admit that I am too weak to help you fight off the World Eater and his resurrected battalion.”

“Then I will—”

“I will not allow you to take on this many Dov alone.” Miraak cut Skye off before she suggested suicide.

He shut his eyes and sighed through his nose, bracing for another thrashing from the dragons outside. When he reopened his eyes, Miraak looked past her uncertainty and stated, “We don’t have time, dii peyt.”

Unconsciously, the First Dragonborn dropped his gaze to Skye’s lips. They were parted and glistened from her tongue swipe over the pinkened flesh. Try as he might, there was no doubt she caught the heat behind his stare when Miraak looked up again.

“Miraak…”

The feelings she evoked when the Nord whispered his name were unbearable.

The Atmoran captured her mouth with his, working his lips against Skye’s until he felt her respond. His actions were foolish, yes, but their time was up. His kiss was tender in comparison to the tumultuous fervor warring in the First Dragonborn’s heart and mind. It was true, Miraak didn’t know what would happen if they donned the mask. But her odds of survival were better anywhere else than here.

Miraak mouths against her lips, “My rose. My love.”

His fingers find the fresh scar of his bite against Skye’s neck. Once a dragon claimed his mate by fang, that spot would serve as the male’s control switch for his female. A tale of legend, for female Dov had ascended long ago to watch the cosmos of time Akatosh ruled. Miraak recalled the pressure he needed to knock Skye unconscious from Mora’s catalogues of history.

“Forgive me.”

Miraak pinches the mark hard, watching as Skye can do nothing but fade from consciousness. Her lips stiffen against his own as the Last attempted to speak. Breath without words.

“I will see you soon.”

The arm she had raised in attempt to stop him dropped and Skye sagged against Miraak’s form. He catches her as more of the building collapses around them; dragons are clear in his line of vision. Miraak supports the Last’s head and presses the mask to her face. He cradles her body as more and more of the structure falls apart, making sure to take the brunt of the rubble trying to crush them.

The rocks scraping his back were agony, but the First Dragonborn endured.

“He’ll not have you today,” Miraak hisses as Skye’s physical form starts to fade out of existence.

“Nor will Alduin reclaim me for his own.”

Once his female had vanished, Miraak placed the magical mask on his own face. He smiled at the head of Alduin slamming through the ruins.

“Unsalaad divok wa ziil, valdrekaan sunvaar.”  (Eternal death to your soul, wretched beast)

The World Eater’s roar faded into oblivion.

Chapter Text

Miraak's POV

Miraak roused from what felt like his hardest slumber ever to rapping against his door. A voice called to him on the other side.

“My Lord, we’ve secured another servant for the approaching coronation. The dragons understand you disregard the wenchs’ services, but they enforce tradition. A new cult head must take one for his use.”

Miraak blinked some of the haze back. He heard scrambling beyond the door. Something blunt thumped against what sounded like a body outside. The motion stopped.

“She has given us trouble, but this one too shall tremble before your fearsome might, Lord Miraak.”

The Atmoran remembered to respond in Dovahzul as he rose from bed.

“Meyz ko!” (Come in)

The door opened at once and his keeper bowed while another retainer shoved a woman to her knees in front of Miraak. Her hands were bound, and a rag was shoved in her mouth. She was a little blonde thing, feisty from the way she struggled against ever tightening bonds. The dragon priest went to reprimand her for such disrespect. When the female’s gaze met his, Miraak froze.

Her eyes widened and drool dribbled from the corners of her gag as she attempted to speak to him. All Miraak could think was that she had the most stunning blue eyes he had ever seen.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2…