Merciless Destruction

“It is emperor, now.” he says, having to insert the Cyrodiilic word. His hands fumble ever so slightly as he pulls off his layers, letting them lie where they fall on the floor. “It means High King, really; priests are weak, compared to what we were.”

She feels a little cold, even under all the layers. As he slides in beside her, he finds her hands, and warm them on his chest, pulling the covers tight around them. He tucks her head under his chin and feels her so close and so enclosed and has to shut his eyes a moment. “I will show you the world, there is so much of it we did not even hear in rumour.”

It had not been easy wrestling this chaotic world into order, and he was glad she had missed the worst of it; but also, to have had her by his side, a storm in the guise of a woman - she would have made it easier. She would have made the long nights soft, when he was listening for knives, wondering if every twist of his stomach could be poison, looking into the unknown places and unfamiliar faces and wondering how he could rule what he felt he did not belong to any more. Just her presence is making him feel like he is melting. “You will like the capital. It is in the south, where the Wild Elves used to rule - they are gone now, but it is warm. Too warm for me, but I think you will like it.” and he smiled to himself, and put his lips to the top of her head. I hope you will like it, because it will be your home, when you are empress. The thought just appeared, fully formed, and did not surprise him - he had been expecting it without knowing. It rested in his heart with patience, knowing that a proper time would come to give it to her.

“Em..por...or” 

She swirls the word on her tongue like some foreign wine. Feeling the weight of it and how it falls from her lips. It is smoother than the word she knows, but still just as powerful. Worthy of the man who bears it. Though, to her, he will always be thuuri. 

It is so easy to curl against him, into the comfort she has only truly ever felt with him. He cradles her hands (so, so small beneath his own) to his chest and she cannot help but melt against his warmth. Her leg slides between his without thought, entwining them in a way that just feels right. In his arms she feels a sense of safety that she hasn’t felt in an age. Not since. . . well not since she was with her brother. 

Sorrow grips her heart again, but this time Ea doesn’t allow it to consume her. She is stronger than the pain inside her. There will be plenty of time for her to sort it out. To hone and sharpen it into a weapon. Because even though Miraak has his crown she knows what battles must be won for him to keep it. And she will be damned if she allows him to fight alone. 

But before her anger can begin to stir he speaks again, the soft baritone of his voice rumbling through her. He speaks of the capital - his capital - and her heart sings with excitement. She had always longed to see more of the world, beyond the borders of the dovs’ domain. Information had been scarce, and the tales told by travellers had always captured her imagination. Now, thanks to him, she finally has the chance to see it for herself. 

“I can’t wait. Since I was a little girl I have longed to see more of the world. Especially if it is warmer than here.” She laughs, even as she snuggles closer. “Though you have always done a very good job of keeping me warm.”

     The servants put down the wooden bed-frame, hastily assembled, and lay it with a mattress, furs, feather-filled blankets, and more furs. Quickly and quietly they do their work, eyes averted, and leave backwards, letting the heavy tent flap fall and enclose Miraak and Ea in soft stillness once again.

He drifts over to her, and feels almost as if his hand is moving of its own accord as he lifts it,  brushing his knuckles across her shoulder where the tunic has fallen away, light as the touch of a feather. He is too tentative to do more, although more is what he craves - to pull her back into his arms and hold her forever. Just the slightest feel goes some way to reassuring him that she is real, and there, and to soothing the ache for what they once had, might still have, have not had for all these thousands of years. He is too aware of all that time lost between them, and doesn’t realise that he is the one that lived those aeons, the trickling of time pulling him further and further from when they were together. She has been asleep. He has been living, and ageing, and forgetting.

He catches the glint of something across her cheek. A tiny smear of wetness on an otherwise dry face. Dragon priests have their pride, and she especially; if she has been wiping tears away, it is not for him to point them out. His hand lowers to take hers, small in his and capable of commanding all the force of Kyne’s crackling storms. “I have missed you,” he whispers, staring at her dishevelled curls and wondering how many times he has run them through his fingers that she remembers, and he does not “To the point of pain. Ea…” further words fail him; saying her name is simply cathartic, like a prayer.

His tentative touch across her shoulder makes her shiver, and she looks to him as his hand finds hers. Her hand turns into his without hesitation, slender fingers sliding through his as if they were made to fit together so perfectly. They have always fit together well and, not for the first time, Ea wonders if perhaps there is something about them that is destined. 

“Ea...”

The way he says her name makes her heart ache with a nearly physical pain. As if someone was trying to rip her heart from her chest with their bare hand. Here she was mourning her loss of station and blood, yet he has been mourning her for centuries. Just thinking about what it would be like if their roles had been reversed is enough assuage her woes. It is hard to believe, but someone she has been the lucky one. She never had to suffer the pain of losing him.

The last of her tears are still drying on her cheeks as she reaches up to caress his own. 

“You don’t have to hurt anymore Miraak. I am here and Akatosh himself could not pull me from your side.” Ea says with such conviction that she would not be surprised if the god himself flinched. 

But the night is growing late and, despite her centuries in a magical coma, the former priestess finds herself growing weary. 

“Come, lets go to bed.” She smiles, gently tugging on his arm as she makes her way to what appears to be an obscenely soft bed. 

     The words are familiar to him - he thinks them every day - but hearing her say them out loud catches his breath. If so much as a single slave reported hearing her say that, it would be brought to Konahriik personally for trial. He is afraid (even if he would not admit it); he has also never felt such thrill. Just her whisper fills him with more adrenaline than galloping a horse. It is more real, to hear someone else speak the words.

“Now we have said it,” he murmurs “It must be done. The gods will not allow us to go back on our word.” whether he believes that or not he cannot say for sure; it is a stock phrase that he had heard once and now uses often, because it says as he feels in a way people can stomach. In truth, he will hold himself to it; that is as good as a god’s decree, which he know, but others call hubris.

“It is within our grasp, more so than you realise - I-” bold, but not a fool, he murmurs - laas yah nir - and looks about. Red lights hovering in his vision show him the closest life a spider in the corner of the ceiling - beyond that there is only a slave bustling in a nearby corridor, and a draugr at the far end of theirs, but no one within hearing distance. Yet still, he pushes his mask up, and leans in so close his lips are on Ea’s ear, and breathes “I can kill the dragons, truly kill them, so that even Alduin cannot revive them. I can Shout because I take their souls.”

His whispered revelation sends a shiver down her spine. She takes a step back, eyes blown wide and jaw slack in awe as she stares at him. Miraak may have evoked gods, but the only one Ea sees before her is him. 

Her mind is simultaneously reeling and silent, leaving her lost in a mesmerized stupor for what feels like an eternity. FInally something clicks and she surges forward, framing his unmasked face with her hands as she presses her lips to his. Her kiss is hungry; teeth and tongue sliding against his lips as if trying to taste the lingering power of his thu’um. 

When she steps away her lips are kiss swollen and her eyes burning. 

     The clothing he has with him is as sensible as can be achieved when one must also never be mistaken for anything less than an emperor; even the brownest cloak glitters with secret embroidery, when it hits the light just right. He produces a long and sleeved tunic that’s uncannily fitting for this moment - red dominates his wardrobe nowadays, being the colour of his adopted empire, but purple was always the colour of power in the cult, and this is one of the few items he had made in purple, just for his nostalgia. And it’s lined luxuriously with soft fur, for the coldest climates, and he’s worried for her health.

“Here,” he drapes it across a spare chair, but restrains himself from asking if she needs assistance, like a frail old woman. His clothes are simple to wear, unlike those of some priests, because he never liked being dressed by others. What Ea needs she will ask for and if he is not careful his concern will become grating and ruin their reunion. “I will have a bed found for you - just a minute.” and he slips to the doorway. After everything he has told her, he imagines she could use a moment alone, to gather her thoughts.

She whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ as he leaves her to her thoughts. Once he is gone she rises quickly, reaching for the tunic he provided and is momentarily struck by the luxuriousness of it. The fabric is dyed in the familiar, rich purple reserved for the high priests, and so soft Ea would swear it were silk if not for the obvious fur lined within. She will have to ask what creature the fur comes from, and ensure that it is featured in her new wardrobe. 

The possibilities of a new wardrobe are still on her mind as she begins to undress. The ties about her waist come apart with ease, as well preserved as she had been in death. It is easy, for a moment, to believe that she is back in her own time. Until she feels something tugging at her skin. The former priestess looks down to see blood, dried, crusted blood staining her skin. 

Immediately her hands begin to tremble. Memories flash in her mind as phantom pains shoot through her lungs. She kicks the dress off in a frenzy, hurling it across the tent before quickly pulling Miraak’s tunic over her head. As expected, it hangs off her like a dress, the collar so wide it drapes off one of her shoulders and the hem easily reaching her knees. She shakes in a shuddering breath trying to focus on the comforting weight of the material and the softness of the fur. She holds it to her face and breathes in the scent of him. For a moment she smiles; of course, even after all this time, he would still smell the same, like parchment and books and something heatier that she can never quite name. 

It is a comfort that at least the best part of her her life has survived. Here to guide her and help her rebuild. Not so unlike her brother--

Her brother. 

The realization strikes Ea like a punch to the gut, forcing the air from her lungs as she falls to her knees. A strangled sob breaks from her mouth before she smothers the rest behind her hand, hot tears streaking down her cheeks. With all that had happened, all that she’d learned, she hadn’t thought about Eero. It is miraculous enough that she and Miraak are still alive. She cannot dare to hope that somehow her elder brother was blessed with the same fate.