forth, and fear no darkness!

uhhhh idk if ill finish but retired elyden as a cutie

I think everytime Miraak tried to escape in any way he could, he always ended back up on Apocrypha’s lukewarm oceans. No matter what, he faced the vastness of his prison

as a master of restoration, elentari should be able to use it to kill: to stop a person's heart as easily as if she were snuffing out a candle. she hasn't done it yet—i think she'd view it as the exact opposite of what restoration is to her, this pure, good, healing thing—but if she were truly, truly angry, then it'd absolutely be on the table. (which is why she didn't do it to the dark brotherhood when she wiped them out: because she wasn't angry. she was cold and clear on what she wanted to do, and she wore a calm little smile as she burned them all.)

there's probably rumours, though, people who think she's capable of it. if the myths say the dragonborn can tear down city walls with just a whisper, who's to say she couldn't do something like this if she ever wanted?

or: those born with the soul of a dragon really can't flirt like normal people. may become part of i fear no fate (for you are my fate) at some point, 348 words

“But what would they have me do, really?” Elentari sighs, frowning down at the spring flowers she’s winding into a wreath for her hair. “Skyrim’s Dragonborn I may be, but its war is theirs, not mine to solve—not unless they’d have me storm into Solitude atop Odahviing and declare myself High Queen.”

“I would have you be Queen,” is Miraak’s reply, half in jest. Half, and no more: his same-soul would grow pale and wilt beneath a crown’s weight, he knows, for her upbringing in Daggerfall has left her all too familiar with the secrets, and the schemes, and the honey-sweet words that smoothed the way for the inevitable knife. But Elentari is a dragon in soul if not in flesh, and a dragon cannot hide how its pupils flare at the mere mention of gold. “And, rinisili, filjudi, a queen,” he pronounces as he pulls the featherweight of her into his lap, “must have a throne, must she not?”

Elentari laughs, then, bell-bright, and tightens her legs about his waist for grip, her gown riding up her stockinged thighs. “Is that all the honour you’d claim for yourself, anarinya?” she asks, slipping for a moment into lilting, songlike Old Bretic to name him her sun, the sun to her skyful of stars. “Would you not prefer to be—” and ah, the mischief in her dimpled smile, “—my favourite court jester?” A quick flit of a kiss to a healed-over scar beside his mouth. “My most trusted advisor?” Another kiss to the opposite side, unmarked. “Or perhaps my sworn sword, my loyal knight?”

Miraak hums, pretending to think about it, then inches forwards—so scarce is the space between them—and captures her lips in an unhurried kiss. His thumb strokes the pointed tip of her ear; he feels her heels press into his back as she shivers against him. “I would accept no other title than that of your consort,” he tells her, and he’ll fill himself up with the breathless little laugh she grants him when he rolls them back into the grass.

they would make the bestest of friends