#arfld

The Last Dragonborn’s sword clashed against the First’s, whistling. Dovahkiin hopped backwards. She lobbed a fireball at Miraak. He dodged it easily. He sent a bolt of lightning to her chest, and she fended it off with her sword — it still hit her shoulder. He lunged at her, sword raised high. Her grip was weakened. She parried a few thrusts before losing her weapon.

Her sword clattered as it fell to the floor. “Hermaeus Mora,” he told her between breaths, mockingly, “is probably laughing at us, you know.”

He raised his sword in a coup de grâce’s motion — ‘til Dovahkiin rammed his chest with her wounded shoulder. It pushed him back a few steps. Dovahkiin muttered a curse through gritted teeth. She ripped a dagger out from a sheath at her thigh and stabbed his thigh. Blood dripped around the glass blade as he staggered backwards. Miraak grunted — a puff of ice-magic at his fingertips, his spell diffused — and Shouted —

Wᴜʟᴅ Nᴀʜ Kᴇsᴛ!

— before reappearing easily a dozen feet behind the Dovahkiin. She turned around — there was already a healing spell between her palm and her injured shoulder — and she laughed, sudden and free. Miraak sent a bolt after her. Dovahkiin threw herself onto the ground, dodging it. She rolled to her sword. She picked it up and stabbed it into the ground. As the bolt caught her, the electricity coursed through her body harmlessly and into the ground. Dovahkiin panted.

“Mora? He definitely is,” she told him through a grin of sharp teeth. She ripped the sword off the ground. “Isn’t it fucked up?!”

She charged.

They’d been fighting for hours, now.

Dovahkiin’s off-hand glowed purple. Miraak tried to cast another lightning bolt on her; she used the flat of a Conjured sword to deflect it. She bounced to a standing point as the blade dissolved. Then, Dovahkiin ran. She dodged his magic and the tentacles whipping her legs from beyond the isle’s edge and jumped at Miraak, blade held high. He stepped back and blocked her swing. She wasn’t done landing — on her feet, like a cat — when Miraak punched her in the face with his free hand. The punch reversed her momentum. Dovahkiin flew back several feet. Her body hit the floor with a sick thud. She struggled to get back up, palms flat on the ground, and Shouted,

Yᴏʟ Tᴏᴏʀ Sʜᴜʟ!

A stream of fire erupted before her, enveloping her enemy. Miraak yelped and then scoffed, the fire burning out, and he patted off his robes. The flames dissolved, but he still moved with a jerkiness not unlike a burn victim.

Huh. “Hey, are those your only clothes?” the Dragonborn asked him. He didn’t reply. She didn’t give him the time to. She Sprinted back to him and kicked him in the stomach. Miraak stumbled back and Shouted,

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!,

sending her careening near the oily black depths. Dovahkiin skid to a stop and slapped the moist Apocryphan rock, and she groaned.

“My ass hurts… and the sea smells gross,” she complained — and then she noticed Miraak’s glowing form.

"Sᴀʜʀᴏᴛᴀᴀʀ,” he spoke. “Zɪɪʟ ʟᴏs ᴅɪɪ ᴅᴜ!"

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” the dragonborn cursed under her breath. She crawled around him, behind his back, watching as his injuries healed. Miraak turned around, alerted by the noise; Dovahkiin blinked at him in surprise. She dodged an ice spike and shot a burst of flame his way, then another as she jumped — and landed on her hands. She cartwheeled back onto her feet. Miraak shot more lightning at her; Dovahkiin dodged them. She lunged around him, then Sprinted onto Miraak’s back, tackling him onto the floor.

Miraak struggled, tried to buck her off his back. He pushed himself up. Dovahkiin ran her sword through his hand, sending him back to the ground. Miraak felt a knee on his back and a sharp pain at his neck — a single drop of blood. He could barely raise his head. Somehow, a dagger had wormed its way far too close for comfort to his throat.

“Wuh … ghh, wuhld…”, he grunted, defiant.

Did you think you could escape me, Miraak?

“No,” a voice whispered. Miraak’s vision failed, flickering. It burnt, it burnt, it burnt it burnt it —

“NO!”, Dovahkiin screamed. Miraak fought not to lose consciousness. He could barely move. His eyes watered and he coughed again. Quick breathing in useless panic. He was going to die. He’d gone too far this time, he’d… there was something, warm? Touching his injury. He swallowed a scream.

…No?

His eyes closed. The last thing Miraak saw in Apocrypha was the Last Dragonborn thinking for a moment, then looking up at Hermaeus Mora — and —

“I could,”

— saying —

“make a deal with you, Hermaeus Mora,”

— saying —

“for Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ.”

The house had yellow walls, and no windows. The candles’ lighting flickered briefly, their flames puppeteering the furniture’s shadows into bizarre nonsense dances. A table had a slight burnt smudge, as if marked by a book-shaped iron. It was quiet. Quiet as could be, until a slight, pitched noise, like a kettle boiling, rose in pitch and volume until it was a downright shriek. The flames shook again.

Smoke burst, suddenly, bubbled over from thin air. A writhing mass of inky limbs exploded from the cloud, giving way to a brief, green tear — and as suddenly as it’d appeared, it was gone, leaving only two bodies.

The shorter figure held onto the taller one like a mercy, like a pity. She fell to her knees under the strain. Her blood and his blood were one and the same in drips and the puddles at their feet. She laid her head on his chest for a moment, half-mournful, half-listening.

He still lived.

With great effort, the Last Dovahkiin lifted the First’s agonizing body into the air. She stumbled her way into a spare bedroom before dropping him into a bed. She pushed him (better yet, nudged him) inside the covers, and pulled back his hood. Then, she ripped the mask off his face.

“…you certainly haven’t tanned,” she whispered, a bit incredulous. The face was tired, but — it was so young. She’d been expecting maybe a forty, fifty year old, not…

…he looked older than her, but by so… little.

She immediately turned to her own rucksack and her cabinets, rummaging through them all. She produced a number of healing potions, scribbled labels on reused bottles, and remembered her lessons from the College.

Concentrate.

Even out your breathing.

The golden light of a healing spell reflected on her face.

Focus on knitting the flesh and organs together.

She felt more than she saw the wound; she put both hands at the gap left behind on his clothes by the tentacle and ripped the cloth apart. She placed both hands on the wound and she healed, she healed, she healed.

She breathed in deeply, the worst already over — and the world suddenly moved.

Dovahkiin fell on her face, slapped Miraak’s ribs as she tried to pull herself up. The ground shook. Potions fell from the shelves, bathed both of them in magic. Dovahkiin caught one with a flick of her wrist, opened it with a snap of her fingers; she shoved the bottle’s open neck into Miraak’s mouth, holding on for dear life as the world tossed in its sleep.

(in his dreams, the earth rocked from side to side like a cradle. a wave rose high, echoing a curved moon, then fell upon him breathlessly. foam and salt curled into the air, the water tinted green by algae, and he struggled to resurface and taste the seawater winds. there was nothing but humid darkness. his skin unraveled from his limbs, or perhaps tendrils — ones that covered him for so long they’d become a second skin? nevertheless, the ink only devoured. what else could it ever do?)

The earth was shaking.

Miraak spluttered and coughed; Dovahkiin shook the last droplets of potion on his face, like salt, and went back to Healing. Please, please, please she begged. Hermaeus Mora could not be so cruel as to do this. He was not unfair. He was cold, and unknown, and retributive; but he was not petty, not like this. (Wasn’t he?)

The wound closed. The veins surrounding its area were still a dark green, but it was an improvement; the golden spell seemed to ease their darkness. Miraak looked stable, for now.

The earth was still shaking.

This… This wasn’t a normal earthquake.

Dovahkiin clung to the walls and furniture and flooring, dragging herself through the house, room by room, up the cream-colored stairs. The doors slammed open and close hysterically. She had a solution for that.

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!

The doors were blown clean off their hinges, outwards. Dovahkiin forced herself out after them, nearly threw her own body to the ground. She crawled her way out of the house — and into Raven Rock.

“WHAT IN OBLIVION IS HAPPENING?!”, she shouted out. The sky was pitch-black and clouded over. People took refuge behind tables and on doorways, sticking to each other like their life depended on it. Screams came from all over town. A building toppled over; another collapsed on itself.

Dovahkiin watched, wide-eyed, as the impossible happened: Solstheim, precipitating — as if magnetized — towards the mainland.

“Sssshit,” she muttered.

She stumbled upwards and half-ran towards a few mer, trapped under the debris of a building, and fell to her knees before them. She dug into the bricks with her bare hands, leaving trails of red behind on whatever they touched; she didn’t care. She managed to push a few bricks off and gave the mer she’d just aided a solid hand-squeeze.

“Th— ha-ah, thank you, thank you,” he wheezed, broken. He was bleeding, as was the other man trapped with him.

Dovahkiin knelt. “HELP!,” she shouted. “HELP! ”

A few people crawled over to help; Dovahkiin saw the bright red of healing potions, the sunshine of Restoration. Good. Good. Alright. This could be dealt with. This could b—

“THE SEA!”

Dovahkiin turned around and watched as a giant wave formed before the docks, swelling taller and taller as the mainland approached.

She stood up, pushing herself off the half-broken home, and propelled herself towards the docks. She managed to climb her way to the very edge, almost touching the water, and as she looked the wave grew taller — taller than Dovahkiin, taller than the town’s walls.

She opened her mouth and breathed in deep the sea-mist, and she faced the wave’s arch fully, and she Shouted,

Yᴏʟ Tᴏᴏʀ Sʜᴜʟ!

And the tsunami was cut in half, a blade of golden flame splitting the wine-dark sea.

A giant plume of steam burst above the own, and it rained.

It stormed the night Solstheim came home.

Miraak woke up in even halves.

His groggy consciousness spent a moment disconnected from outside input, a background hum of nonsensical turns of phrase. He took out a sentence from some book he’d read in Apocrypha that had stuck, turned it around, felt its sloping sounds inside his mind. Something about unknowable motives. Then he slowly became aware of softness all around him, the softest thing outside Apocrypha. His throat felt raw and dry.

There was a noise like creaking wood. Miraak blearily opened his eyes, squinting momentarily in golden candlelight. Golden. He brought an arm up to rub an eye and stifled a wince. There was a burning pain running through him, placed somewhere in his torso. He recalled the fight. It felt like it’d gone on for far less than it’d actually had. Miraak swallowed and found it difficult, his strength sapped and his mouth — dry.

“Oh,” he heard. “You’re awake.”

He made an effort to turn around towards the voice. Miraak barely had the time to catch a pair of scrunched-together dark eyebrows on a tanned, freckled face before his mouth filled with acidic bile. He jerked upwards and off the bed and retched onto the floor, then gasped for breath for a moment.

“Hey!”, the voice complained. “No need to ruin my boots.”

With a white-knuckled death grip on the nightstand, Miraak forced himself up, heaving on thin air. “Y… you,” he managed.

“Me!”, the Dovahkiin replied, cheerful. She was standing by his bed in more casual clothes, her hair pulled back into a shitty little ponytail. He frowned momentarily, and —

“My mask,” he said. He looked at Dovahkiin.

“It’s safe,” she replied. None of her smartassery right now, it seemed. “You were pretty badly wounded! I… did my best.”

“Give my back my mask.”

“Easy there,” she replied, amused. “I’ll give it to you later, I promise. Ooh, I also sewed your robes back together…”, and she trailed off there.

There was a silent pause. Then she sat by his side on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He looked at her, then turned around.

“…Why?” he asked.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder!,” she replied, almost in sing-song. The Dovahkiin tapped her fingers rhythmically against her leg, then sighed. “You should come with me.”

“Why would I?”

“I dunno. I don’t think you’ve got anywhere to go, do you?”

Miraak paused, surprised. Thoughtful. “…Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you…” He struggled to breathe for a moment. Miraak touched his chest, his pulse flaring up, then slowly traced down— oh. Oh, fuck. There was, bandages — that gave in—

“Don’t! …touch that,” Dovahkiin warned. “It’ll get infected. I think. I did my best, but I’m no medic. I thought to call a professional, but I had no time — and from where? This town’s tiny.”

“…where am I?”, and his voice was a whisper.

“The town of Raven Rock. In Solstheim. Or, I guess was used to be Solstheim.”

“What?” Solstheim?

“I mean, I assume it was called Solstheim before it ever became an island, if only because you recognize it, but everyone alive today — well, everyone alive but you, anyway — knew Solstheim as an island.”

“Yes, that’s… that’s what it became, after.” After the duel. Miraak felt heat on his brow, struggled to follow. What was she—? “Has… Solstheim…?”

Dovahkiin was silent for a moment. “When I brought you back,” she said, “there was an earthquake. The waters damn near parted, I’ve been told — I wasn’t there. I was here, trying to keep you alive.” She looked away from him. She was lying. “The world shook, then stopped. I only left this room after… I don’t know, some nine hours?” She was lying, she was lying, Miraak could tell. “When I went out, well,” she grimaced, “…there wasn’t a coast anymore. Solstheim had rejoined the mainland.”

He thought for a moment. Couldn’t find words, really. “Why?”

“Why’d I save you?” Dovahkiin smiled, grinned wide. “I told you! That’s for me to know and you to guess at.” She raised both her hands and waved her fingers. Her mannerisms sprung to life, filled with energy. She scooted back on the bed, raised a leg to sit cross-legged on the bed, bounced her knee a few times. “Call me Dove,” she told him. “That’s what all my friends call me.” Miraak squinted, vision already fading. He was about to fall asleep, but —

— why did she think they were friends?

Miraak found himself conscious again.

It was late. He’d woken up suddenly , for seemingly no reason — maybe his brain had been tricked by the furniture’s creaking. The blankets slid off his shoulders. His feet hit the floor; a sudden burst of ice cold on his toes. He’d sat up straight. Cool air ghosted his shoulders, and he suppressed a shiver. Silly Miraak, forgetting his clothes had been taken off for the first time in millennia.

Another creak. ...So. He wasn’t imagining things, then.

“Who’s there?”, he called out. The darkness was near-absolute, but a single candle’d been left on a side table. Miraak remained still. He felt sparks at his fingertips. He wondered for a moment where the Last had left his sword, and felt his stomach swirl — twist, curl and burn. He filed away the pain for later, when the threat had been dealt with.

A hooded silhouette appeared from the shadows. They were armored , wearing leather. For a single, giant moment, them and Miraak simply stared at each other, and were silent.

“And who are you?”, the figure spoke up, curious. “Why are you in the Dragonborn’s house?”

“Who are you? Why do you know her?”

“Know her? I knew her, once. We used to hunt dragons together.”

“You did?” Huh. “You are not that… Lydia… she spoke of, are you?”

The woman — yes, a woman, an older woman perhaps , by the sound of the voice — chuckled. “No, no, I’m not. Who are you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Mysterious reports of cults. A note from some strangely-dressed assassins. The Dragonborn meant to investigate them a long time ago, but never did — not until now, it seems. Next thing we know? An entire island’s crashed into the mainland.”

“I’ve heard of these things, but I have not seen them directly .” Evasive.

“Then I suppose you’ve at least seen the dragons.”

Dragons? “What dragons?”

“Oh, tell me you’ve heard of the two dozen dragons that descended upon this town a few days ago.”

Miraak’s eyes went wide. ...He was suddenly thankful for the lack of light; surely his features were obscured . “No, I have not.”

A sharpened glare from under the hood. “You’re joking.”

“I swear, I am not. Tell me now.”

“I told you what I know. A few days ago, the island of Solstheim rejoined the mainland. It took the island a few hours to somehow move from its previous position to the coast south of Windhelm. A few hours later, after everything had stopped moving, two dozen or so dragons appeared in the sky. Most perched on nearby terrain, some distance away from Raven Rock, or in the snow of the mainland. However , a lucky few got to walk into the wreckage of town and scare a few fishermen back into their homes. According to my sources, the Dragonborn was seen debating with them in their language for a while. Then they left — simple as that.”

Miraak had assumed the Last Dragonborn had killed all dragons on Skyrim. He'd thought the few souls he still felt simply … exiles, perhaps . But this tale said otherwise. It seemed increasingly likely she’d considered an alliance with them. ...Incautious of her.

“So,” the woman added, “who are you?”

“Why should I tell you?” Miraak asked her.

“Because if you matter to the dragons, then you are either a valuable asset — or a target.”

“At least tell me your name,” Miraak deadpanned. The icy burn of the Voice settled on his throat; he could Shout her into the wall at any moment. Break her spine. Alert the Last, surely .

“...Alright,” the woman said. “I’m Delphine. Your turn now.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. You clearly were capable of tracking the Dragonborn to her home and breaking in without a sound. Why would I tell you anything about me? I am not interested in being wrapped up in your smooth-brained intrigues. I let myself do that, once. I will not make that mistake again.”

“I don’t need your name to track you,” Delphine replied curtly . “I’ve got sources everywhere. You’re tall and speak strangely . That, coupled with how you’re residing in the Dragonborn’s house—”

“Not exactly willfully,” Miraak muttered.

“—is enough for me to find you.” There was a pleased tone to her voice. Miraak wasn’t that easily intimidated. “And in fact, Dovahkiin’s not home.”

“Truly?” Well, if that didn’t open up interesting possibilities.

“Yes. So I doubt she’ll be around to help y—”

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!

Miraak half-knelt on the bed, compensating for the Shout’s backwards momentum. He scanned the room; Delphine had managed to avoid the worst of the impact and had just skidded off, on her knees.

There was silence for a moment.

Delphine panted. “You… You know the Voice.”

“Of course I do.”

“...you are Dragonborn?”

“And you are used to fighting foes with the Tʜᴜ'ᴜᴍ. Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.” Never let it be said two couldn’t play at the trash-talking game.

“Huh.” She stood up, holding himself against the wall. “Well, well, well. Maybe the war is not over yet, then. ...Tell me,” she said. “How do you feel about dragons?”

“I find the ᴅᴏᴠ horrid and despotic.” Every word charged with twenty-five years of venom.

“Funny, that. I think the same.” Miraak froze when he heard that. What? Delphine turned around. “If you ever tire of the Dovahkiin’s sunshine and rainbows attitude... well, the Sleeping Giant Inn in the town of Riverwood has a room for you. That is, as long as you maintain that opinion and are willing to do something about it.”

Delphine faded back into the darkness, and Miraak looked away, perhaps out of courtesy. When he looked back, she was gone.

Good. The threat had been dealt with

Pain stabbed his lower ribs. Miraak clamped a hand over the wound and gritted his teeth. He laid back down. The Shout had loosened his bandages. Whatever painkillers the Last had given him were starting to wear off. A drop of black blood hit the covers, then another. His underwear was ruined with the stuff, too — he should change. Change, find his clothes, a shirt and new underwear and pants, and… and he should probably sleep, too.

The candle’s shaky, golden glow illuminated a wide, pale shoulder. The glow delineated the following torso in the darkness. Miraak had other thoughts besides revenge.

The underground home and the constant short fits of sleep were wrecking Miraak’s sense of night and day. Well, they would've, if he hadn’t lost that sense already. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to tell between night and day ever again, not without seeing the sky.

This is to say, Miraak was — for the third time — awake.

At least it wasn’t green. (Were candles in the dark any better?)

It was claustrophobic inside this tiny room. Would the Last let him go his own way? Certainly not, with how they’d met. And he was done betraying masters who thought highly of him. It never led to anything good.

The bed’s covers were green; he looked away from them and his gaze fell on a distant bookshelf. ...He sat up straight.

Miraak stood up with some difficulty, and stepped out of the bed. He padded through the room in silence, holding his midsection tight. His bandages had been fixed up while he slept, but they were the same ones as before. His mind felt a little fuzzy. He reached the door. On the doorknob, there was a cotton robe; it was red . He glanced at it, then picked it up and slipped it on, the light material foreign-feeling. He breathed in deeply and opened the door.

...More empty house. Still yellow, still underground. He walked for a bit. A large central area led to a wide staircase, carved in stone. Its bannister was cold, and Miraak’s footsteps echoed faintly on his way up. At the top, a door, wooden, solid-looking. Miraak pushed it open and walked out.

It was early in the morning, and the sky was not green. The sky was a warm, washed-out gray, the sun rising behind thick clouds. Miraak took a step, and then another, and felt a cold breeze dance around him. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The sky. Oh, gods, the sky. And the wind, and the horizon — there was a town, there was a town some distance away, and — and mountains! Mountains, and he could see no ocean, just snow in the distance, and a thin river, and a lake. Oh, mountains. Oh, gods. He smiled.

Miraak was tempted to just sit down on the ground and drink it all in, when —

“Oh!”, a familiar voice called. “You’re awake!”

The Last Dragonborn appeared from behind a bend in the path. He sighed as she bounded towards him. Guess that was it for now.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked, cheerful.

“Well, yes,” Miraak admitted. Last grinned.

“You were pretty hard to get out of there, you know! And the island moved, too! Luckily no one at sea was injured , since the Windhelm docks go a different way, but the quake that moved the island caused lots of debris and several injuries and I haven’t even checked on the other village yet and Ulfric Stormcloak keeps refusing my attempts at aid, and, and this architecture is fine for quakes because it’s sturdy but on the Skaal village they don’t—”

Please fucking slow down, Miraak begged her internally . “Ulfric Stormcloak…”

“Yeah, he’s the jarl of Windhelm and he hates me ‘cause I said if his claim to the throne was valid I could take it away from him with a fistfight, and he’s an asshole to dunmer too, and his soldiers are always stinky, and anyway didn’t the Nords descend from Atmoran, what heritage are ya gonna find in Skyrim that wouldn’t be way easier to find in Atmora, am I right ? Like why are you claiming land for yourselves when you hate the Reachmen and won some kind of war a while back against the Falmer that I don’t really understand but—”

Miraak looked at her, completely dumbfounded. “...Have you always spoken like this?”

“...No,” the Last admitted, “ I think I’m just excited today… You’re finally here.” She scratched the back of her head. Her grayish-white hair looked like an old woman’s. It reflected blonde undertones in the faint sunlight. “I’ve always wanted to know another Dragonborn… I think you’ll do just fine,” and she smiled.

Miraak didn't smile back. “I’ve read of Ulfric Stormcloak in Apocrypha.” Contrary to popular belief, books constantly trickled into the great library. And finding the newer ones was easy; they weren’t stained yet. “I know vaguely of his claims. You do not need to tell me who he is.”

“Ah, you’re caught up? That’s great.”

There was a little bit of silence before Miraak adjusted his robe and spoke again.

“What will you do next, then?”

The Last frowned, confused. “...I don’t know?”, she admitted. “I was thinking of going back to the mainland — well, what used to be the mainland — you know what I’m talking about — and then just … talking to you for a while. I don’t… I thought you could move in with me, and my friend Lydia, while you sort of… decide what to do next? There’s a lot of things to do in Skyrim nowadays. We could raid some Dwemer ruins? Investigate that Dawnguard group I’ve heard about? You could go to the College and see if you like it? I dunno…”, and she looks down.

Miraak looked at her, head slightly tilted. “You aren’t letting me leave freely?”, he asked, knowing the answer.

“Uhh… maybe? Yes? No? Uhm, if you promise to not conquer anything, or hypnotize any more people, sure?”

“...I do owe you,” Miraak said, but not admitting it magnanimously; simply stating a fact.

“Yeah, see? If — in return for freeing you, if you wanna do it like that, you can come with me for a bit and be my friend, maybe , and we can sort of — compare?”, the Last stuttered out.

Miraak looked at her, frowning.

“...I am going back inside,” he said.

“Oh, uhm—okay! I’ll be gone for awhile,” she said. “I need to help some people here on Raven Rock. When you’re rested enough to leave we can go check on the Skaal, though maybe don’t show them who you are, they don’t really like you? And I think they think you’re kind of dead? Sorry, I didn’t tell them. But I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

Miraak didn’t hear her, already locking the door to the honey-walled house.

It was the late afternoon, and the Last Dragonborn was doing her last rounds for the day.

“First Councilor?” Dovahkiin knocked at the manor’s door. She coughed. Her throat still hurt; too many shouts, too little time. She held a small bag with shaking hands, which were tied to shaking shoulders, attached to a shaking body. She was underdressed for the weather. Something in the climate had shifted since… well, since the earth had shaken. She waited.

The door opened a sliver with a slight squeak. No-one oiled their doors in Skyrim; same principle held true for Solstheim. “I’ve got the potions,” she added. The door finished opening, and she walked in.

The First Councilor’s home had been one of the buildings most affected. It’d shaken like jelly. If the wave had crashed down, it would’ve been destroyed . Dovahkiin entered silently . A guard tapped her shoulder, she nodded and walked on, followed shortly by them. She climbed the stairs, then waited by the door; the guard took out a bunch of keys and flicked through them.

“This one,” she pointed out. The guard nodded before sharply turning around to look at her. Then they shrugged and unlocked the bedroom door.

In bed sat First Councilor Lleril Morvayn, bandaged. A dark-haired dunmer sat on the bed, checking on the split on his arm.

“Oh,” Dovahkiin said. “You’re new. Did Ulfric change his mind about helping Raven Rock?”

They turned around to look at her. For a moment, they looked surprised — then they composed themself and smiled. “Ah, no. I mean, I am from Windhelm, but I didn’t come on anyone’s orders.” They turned around and finished checking the splint, then shook their head slowly . “My apologies, First Councilor. I think you’ll need a cast for this, too.”

“I understand.” The councilor peered behind their shoulder. “Oh, Outlander. The potions?”

“Here.” She handed the bottle over to the dunmer attending him. They picked one of the bottles out of the bag and examined them with a critical eye.

“These are really good,” they said. “Who made them?”

“Ah— a local alchemist, Milore Ienth,” Dovahkiin said, a bit surprised. The dunmer gave the bag to the Councilor.

“Tell Ienth I’ll pay her when I’m back on my feet,” the Councilor ordered.

“I already paid her, it’s on my tab,” Dovahkiin replied, “don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” The Councilor placed the potions near the bed, minus one. He proceeded to drink it.

“You know,” the dunmer said, “you look familiar… You’ll have to forgive me, my memory isn’t the greatest. Have we met before?”

Dovahkiin hesitated for a moment. “No.”

“Oh. Well, then,” and they extended a hand. “I’m Iril.”

Dovahkiin’s black eyes flickered briefly on the Councilor. He’d fallen asleep; drowsiness was common with these kinds of healing potions. They were strong, but they overworked the body. “Dove,” the Dovahkiin offhandedly offered. “Nice to meet you, Iril. I should leave, though — I’ve got guests at home.”

“Yes, I saw — he had bandages on his chest, right? Is he in need of further help?”

“Yes! And no, not anymore, happily , but thank you for the offer.” Dovahkiin gave them a short nod.

“Well, if you ever need help, I’m here.” Iril smiled at her.

“I will, thank you!” Dovahkiin squinted at them. Have I seen them before?, she wondered. “...See you later!”

As she left, she missed Iril watching her curiously , the door swinging closed with a squeak behind her.

The day, impossibly, passed by.

Dovahkiin kept being as bizarre to Miraak all day as she’d been that morning. Miraak slept through most of the day, letting his wounds rest. They healed fast. They always did, nowadays. When he’d woken up in Apocrypha, after his — after — the duel, he’d woken up healed. His bruises were gone, his wounds sealed. A gash across his stomach, now only a scar. Three claw-marks across his cheek, from a blue dragon who’d proved troublesome. The fifteenth one to fall, maybe ? He hadn’t been keeping count.

He still coughed up ink, every so often. There was a wound in his abdomen that infected everything around it with darkness. But skin had began to grow over it, aided by the Last Dovahkiin’s seemingly endless supply of health potions.

As Miraak slept, and woke up, and fell back asleep, though — like always — he planned.

There was no one guarding the door. It was not locked at night. Last had said she’d broken the lock and she hadn’t had the time to fix it. She’d also told him where she’d stored his clothes, his — his mask. His identity, taken from him, and even if he’d had no other reason to leave, this one was enough. Not even Mora had taken the mask off him. He’d done so only because he didn’t care, but — the point stood. And Raven Rock, at night… Miraak had felt it, while pulling strings from beyond. There came a point no one remained awake. All had, once, come to his embrace.

Just to the next town, Miraak had thought half-asleep, then he could find his next step.

And so, in the middle of the night, the plan sprung into action. The blankets in his room, left empty and cold and unmade. The room plundered, the kitchen emptied, and from another room, a chest’s lock broken, the chest emptied. Bare but for a note. He was not impolite, after all. Then a shape in the darkness, through the hallways and up the stairs. A creak from the door and then — suddenly — Skyrim’s auroras, oh, how he’d missed this. He’d stood still for a moment still and watched them, bright and burning. And then he’d hurried even more. To compensate. Footsteps, in the night, on the ash that grounded Solstheim. They went around the rubble, around the ruined buildings. Where the ash suddenly turned to mud, they deepened. Then they blended into sludge, far into the horizon. Though... the wind blew and animals skittered over them and the track, eventually, was lost.