Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A simple story of the Last and the First. Except with a bit of a twist.

The Last has had to play hero for far longer than they were comfortable with. They had realized, over the course of their journey, that they were no better than the dragons they killed every week. They craved power like a drug, but they refused to bow to anyone to obtain more. Those who thought they could control them were cut down.

Harkon, Astrid, Delphine, Mercer Frey, the lady Black-briar, and Ulfric Stormcloak.

The Last had not chosen a side in the war. They cut down Ulfric and took his place. They had no sympathy for those who sat on a throne and shouted orders.

Except, there was an issue.

They knew nothing about politics and had blindly stepped up to the plate. Killing Alduin had been far easier. They wanted to storm the Blue Palace and take the throne by force, but their advisor had made a good point. They couldn’t take on a whole army by themselves. If they stormed the Blue Palace and tried to kick all the Thalmor from Skyrim, the Aldmeri Dominion was likely to send an army.

The pressure to come up with a strategy was weighing heavily on their mind. They really had bitten off far more than they could chew -- and they were learning that leading was not quite what they had thought it would be. They needed to take a step back with room to think, but they were trapped within the stone walls of The Palace of Kings

It was then that they had a way out. Two cultists had walked into The Last’s castle and had claimed they were an imposter, and the only true Dragonborn was a faceless man named Miraak.

“You dare claim I am not Dovahkiin!” The Last’s Voice shook the foundation of The Palace of Kings. The scent of fear was heavy in the air, and it came from everyone, including the cultists. They didn’t show their fear though, they put on a brave face -- figuratively speaking seeing as they wore masks -- and died valiantly. The Last had to give them credit, they faced their demise head-on.

It was then that The Last found the note on one of the cultists and called for a boat to Solstheim. Men were greedy, so despite the captain’s discomfort at going back to the island, he was being given a large sum of money he could not deny, and he did not deny. He hesitantly transported the Last to the island.

The island was ashy, and the citizens were annoying. The first Dunmer to meet The Last was nearly shouted into the water. It was the power of the Thu’um that forced the Dunmer to scurry away. The Last did not discriminate against race, your race did not matter to them. If you listened without question, you lived. That Dunmer had the gall to demand why they were there! If they had met on Skyrim…Well…The punishment would have been unspeakable.

The Last was infuriated by the lack of answers they were given about the man named Miraak. Though, the head council of Raven Rock was useful enough. He pointed the Last to Miraak’s Temple.

That is where the Last was currently. Irritation was bubbling up inside of them at the Nord woman that was following them around like a lost puppy dog. The Last had kept their mouth shut until now since the nord was a good distraction for the cultists. Her loudmouth drew them in like a moth to a flame.

In the deepest parts of the temple were horrific Daedric totems that left the Last on edge. The book in the center of a circular room with more Daedric likeness made them immensely uncomfortable. The Nord woman made a comment that the Last silently agreed with. It was the most agreeable statement she had made thus forth. Though, when the woman suggested reading the book - more like demanded, the Last turned to her with a fire in their eye that had finally grown too strong for them to contain.

“If you do not keep your mouth shut, I will burn it shut. I do not have time for your idle chatter, nor do I have the patience to deal with it any longer.” The Last hissed a serpentine hiss that shocked the Nord woman.

The Last’s eyes had slit like a sabercats, and the room around them shook, dust falling from the ceiling as they spoke. What power did this person hold to cause an underground temple to shudder so? Frea did not wish to find out.

The Nord woman fell silent as the Last opened the book.

They were disoriented when they appeared in the Daedric plane. The lightning that coursed through them forced them to their knees. They looked up into the golden Daedric mask that belonged to the man who assaulted them. They’re face twisted with rage as they tried to stand, but they were unable to move much more than an inch. They were truly enraged.

The man monologue for some time — the Last fought against his magic the entire time and finally felt it beginning to weaken — and even called the Last weak . Their helmeted head snapped up, and their eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Weak? You call me weak? I am not the one who fell for a Prince’s lies.” They hissed venomously. 

They had climbed to their feet — which was not as easy as they made it look — and were now looking up at the man on an even playing field. Well, as even as their five-foot one stature could be with someone who was close to seven feet tall. Miraak looked down on the Last with a mixture of awe, rage, and curiosity. No one had talked back to him in a very long time, not to mention the fact that they were capable of shaking off his magic as they did. It was intriguing. Infuriating, but intriguing. They would live another day only so he could accurately gauge their strength. 

“Hmm, you intrigue me Dragonborn.” He purred in a sadistic tone. 

Admittedly, his statement had caught them off guard, which also left the Last curious about the man before them. The Last had a devilish grin spreading across their face. “As do you, Miraak.”

Miraak did not know what the smile meant. It sent a shiver down his spine. Fear? Was this fear? He had not felt fear in so long, and this small Dragonborn was capable of making him feel it? He would find out why they brought forth this feeling, and he would bring it to an end. 

They pulled out the Black Book — which somehow was in their knapsack — and ran a hand over the cover. “I will await your return to Tamriel. I do not feel inclined to become a Daedric plaything,” The Last stated and looked back up to Miraak with a smirk on their face. “It would also be a shame to end what could be a beautiful alliance.”

Miraak watched the Last open the book and vanish. A strange amusement had wormed its way into his mind. An alliance? This would be interesting indeed. He needed to get out first, and he had a feeling the Last would not stop him.

The Last nearly spewed fire at the Nord woman when they returned. She had been touching them!

“Do not touch me with your filthy hands.” The Last hissed as they ripped their arm from her grasp. The woman snarled back. Apparently, the Last’s threat from earlier wasn’t taken seriously.

“I am not filthy! What did you see in there? Did you find Miraak? Did you kill him?” The woman shot questions like a master archer and it only irritated the Last further. “No, I did not kill him, and nor do I plan to.” The Last grunted as they went to leave.

The woman stepped in their way, fury on her face that was turning her skin red. Did this woman have a death wish?

“What do you mean you did not intend to kill him?! He has imprisoned my people and the rest of those who live on Solstheim! He must be destroy-” The woman was abruptly cut off by an open palm wrapping around her throat. She was shoved back and up against a wall as the Dragonborn snarled in her face.

“Your lack of concern for my well-being is appalling, not to mention your insolence as to who I am,” The Last tightened their hand around the Nord’s throat and she began to choke. “I am the Last Dragonborn. You will respect me, and Miraak will be left alive. If I killed him in that Daedric plane, I would surely replace him as the Champion. And I don’t believe you would like that.” The Last had a twisted smile on their face that sent a chill down the woman’s spine.

She was slowly reaching for the Stalhrim ax that was strapped to her side when her hand was snatched and held away from her weapon. The Last leaned in close to her ear and hissed lowly into her ear. “Do I make myself clear?” 

The whisper was far from the demeanor that she was faced with before. It was colder, calculating and she felt naked despite her armor. The Last was no longer smiling, and the aura of death surrounding them was suffocating. “Yes.” The Nord choked out.

The Last dropped their hold and walked away. They did not care for the choking noises that echoed off the walls of the circular cavern they walked through. Her windpipe could be crushed and they would not bat an eye.

But maybe they were too rough on her? No, she got what she deserved for testing their patience. The Last would stay on Solstheim until Miraak arrived. It did not matter how long that took. They would wait.

Frea could hardly catch her breath. Each one felt like sand was sliding down her throat. She knew her throat was starting to swell, but thankfully the swelling would not constrict her airway. That person, the Dragonborn they had called themselves, was far more dangerous than Frea had thought. They had seemed irritable and aloof as they walked together through the Temple. Their threat before they opened the book had startled Frea, but she had thought that they were just frustrated and tired. This…This was worse. The Dragonborn was violent, unpredictable, and was willing to let Miraak walk free!

Frea had to tell her father and the remainder of her people. She did not know what they would do against such a formidable opponent. Yet they had to try.

Chapter Text

A month had passed since the Last had appeared on Solstheim. They had made a name for themselves in that time by taking care of the things the people were either too afraid to do themselves or were incapable of taking care of themselves. The Last was given a home after ending an assassination attempt. They had collected an assortment of armors and weapons along with three Dragon Priest masks. They had also learned how to make Stalhrim!

They refused to think about the dead body of the blacksmith in that abandoned cabin.

Some of the weapons and armor they had collected weren't worth much and weren't even worthy of being called weapons or armor. Though, they had to admit that the weapons and armor looked pretty on the displays in their Solstheim house.

Despite having kept themselves busy with exploring, looting, and assisting the Solstheim residents, they were growing bored of waiting for Miraak’s return. They were beginning to wonder if Hermaeous-Mora had caught on to his escape plan — if they were being honest, they didn’t believe Mora wasn’t aware. There was no possible way the Daedric Prince of Knowledge did not know of Miraak’s escape plan. That left the Last feeling…off. They couldn’t quite place what the feeling was, but they didn’t like it.

They decided then to visit Miraak’s temple to check with his Cultists. After their visit with Miraak, he had appeared to his High Priestess to tell her of the Last’s presence and that they were not to be killed. This opened up a whole well of questions apparently and it was found out that Mora had sent out a Cultist of HIS to attack the Last and draw them to Solstheim. Miraak had NOT been pleased from what the Last heard from the Priestess.

That had confirmed the Lasts’ suspicions about Mora being aware of Miraak’s escape plan.

The Last entered the Temple and made their way down into its depths. Cultists were walking around, talking to one another, sparring, and a plethora of other things. Apparently, when the Last and Frea had been here, most had hidden and sent out those who were disposable. They had committed some crime or another that led to them being used as a distraction. If they lived their crimes would be forgiven, if they died, they were given a traitor's burial.

They were tossed into the sea.

The Last knocked on the Priestess’ office door and waited. There was a deep and frustrated exhale of breath on the other side of the wooden door. “Tinvaak.” The Priestess called shortly.

The Last opened the door. “The I is pronounced as E, it is a simple mistake but a common one.” The Priestess straightened up as her head flew up. “Laat!? My apologies, I had not known you were coming.”

She moved to stand and the Last shook their head. “Niid, I came unannounced, you are not to blame. Sit, I am only here to check on Miraak’s progress.”

The Priestess faltered before sitting back down. Papers littered her desk and from what the Last could glean, there was trouble with the Skaal. They had become aggressive after Frea and the Last had parted ways, and they had made it a point to attack any Cultist they came across. There was more, but the Last could not make out what was written. 

Laat frowned at the papers before looking back up at the Priestess. They had never seen her face since she wore that Gods awful mask that looked similar to Miraak’s. Though, Laat had to admit that the robes she wore were much nicer than the lesser followers. The typical robes and mask were dark brown and gold while the mask was an off white that looked eerily like dragon bones. The Priestess wore similar robes, but they were embellished with reds and greens with the dragon bone white decal. The Last had to admit that they were much nicer than the typical robes.

The Priestess spoke up after collecting some of the paperwork, “Lord Miraak visited me last night, he says that Hermaeous-Mora had nearly caught him enacting his plan and has had to postpone until he is sure that Mora isn’t looking his way.”

“So, everything is ready for him to escape?” Laat inquired. The Priestess nodded, “Yes, Mora is just proving to be an annoyance.”

Laat leaned back in the wooden chair and crossed their arms, a thoughtful look on their face. “I am curious, how do you speak to Miraak?”

The Priestess hesitated then. Laat did not have to see her face to know that she did not wish to share that information. They sighed and waved their hand. “You do not have to answer. I assume Miraak threatened to harm you if you betrayed his trust.”

They stood then and smiled at the Priestess. The smile didn’t quite reach their eyes, eyes that held malice and a rage that made the Priestess’s hands shake uncontrollably. “I will leave you be,” Laat said, and that brought relief to the Priestess until they spoke again. “Though, I happened to notice what was on the paperwork you have on your desk.” Laat placed their gloved hands on the desk and leaned towards the Priestess. She leaned back and swallowed thickly.

“I could assist you with your...Skaal problem, if you would like?” Laat tilted their head to the side and the smile on their face widened. “Uh, it is no problem, Laat. You do not need to dirty your weapons on those pests.” The Priestess attempted to placate.

Since the day the Priestess met the Last Dragonborn, she had noticed an intense bloodlust within them that not even Miraak carried. It left her uncomfortable and afraid in the Laat’s presence, even with that intent not directed at her.

Laat continued to smile. “It would not be any trouble to me, I have grown rather bored waiting for Miraak to return. I’ve traveled the island and found all of its secrets. I have nothing more to do.”

The Priestess couldn’t find anything to say in attempt to convince the Last not to attack that village. Wait! “They know of an art of weapon and armor making that they refuse to share. We cannot kill them until we know their secret.”

Laat straightened up and laughed. The foundation of the Temple shook and there were a few startled cries from outside the office. Laat composed themselves quickly. “Apologies, I could not help myself,” They wiped tears away from their eyes. “You do not have to worry about the Stahlrim secret, I know it and I can teach it to your blacksmiths.”

The Priestess was flabbergasted. “How!?” She flinched at her outburst and composed herself. “Um, how did you find out the secret?”

It was Laat’s turn to hesitate to answer that question. They didn’t know why, but they were ashamed of what they had done to that blacksmith. But what was done was done. They turned their discomfort into a wicked grin. “I found the blacksmith of Skaal village abducted by Thalmer agents. He...kindly gave me the knowledge.”

The Priestess did not want to know what Laat did to that poor man, and they had no other needs from the village. The Priestess saw no other way to keep the Skaal alive.

“Then, yes, I would appreciate assistance in eliminating the Skaal.” The Priestess grimaced behind her mask as Laat’s wicked grin finally reached their eyes.

“Then consider the Skaal extinct.” Laat turned and strolled from the room, leaving the Priestess shaking in her seat.

Chapter Text

The people of Raven Rock could see the smoke billowing into the sky from the other side of the island. The side of the island where the Skaal people resided and lived secluded from the heavy ash of the Red Mountain. There were nervous whispers among the Raven Rock people when the ground trembled under foot, and the sound of a thunderclap reached the Councilor’s ears. It hadn’t quite sounded like a normal clap of thunder, but of the same boom that followed after Laat Shouted.

Neloth, of the House of Telvanni, had stepped out of his laboratory to stare off at the billowing smoke cloud curiously. His mind pondered over who, or what, held such power that the very air itself seemed to vibrate in fear. He also wondered if he himself could harness that power. First, he would have to learn of its origin, then he could study it. 

At the site of the smoke, the Skaal village was set ablaze. Fire devoured the wood of the village homes, melted the flesh of unfortunate inhabitants, and melted the snow and boiled the blood that soaked it. In the center of the inferno stood a being in heavy Ebony Plate armor. The helmet obscured the person’s face, but Frea knew who the person was despite that. They had traveled through the ruins of Miraak’s temple together, and she had been threatened by them. Frea knew the person’s voice. She did not need to see their face. 

Blood trailed from an open wound on her forehead and over her left eyebrow. Her eye was squeezed shut to prevent the blood from getting into her eye. She was knelt on the ground, her Stahlrim armor cracked at the chest plate and one of her shoulder plates had been torn clean off, and she glared defiantly at the Ebony clad being who had burned down her home and slaughtered her people. 

The Last Dragonborn stared down at Frea with a slightly tilted head. The Nord woman had fought — and continued to fight — bravely despite facing a walking calamity. Laat respected her for that, albeit begrudgingly. The Nord woman stood uneasily on her feet. Her body was swaying slightly, and her glare was a bit hazy looking. She still leapt forward with a Warcry, and her Stalhrim War Axe raised to strike. 

“FUS!” Laat Shouted, the power of the Thu’um feeling like the air was rushing from their lungs to push the woman back. When the Shout hit Frea, she stumbled and fell back to her knee. 

Her head was bowed, her axe planted on its head to act like a crutch that she leaned heavily on. She was panting harshly and Laat could see her body’s rise and fall with each rapid intake and exhale. Frea lifted her head to look at her people’ destroyer again. 

“Why?” She asked, as it was the only thing she could think to ask, the only thing she wanted to know. “Why are you helping him? Why did you slaughter my people? We have not wronged you, and Miraak has proven to be untrustworthy. He has taken the minds of Solstheim’s people!” 

Anger and hate dripped from her words and poured from her very being. Her blue eyes burned with the emotions and her face was twisted with grief.

Laat only looked at Frea for a long moment before they lifted a hand and slowly removed their helmet. Long braided hair fell from under the helmet, and the loose strands framed the slightly angular pale face hidden underneath. Yellow amber eyes burned with a manic delight while lips painted with dark warpaint stretched into a smile that bared slightly pointed teeth. Laat crouched before Frea so they were on even ground. 

Their smile never left their face as they spoke, “So, I was correct in calling you arrogant, and you are blissfully ignorant as well it seems.” Laat chuckled slightly, a condescending sound that fueled the rage in Frea.

She remained silent though. She wanted answers and rising to the bait set by the Dragonborn was not going to get her those answers.

Laat’s head tilted as they watched the emotional conflict flash across Frea’s face. They’d get to the point and stop patronizing the woman. It wasn’t fun taunting someone who didn’t react.

They began their explanation, “Miraak has been kept prisoner in Hermaeus-Mora’s realm of Oblivion for thousands of years. Roughly four thousand to be exact. Mora told me he’s grown bored of Miraak and the man’s desire to be free. Mora sought to replace Miraak with me. We are both Dovahkiin — Dragonborn. I am the Last, and Miraak is the First. The Daedric Prince wants me as his Champion because I am the Last.”

Laat paused just long enough for the information to sink in, and they could tell by the expression on Frea’s face when it had. Her bloody face relaxed, her jaw slackening and her open eye widened.

Laat continued, “I was expected to follow down the same path as Miraak so I would replace him. I was expected to read those cursed Black Books, one after the other, to follow Miraak. I refused, of course, you remember my outburst in the temple when you demanded I kill Miraak. I have been a Daedric plaything one time too many. I will not do it again.” 

“Then kill Miraak when he escapes!” Frea exclaimed. Laat closed their eyes and shook their head, tutting at Frea like she was a child. 

“It is not that simple. I would still replace Miraak as Mora’s Champion, because that’s what the Prince wants in the end. No, letting Miraak free and allowing him to live is the ultimate denial against Mora. Miraak’s soul is likely to never be truly free from Mora’s influence, but he would no longer be trapped within the Prince’s realm.” 

Laat shoved a finger into Frea’s face, their expression twisting in anger and defiance. “That is why I am not stopping him. That is why I am helping Miraak by exterminating your people. You have proven to be nothing but pests. Insects that must be squashed underfoot. Insects blinded by self-righteousness and arrogance.”

“I would do what Miraak is doing if I were in his place. Think about that. Think about what it would be like to be in his shoes. Trapped in Apocrypha without contact with another intelligent race — man, mer, or beastfolk — for four thousand years.” Laat’s voice trailed off.

Silence reigned between Frea and Laat as they glared at each other. Frea let the words spoken to her roll around in her mind, then decided that she wasn’t satisfied with the answer she was given. It felt weak, unreliable and spoken by someone who had lost their mind. 

“You have been blinded by evil, blinded by lies and dark magic. The only one who can save you now is the All Maker, so I will send you to him.” Frea spoke calmly, like she had come to some sort of realization and had accepted it as fact. 

Laat shot to their feet and leapt backwards to avoid a swipe of Frea’s axe aimed at their face. The Nord woman had returned to her feet, a supernatural strength fueling her body and allowing her to move quicker than she had before. Laat was barely avoiding the swipes of Frea’s axe. 

They slid back after jumping out of reach of another lethal slash and gathered breath in their lungs in preparation to Shout. Frea took advantage of that brief pause in Laat’s movements and pirouetted around to land a strike in one of the weak points of the Dragonborn’s armor. Laat raised their sword, a sword made of dragonbones which is a durable but extremely heavy material. Frea redirected her axe down and under Laat’s block, aiming for the exposed fabric of Laat’s torso. 

The Ebony Plate chest plate doesn’t cover the entirety of the wearer’s torso. At the wearer’s sides and part of their midriff is unprotected and only covered by a thick fabric. Frea aimed for that opening in the armor's side and her blow struck true. The enchanted ice of the Nord woman’s axe sliced through the fabric and cut cleanly through Laat’s skin. 

All they felt was pain. Hot and cold all at once and they roared their pain to the world. The ground shook with the force of their Thu’um in their cry and the air stilled. 

They released a Shout that wasn’t the one they had attempted to prepare for, but all they wanted was for Frea to go away, “FAAS, RU MAAR!”

Dismay took hold, fear unlike any other gripped Frea by the throat and stilled her breath. Then she turned on her heels and ran. Survivors of the Skaal had been affected by the Shout as well and either followed the Nord woman, or ran off into the wilderness surrounding the razed village. 

Laat hadn’t completed their task, and that caused anger and disdain to flood their mind. The emotions were short lived. They moved to follow after Frea — fully intent on decapitating her — but their body clenched up as their wound was moved and the skin tore open more. They stopped moving and hissed as they pressed their left hand against the wound on their right side. Blood trickled from the wound in small rivulets, so Laat wouldn’t bleed out, but that also meant that the enchanted ice of the axe had frozen their wound. 

Laat doesn’t have the inborn resistance to ice that the Nords do, they aren’t a Nord. While they are mildly resistant to magic, whatever magic was used on the Stalhrim was potent enough that Laat’s resistance didn’t matter. The skin around their wound was already becoming inflamed and numb from frostbite, and anytime Laat moved all they could feel was pain. They hadn’t packed any healing potions in their arrogance, and their magic was pitiful, especially their Restoration magic. Their only hope was to return to Miraak’s Temple as quickly as possible. 

They sheathed their sword while their body shook in agony at the movement. They swore they would never use a dragonbone weapon again for as long as they lived. 

They began their trek back to the Temple as quickly as their injury would allow. Laat would have loved to be able to summon Arvak, but their Magicka pool was just slightly too shallow. Every fiber in their being was berating them for not investing time into their magic like they knew they should have. 

Laat had been away for some time. The Priestess of Miraak, Paarrii, had anticipated that they would return within an hour or two. Four hours had passed and Laat had yet to return. A sense of unease had taken root in Paarrii as time stretched on, and that unease was beginning to shift to worry. 

It was unlikely that she should worry for a Dovahkiin. Laat had probably returned to their home at Raven Rock to bathe and eat before venturing to the temple. Or, they had taken a denture in a forgotten ruin or in a cave. Paarrii didn't believe that Laat was in any true form of danger. 

They were a Dragonborn just like Lord Miraak after all. It would take much more than a measly Nord Skaal to take them down.

Something was wrong.

Miraak could feel it, even within another plane of Oblivion. 

He was pacing, his hands clasped in a death grip behind his back, and Sahrotaar watched him pace back and forth in an aggravated manner. Miraak was not known for being patient, quite the opposite in fact, but he seemed far more irritable than was normal. The large serpentine dragon curled his neck and dipped his head down to be eye level with the ex-dragon priest. 

"Thuri, excuse my boldness. What is troubling you?" The large Dov inquired before lowering his head further and avoiding eye contact, a sign of submission. 

The First ceased his pacing and placed his full attention on Sahrotaar. He could punish the dovah for speaking out of turn, but he may be able to provide an explanation for the unwarranted emotions raging inside Miraak’s body.

"Something is not right on Nirn. My dovah sil roars with anger and…" Miraak trailed off as he considered the emotion. "Worry."

Sahrotaar held his tongue and awaited for his Thuri to continue. 

Miraak struggled with the emotions within his soul. Each time he reached for a conclusion, it slipped through his fingers and only heightened his ever-growing frustration. His pacing continued, his movements abrupt and his muscles coiled taut. Miraak was stalking like an aggravated predator unable to reach its meal. 

Abruptly, Miraak stopped pacing and faced the blue serpentine dragon, who was still in the submissive position. The dragon priest spoke again, finality in his tone. 

“Retrieve Relonikiv and Kruziikrel. I do not care if Mora is watching; we will return to Nirn at once.” 

Chapter Text

The distance between the Skaal village and Miraak’s temple was an hour's walk for an able-bodied person, as long as you didn’t run into trouble along the way. For Laat, it was taking them closer to two hours all because of their damned injury. 

The wound had begun to bleed when they had made it to the outskirts of the demolished town, which had forced them to stop and use their armor padding to make bandages. Removing their armor had been a slow process since they couldn’t lift their left arm without aggravating and widening the gash in their side. If it had been one of their limbs that had been injured, they wouldn’t have had any problems. No, that damned Nord woman had to aim for their side. 

Laat knew that the Plated Ebony armor would eventually get them hurt. They had assumed it would have been from an arrow or magic though. As fate would have it, it was a Stalhrim weapon that had injured them instead. 

Restoration magic was where Laat’s knowledge of magic was weakest, but they still attempted to heal their wound as much as possible. All they had to show for it was a slight bit of scabbing that stopped the bleeding. The wound was still showing severe signs of frostbite, due in part to the enchantment that kept Stalhrim weapons from melting outside of a forge. Laat’s magicka ran out quickly. 

With the armor padding torn, and the Ebony armor not covering much skin, Laat felt the cold of Solstheim far more acutely than before. They had to make it to Miraak’s temple quickly, or they would die from their injury or the cold. 

Desperation kept them moving. Any threat they came across only impeded their journey. They had to use Kyne’s Peace on their attackers and the energy required to use the Shout drained them. 

Laat had never felt a chill much like the one they did in that moment. Their feet felt heavy, the armored boots did not help, and their head felt light. The chill that infected their bones wasn’t from the air of the island. They had stopped feeling cold at some point and they could not tell when. They knew the chill, though had never felt it themselves. It was an instinctual knowledge all living creatures had. 

It was the cold embrace of death. 

Paarrii was overjoyed when her master and lord finally appeared. Yet, when asked about the Last Dragonborn, all she could feel was the nausea of fear. 

The reason for the Last’s absence was explained, and when asked how long it had been since the Dragonborn had left, Paarrii hesitated. That hesitation had the Priestesses' life nearly ended then and there. 

“Four hours!” Paarrii wheezed as her windpipe was nearly crushed in Miraak’s grasp. She was dropped from where she was being held against a wall within the temple. Her body crumpled to the floor as she greedily breathed in air before she fell into a coughing fit. 

Miraak was pacing in front of the Priestess. His anger rolled off of him in waves and the other cultists had taken that as a sign to leave before their lives too were threatened. 

The Dovahkiin had been missing for four hours, and his subordinate hadn’t thought to send a search party to check on the whereabouts of his only equal? Miraak froze midstep. He considered the other Dragonborn his equal? 

His train of thought was cut off by one of his cultists bursting into the room in a frenzied state. They froze when they saw Miraak and quickly bowed. Their whole body was shaking, and their fear flooded Miraak’s senses. 

“Speak,” He spat, impatience and anxiety swirling in his chest. 

“The Last Dragonborn has returned! But they're severely injured,” The cultist said in a panic. 

Miraak turned to the Priestess, who had stood from the floor and was also bowing before him. “You still have use for me yet,” He growled before turning back to the cultist. “Take us to them.” 

Laat’s armor and padding had been removed, and they were placed on a bed in a room that acted as an infirmary. Their skin had grown pale and their fingers and toes had turned a light purple from the cold. Paarrii was quick to start ordering the other healers to gather the best healing potions they had and to bring out the magicka potions. 

Miraak let the Priestess take control for the time being. He wanted to inspect the Last’s injury for himself. 

The gash in their side was deep, but luckily not too deep. No, it was the edges of the gash that told Miraak what had caused the injury. The split flesh was blackened from frostbite, and the First Dragonborn could feel the magic used to enchant Stahlrim ice radiating from the injury. If they did not act quickly, the Last Dragonborn would die. 

The infirmary was a flurry of activity. Potions were stacked on the nightstands beside the bed Laat laid on. Paarrii and Miraak both kneeled on opposite sides of the bed with their hands hovering over Laat’s body as Restoration magic worked to heal the gash and push back the frostbite. 

It was told that Laat had stumbled up the stairs to where the Tree Stone stood, and they had taken only a few more steps before they collapsed. The cultists stationed at the surface of the temple had rushed to the fallen Dragonborn’s side, where they learned of their injury and hurried to call for the Priestess. A group of cultists were sent out to inspect the Skaal village while Miraak and Paarrii tended to Laat and their wound. The group returned and reported that the village had been razed to the ground. Laat had killed nearly all of the Skaal, except for the few that fled. Where the survivors went could not be reported. 

The few that remained of the Skaal village had fled to the other side of the island and had taken up residence deep within an old Dwemer ruin. Fahlbtharz was the name of the ruin, or so Frea had been told. She did not care. Not at that moment. 

Grief had found its way into her heart and head, leaving her imobile and lifeless. She had lost her home, her family, and her father. She knew that the death of her father was inevitable, but she had thought she had more time. She didn't know that her whole world would be burned to ash. 

Frea sat upon her bed, her hands cradling her head while her straw-colored hair cascaded around her body. The braids that normally kept her hair out of her face had been undone so the blood and dirt could be cleaned from it. She hadn’t taken the time to put it back up. She didn’t have the energy. 

She felt empty. Hollow. What was she going to do? 

She hoped Laat was died, but neither she nor her people would be able to confirm that as of yet. No, the biggest threat she did know that lived was Miraak. Yet, if Laat had been that strong, how strong was Miraak? He had taken the minds of Solstheim’s people. What else was he capable of?

Frea’s ice blue eyes snapped up to the book that she had on her nightstand. It had been found in White Ridge Barrow when her people were scouting for a proper place to regroup. Frea had taken the book to keep it out of the hands of her people. Storn, her father, had told her about the Black Books, and how they were attached to Herma-Mora. Now, she had one in her sleeping chambers, and it was whispering to her. 

The words were old, a language nearly lost to time that only a few of the Skaal knew. Frea was one of the few that knew the language, all of her predecessors knew the language. It had become expected of the Shaman of The Skaal to keep their history alive and to safeguard their greatest secrets. Now, one of those secrets was whispering from a Black Book. 

Frea knew it was Herma-Mora. She knew she shouldn’t fall for the lies being whispered into her head. But how else was she going to defeat Miraak? She had nearly died at the hands of a young Dragonborn. How was she going to survive a fight with a Dragonborn that had been alive for thousands of years? 

Unbeknownst to the woman, her body had begun to move on its own. Before she could think better of her choices, before she could remember her father’s words, her fingers were peeling the cover open. Her eyes took in the words of the first page as words flowed from the book and formed tentacles that wrapped around her arms, her neck, and her head. 

Chapter Text

The atmosphere of the Temple was dark and unstable. Those who lived within the walls felt as though they were walking on eggshells as the first month passed. Laat had suffered a life-threatening injury, but with the help of the High Priestess and her healers, the Dragonborn’s life was saved. Yet, they remained unconscious and showed little sign of waking soon. 

Miraak was agitated, snapping at anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way. The Cultists, fearing they would do something to set him off, avoided him as much as possible. This left the High Priestess, Paarrii, to deal with her Lord’s foul mood on her own. 

Outside of the Temple, Miraak was composed and negotiated with the Counselor of Raven Rock. Morvayn was a Dunmer that Miraak had grown to respect during the first month of his freedom. The man was not quick to act with violence — he had too few guards to summon for a war. He settled on negotiations, peace and prosperity, instead of war and bloodshed. 

By the second month, Miraak and Morvayn had made a contract of sorts that would act as a temporary peace treaty. Morvayn would supply Miraak and his cult with food and free passage of the island, and Miraak offered medicine and the freedom of those who had been under his control. While Miraak desired control of Solstheim, he also knew he needed time to readapt to life on Nirn, and time to learn of the current societal structure. 

From what he had learned, the First Dragonborn was unequipped to deal with the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire. He would need time to plan on how he would handle these government bodies. But, with the Last Dragonborn injured and comatose, Miraak was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything outside of Solstheim. 

It was towards the end of the second month that Laat began to show signs of improvement. 

They had begun to shift in their sleep, and quiet murmurs of indiscernible words were spoken. It was unclear what exactly was being said, yet it was still progress. Paarrii theorized that Laat would wake within the next few days, to possibly the next two weeks. The wait of the last two months seemed easier compared to now.

Sun trickled in from a window, while dust particles danced lazily in the light. A wooden chair sat in the middle of a room, with a square table beside it. In the chair sat a Bosmeri woman, a book held in one hand and a child curled against her other side. The woman was golden skinned, like most of the Bosmeri race, with eyes like freshly polished amber and golden-brown hair. She was reading the book in a low voice that was not quite a whisper, and the child was dozing against her side. The woman stopped reading suddenly and the child stirred. Amber eyes, identical to the woman’s, blinked open blurrily and looked up to her questioningly. 

“Why did you stop reading momma?” The child asked as they rubbed their blurry eyes. 

The woman smiled softly at her child as she combed their dark, almost black, brown hair away from their face. “I’m just thinking, sweetheart. It’s almost lunch time, what would you like to eat?”

“A sweetroll!” Exclaimed the child, a broad grin on their now wide-awake face. 

The woman laughed softly. “Okay, but just this once.” She conceded and the child cheered. 

Laat remembered this day as clear as if it had happened yesterday. A fond smile played at their lips as they watched their younger self and their mother leave the study. They were about to follow the pair, but a paper on the table beside the reading chair caught their attention. They leaned over to read it and their heart fell to their stomach. It was a results paper, and the results were for an illness that had taken their mother months after this memory. 

An incurable illness had slowly killed their mother. They watched her wither away right before their eyes. The once vibrant woman had become a shell of who she once was, and her death left Laat orphaned. 

Their mother would be disappointed in who they had become. They knew this deep down. There was nothing they could do now; they had lost that chance ages ago. Changing now would mean nothing to those they had hurt, to those they had damned to suffer. All they could do was lie in the grave that they had dug for themselves. 

A pained grunt was the first sign they were waking. Amber eyes fluttered open to squint at the stone ceiling above them as they caught their bearings. They remembered reaching the platform of the Temple that housed the Tree Stone, before collapsing from exhaustion and pain. There were voices and frantic shouts, and they knew they had been carefully lifted and carried. Their memories after that felt distant and unreliable. 

Well, they had survived, but they didn’t know if it was by the grace of the gods, or a punishment for their actions. Laat lifted their left hand and placed it over their right side. Bandages kept their fingers from making direct contact with their injury, but they could feel the pressure of their touch. A good sign to be sure, it meant that the frostbite had been treated and they hadn’t lost a chunk of skin. The bandages were located mostly around their torso, although some of the bandages were wrapped around their chest and over their left shoulder.

Laat sighed out of relief and silent despair. Relief at living with minimal permanent damage, and despair at the knowledge that sitting up would hurt no matter how they moved. Hunger demanded that they move to end the growls in their stomach. A quick glance around the room told Laat that they were alone and would not receive assistance in their endeavor. 

Getting up from the bed was a slow process, one that they didn’t rush. Anytime their side screamed in agony, Laat would rest to ease the pain before moving again. They could not see where their armor was, but they did see robes atop a chest at the foot of their bed. Someone had taken the time to change Laat out of their armor and into the pants of the robes, which left Laat to slide on the robe itself. They didn’t care that the robe was typically worn by the regular cultists, they were just glad to have something to throw on. They weren’t going to take time to mess with the sash or any other piece of the robe, they wanted food.  

Once Laat was standing, their injury was easy to ignore as they began their trek to the dining room of the Temple. 

As they walked down the halls, they noticed the cultists acting strangely. When anyone laid eyes on Laat, they’d quickly turn and hurry away to some unknown corner of the Temple. Laat didn’t pay too much attention to the odd behavior. Their stomach was growing persistent with its demand for food. 

The Last had been spotted walking through the halls of the Temple making their way to the dining room. Miraak had nearly ran out of his office and was making a beeline for the dining room. He hoped he could catch up with Laat before they reached their destination, but with how determined they had been seen moving it was unlikely. 

He would never admit it, but Miraak had been worried about the Last Dragonborn during the two months they slept. He had sought out answers to explain why he had been so concerned over Laat’s condition but had come up empty in his investigations. There had never been two Dragonborn alive at the same time. It was likely the concern stemmed from Laat being Miraak’s only equal, but that hadn’t felt like the sole reason. The answer existed, Miraak knew it did, but it didn’t dawn on him until he laid eyes on them. 

Laat’s back was turned towards the doorway Miraak had walked through, and they were scooping soup from a cauldron into a wooden bowl. Every detail that was presented to Miraak was scrutinized. From the way their dark brown hair fell around their shoulders, to the way they stood as straight as possible without aggravating their injury, and to how they moved once their bowl was full. 

Laat turned around, their eyes on their bowl for a moment before rising, and they froze when they finally saw who had been burning holes in their back. Their brain almost couldn’t process what they were seeing, but their soul — their dovah sil — roared with what could only be joy at the sight of Miraak. They had almost forgotten how tall he was. He towered over Laat by a full foot, and normally that height difference didn’t affect them. Right now, though, it shot a shiver down their spine that wasn’t caused by fear. 

Laat’s stomach chose that moment to release a very loud, and very angry growl to announce its presence. 

No words were spoken as Miraak silently motioned for Laat to follow him. 

They followed Miraak through the halls of the underground portion of the Temple, until they reached a door that Laat swore had led to a storage closet at one point in time. When the door opened, it revealed that the once-storage-closet had been converted into a decently sized office. Unlike the Priestess’ office, Miraak kept his paperwork organized and neatly stacked into piles atop the desk. Laat glanced one of the papers, and they were disappointed when they noticed that the contents were faced down; likely to keep nosy guests from seeing what was written. 

Miraak skirted around the stone table and sat down in a wooden chair, and it was only then that Laat also sat in the chair in front of the desk. Sitting down was as much of a process as it had been to get off the bed, but they were too prideful to ask for assistance. Though, it was unlikely Miraak would have helped when asked. 

Once Laat had managed to sit, they began to eat their food despite the unease they felt at being stared at by the golden mask adorning Miraak’s face. They kept their eyes on the Atmoran, a silent battle of wills daring the other to look away. Neither were backing down, and any cultist that walked near the office could have sworn a storm was brewing in the room.

Silence remained as Laat ate and Miraak stared. It was when Laat was done eating that the silence was finally broken.

“You underestimated the Skaal, Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice was smooth and reverberated through the room while also sounding strained with suppressed anger. Anger at what, Laat did not know.

Miraak continued with barely disguised anger, “The Skaal are descendants from my time, in possession of ancient magic and craftsmanship, and you confronted them alone.” He accused.

Laat bristled at his tone. He spoke to them as if they were a child. It was true that Laat was younger than Miraak by thousands of years, but it did not give him the right to treat them like a child.

“I knew full well what the Skaal were capable of. Yes, they had gained the upper hand, but they did not stand a chance despite that.” Laat defended with a growl.

Miraak continued to stare at them, and they cursed the damned mask he wore. It hid his face from Laat, and in turn it hid whatever emotions crossed his face due to his thoughts.

“They did not stand a chance, and yet you returned injured and close to death. That does not impart confidence in your abilities, Dragonborn.”

The urge to Shout at Miraak was volatile. Laat’s restraint was being tested. They were being tested. The urge to Shout faded as they inhaled and exhaled slowly. They would not give him the satisfaction of getting under their skin with veiled insults.

Miraak was correct too, Laat had underestimated Frea and it nearly cost them their life. Swallowing their pride, Laat assented, “I did underestimate the Skaal. I underestimated their resolve and their beliefs. I will not make that mistake twice.”

“No,” Miraak agreed. “You will not. You will rest and recover, and when you are healed, I will be assessing what you know, in both your Thu’um and combat skills.”

Laat was taken aback by his words. Miraak wanted to test their abilities? What did that entail? Would he demand they fight him, or would he watch Laat fight his cultists?

There were many questions swirling within Laat’s mind, followed by conflicting emotions between curiosity, excitement, and annoyance. But none of those emotions outweighed the anticipation they felt.

Miraak rose from his chair and walked around his desk to stand beside Laat. The action resulted in Laat attempting to stand as well, only for the sharp movement to pull at their wound. They winced and held a hand over their side as they waited out the wave of pain.

Miraak stood beside the Last Dragonborn as they curled in on themselves in pain. It amused him to see that they had forgotten about their wound, a sign they were on the path to recovery. Rage simmered under the surface of that amusement. The person behind the injury was the one Miraak’s rage was directed at. If he got his hands on whoever it was, they would suffer a far worse fate.

When the wave of pain finally faded, Laat relaxed and slowly attempted to stand. Instead of standing and watching like before, Miraak reached out and helped Laat ease to their feet. The leather gloves did little to hide the warmth of Miraak’s hands, and there was a sudden longing when he pulled away. Laat was perplexed by their response. They had never craved for another’s touch like this.

Miraak cleared his throat, hands now clasped behind his back. “I will send for Paarrii, you should return to the infirmary and wait for her. She will take you to a proper room for you to rest in.”

Laat only nodded in reply before turning and leaving the office. Halfway back to the infirmary, they remembered the bowl they had eaten out of was still on Miraak’s desk.

Miraak watched as Laat walked out of the room. He turned to sit behind his desk but stopped when he saw the bowl Laat had left behind. Normally, an action like this would have irritated him, but since Laat had left it, he felt nothing but delight in knowing they had eaten after waking. While Laat was unconscious, Paarrii or Miraak would carefully spoon feed them. The last almost two months had been taxing on Miraak’s mind. Seeing Laat completely unresponsive had terrified him more than he could explain. Now that they were awake, he had finally understood why he had been so fearful for their safety. Putting the feelings into words would come later, but only if Miraak could prove that Laat felt the same.

Picking up the bowl, Miraak left his office and began to make his way back to the kitchen. While on the way, Miraak ran into one of his followers and told them find and inform Paarrii that Laat was awake and waiting to be escorted to their room. The kitchen was empty when he arrived, so he left the wooden bowl in the wash bowl and returned to his office.

Miraak knew that his current office had been a storage room for old artifacts from his time. What no one else knew was that the room had been his office prior to being imprisoned in Apocrypha as well. Remembering the realm of Hermaeus-Mora shot a chill down his spine.

The first paper Miraak picked up to read was a report over Kolbjorn Barrow and the Black Book within. As he read over the report he had to reel in his emotions. Acolytes had found a Dunmer man attempting to dig into the old ruin by himself. He was offered assistance and after a few draugr incidents the inner sanctum was finally reached. It was during the final search for the Black Book that a group of Skaal, led by a woman wielding a Stalhrim axe, ambushed the acolytes and excavators. During the fight, it is suspected that a Skaal had snuck off and escaped the ruin with the Black Book.

The details of the report left Miraak on edge. Why were the Skaal after the cursed books? The answer could simply be to keep them out of the wrong hands, but Miraak knew better. Hermaeus-Mora could have just as easily seduced the surviving Skaal with promises of revenge against Laat. That was the most likely explanation, and it meant the other books needed to be located before the Skaal could find them. Counter measures would need to be prepared if Miraak and his followers were to fail.