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Chapter Text

                                                                                I know that in evenings you will be visited by those you love, those who interest you and who will never trouble you...You will fall asleep, having a smile on your lips. Sleep will strengthen you, you will reason wisely. And you will no longer be able to drive me away. I will watch over your sleep.

Mikhail Bulgakov, "The Master and Margarita"

"It may be foolish, but I feel good here. With you," she said.

‘Foolish’ was an understatement. After all, both of them had tried to kill the other before. It was lucky that they failed, or else how could two Dovahkiin end up together like this?

Yet, Miraak also truly felt good with her.

So much so that when she asked him to remove the mask, he agreed without any hesitation. He rested his head on her lap, with glimpses of sunlight shining through the leaves above, and his skin, which had long been deprived of the sun's rays, greedily absorbed the warmth. The Dragonborn's thin lips curved into a smile as her gaze lingered on his peaceful face.

***

Miraak reluctantly opened his eyes. Lately, it had been too pleasant to sleep and too difficult to wake up. In reality, there was nothing but the foul darkness, old book dust, and the swirling smoke of the black, forbidden, and utmostly pestered secrets from the depths of the Apocrypha. But in his dreams...

He dreamed of the forest again. The green fragrant pine needles, the damp and slightly rough bark of ancient trees, and the soft grassy underfoot. And there, on the edge of the forest, she was waiting for him, with eyes the color of leaves, hair that blended its shade with rain–soaked oak wood, and skin as soft as young moss. Although he never had the chance to touch her anywhere except in his dreams, he could tell...

Miraak bit his lip and let out a muffled howl, covering himself with a blanket. Sometimes he felt that if he had the chance to give up everything, be that the gift of the Dovah, magic, or secret knowledge that made him the strongest person who ever lived in Nirn – everything that he thought constructed his "self," Miraak would reject it without doubts. If she was promised to him in return. In reality.

Damn.

More and more often, he regretted that the immortality bestowed upon him by Hermaeus Mora had completely deprived him of the need for food and water. His body had changed so much that his stomach had become unused to liquid and would hardly accept even a sip of wine. And he wanted to empty a whole bottle. At least.

Damn, damn, damn!

These dreams became his personal curse. And yet the way she tormented him, appearing in his dreams and sometimes in reality, reflecting in the black surface of the apocryphal waters – it was the most pleasant thing that had happened to him over the millennia. Pleasurable agony. The lofty Altmeri books referred to the phenomenon as 'masochism'.

Miraak would have gladly stayed in bed, resurrecting painfully beautiful dreams, but no one else could control the flow of the magic of the All–Maker Stones. He emerged from under the covers, squinted, and then his lips touched a semblance of a smile as he noticed a little spruce branch on the bedside table.

Unseen by the Dragonborn, he had torn off this branch after their very last meeting… after he had stolen the last dragon soul from her. The woman was shouting something, cursing him, and all he could see were her burning eyes and her lips distorted in anger. Her spite was so attractive that his chest convulsed – that much he wanted to... kiss her. Desperately. And he had almost made it. Almost rushed towards her, almost ripped off his mask, and almost embraced the angry warrior, but... he had timely restrained himself. Even if the boldest dreams would come true, and she would respond to this kiss – the time of the infamous priest in Nirn was limited. And returning to Apocrypha, would he be able to hide his thoughts, his joy from the one he had called the ‘Master’ for centuries? Or hide the pain, if she were to reject him? Not knowing how to position his hands, Miraak put them behind his back as the young spruce tree almost sympathetically bent its branches, touching his semi–transparent shoulders.

The man remembered that before he himself appeared in front of the Dragonborn, the same spruce was pressing its fluffy paws against her cheek as she hunted the dragon.

And he took a piece of that moment for himself – a piece of wood that stored the memory of her touch.

The green soft needles tickled his lips as he inhaled their scent. The Dragonborn lived in a forest estate and most likely smelled the same. That was the smell of her skin and hair in his dreams.

And then the mask fell on his face, and all day until the new dusk, until he returned to the Tower, he felt only the smell of metal.

But the little branch stayed with him even during the day, hidden under his robe, near his heart.

***

Miraak stretched out on his fur coverlet and gazed at the starry sky shining through the gaps in the massive tree crowns. The night forest was much cooler than he was used to, so the Priest pulled the warm fur almost up to his chin. His mask lay nearby, at the roots of an old ash tree. The scent of petrichor, infused with a light fragrance of young leaves, tickled his nostrils. Somewhere in the branches, an owl hooted, while crickets chirped in the grass.

"Close your eyes," she said.

Miraak obediently did so, and the Dragonborn slipped under the fluffy fur to be close to him. His heart raced as he felt her nudity against his skin. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes closed, afraid of scaring away the vision.

She settled comfortably on his shoulder and began to stroke his chest and stomach with light, almost weightless touches. He embraced her and buried his nose in her soft hair. It's subtle fragrance enveloped his lungs from the inside with a wave of quiet joy.

"Why do I dream such dreams, Dragonborn?" he heard the question, being not sure if it was he or she saying that.  All he understood at that moment was that she touched his eyelids with her fingers, silently asking him to look at her. Of course, he did, and everything disappeared from his mind until morning.

***

Their acquaintance began foolishly – with an attempt on her life. His knowledge, his unwavering confidence in the rightness of his judgments, and idiotic stereotypes played a cruel joke on him. Miraak was wrong in his assumption that a Bosmer could not be a Dragonborn. He thought that the rumor about her gift was fabricated, as it had been many times before, to attract more allies under the banner of one of the warring sides. And as so, just a few months before the true Dragonborn's return to Nirn, Miraak's triumph would be tainted by the shadow of a liar, who disgraced such an honorable title with her lies. Thus, she had to get punished for her heresy.

Miraak learned that the cultists he had sent were killed by her on the same day that Solstheim was hummed with the joyous buzz of the people learning about World Eater's demise. And then he realized that he had underestimated his opponent, making a mistake about her. It was better not to touch her, not to attract attention to himself. Or at least to send many more people after her head. But trying again was too late, as the Dragonborn herself came for him. And after seeing her once, he could no longer give the order to exterminate.

At first, driven by curiosity, and then by admiration, he followed her in a phantom form, watching in surprise as she wielded the great gift of the Voice. Not demonstrating her superiority with a word or a glance, not refusing to help either nobles or barefoot beggars, the Dragonborn brought peace and tranquillity to every corner of his island. She did what he himself has been doing at first, but without showing even a hint of his arrogance. Power, it seemed, did not tempt her at all. Money – yes, though it was not the main motivator for her, but rather a pleasant addition to the love and gratitude of the people. Coins did not stay in her purse for long: she could easily give them to others – to restore a mine, to feed another orphan, to give a worthy burial to a fallen warrior. Selflessly. It surprised and captivated him. His mother was the same type, but she lived forty centuries ago, and since then Miraak had never encountered anyone like that. He spent millennia among books that were telling stories of people full of treachery and dishonor. That is why the Dragon Priest would never have believed until recently that someone in Nirn was still capable of simply helping.

But she was real – and so were her deeds.

Deeply impressed, he realized that thoughts of returning had faded and were pushed to the back of his mind. His whole being yearned to meet her: to see, hear, and feel what the Dragonborn was doing on Solstheim. She resolved conflicts, defeated the undead, and helped the islanders with their daily business, well–being... even their personal lives. Could he have wished for a better ally for the citizens of his land? And could there be a stronger bitterness than realizing that she had sailed to Solstheim to hunt him? That to her, he was the same enemy as dozens of monsters daily killed by her?

Cloaked in a dense veil of invisibility, he followed her into ruins, bandit lairs, and forest groves. Occasionally, very rarely, he allowed himself to intervene in her battles, silently sending paralysis to enemies who crept too close. Bound to the Apocrypha by invisible chains, Miraak could not stay close to her for long, so he chose daylight hours to have a chance to admire her burning eyes and hair flying in nimble jumps, to listen to her loud laughter, the ringing of her blade, and jokes which she addressed to her Dunmer companion.

If Miraak had a chance, he would be with her at night too. He would watch over her as she slept briefly before his own magic called out to her, and she would set out to build his new temple, which was growing on the ruins of the old one. He would listen as his mantra would sound out of her enchanted lips, thinking how much he wanted to snatch the pickaxe from her thin fingers, turn the semi–conscious woman towards him, and possess her entire body without further thought, pressing her back against the cold stone. But he chose the day again and again, even though it deprived him of such an opportunity. It was probably a good thing that he held back from nocturnal, all–too–tempting outings. He wasn't sure he could resist while taking women by force always seemed like the fate of cowards to him.

If this ever happens, she would want him no less than he wanted her. And they would do it there, in Nirn, where the sky was always blue, where their hands would not be stained with lurker slime, and her eyes, woven from all the shades of the spring forest, would not turn inflamed with ink fumes and moldy dust of the Apocrypha.

No, Miraak didn't immediately admit to himself that he dreamed of the Dragonborn. But when he realized it, he understood that he could tell or show her nothing until he had thrown off the yoke of Mora.

Keeping hopes and attachments secret from the Master became no less important than hiding his hopes for freedom. Hermaeus Mora knew how to torture more ingeniously than any mortal ever could. He would relish in taking everything from an unruly servant. Miraak learned this lesson well. First, his little daughter, the apple of his eye, was punished for his refusing to obey, and then the memory of himself and his deeds was denigrated and vanished. And all of this for one short "no."

Ironically, only the Skaal people, whom he once chose not to eradicate for acquiring some god–damned secrets, remembered his name. These very people insulted him worse than any foul Daedra. Human memory was short. And their gratitude was even shorter.

Once he had sacrificed everything so that the Skaal could survive. Now, however, the Skaals were telling her such absurdities about him that at times, in anger, Miraak regretted not obeying his ruthless Master's will four thousand years ago.

***

Her lips tasted like pure melted snow, like a pink infusion, like tart snowberries. He savored their softness and pliability, then moved on deeper into the warm wetness of her mouth, intertwining their tongues like two dancing snakes. Breathing quickened, and she pressed her body against his, letting out a low moan.

Her hands ran through his hair and this simple caress almost made him purr like a baby khajiit.

Her skin under his palms was soft and delicate, but sometimes he felt a rough contrast when he was discovering another scar on her coveted body. Like himself, she was covered in scars, and Miraak tenderly fondled every unevenness, realizing that he felt a far more reverent yearning for her imperfections than her beauty. After all, beauty was only a gift of the gods, but scars held the story of her choices and accomplishments. Her life.

Miraak breathed in the scent of pine and again did not understand whose voice — amidst their kisses — whispered in passion:

"I... want... this dream... never... to end."

***

Hermaeus Mora realized too late that his Champion had planned an escape. The power of the Stones had given Miraak enough strength to keep the Daedric Prince away from the very heart of his own kingdom. The satisfied priest allowed himself to smile widely for the first time in centuries, as he had finally outsmarted the greatest trickster in the Aurbis! Euphoria coursed through his body like molten lava as he realized that he was on the brink of escaping Hermaeus Mora's grasp. Miraak could almost taste freedom, inhale the freshness of a frigid river and moss, and see green trees beckoning him to freedom. Green, but not the poisonously bright hue of apocryphal mist. Instead, it would be the delightful color of young life - just like her eyes. He bit his lip in anticipation. Almost there...

Once free, he would go straight to her. And not with a sword, as she expected, no. Miraak would tell her the truth about himself and his plans. There was no reason for them to hate each other — and now she would learn this and understand that they shared a common goal. And the resentment between them would have to dissipate sooner or later, as Miraak and the Dragonborn were even, having tried to kill each other an equal number of times. Miraak would reach out to her, offer her his hand, and teach her everything he knew. Just as selflessly as she had helped the people of his province.

Although, not quite.

Her favor was his only interest.

And he would stop at nothing to obtain it.

Miraak was sure he could find the key to her heart, as he had all the knowledge of humanity, forgotten dragon secrets, and most importantly, the desire to achieve his goal. For the first time in centuries, he ached for something so desperately and would gladly sacrifice himself on the altar of this dream. And then, once she gets to know him better, the Dragonborn would surely open up to him. She would trust him, love him — it was as obvious to Miraak as the fact that fire is hot and ice is cold. And when it happens, he and she would become two wings of Akatosh in Nirn, two heroes blessed by Kyne, two halves of one whole...

Savoring his joyful excitement, he squeezed the spruce branch in his hand so tightly that it shed hundreds of green needles in his glove.

It didn't matter! Soon, instead of the coniferous scent of this little trophy, he would breathe in her scent. Soon!

Only a few days remained until his return.

And then she began to sever his connection to the Stones.

***

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

He was shaking with offence and anger. She turned away, hiding her eyes.

"You are causing harm to people. That's why there couldn't be any other way. And these dreams... they are just dreams ."

"I haven't hurt anyone, Dovahkiin! No one was harmed while helping me regain my freedom!"

The woman shook her head.

"You are mistaken. People were harmed. Those who did not want to build your temple day and night, but were not given the right to choose. And those who did not want to die by my hand, but were forced to attack me – on your orders. You enslaved all these people, just as you enslaved your dragons, Miraak. But it won't work on me."

Without looking at him, she walked away.

***

It was like a dagger strike in the narrow gap between the plates of the strongest armor. Miraak was almost celebrating his victory, and now she had cut the threads that bound him to his home.

Daedra take her!

Well, no. This daedra wouldn't mind such a deal, but Miraak would never condemn her to that. Even after she destroyed the streams of magic flowing from the Stones that sustained him. No matter what the Dovahkiin did, Miraak could never hate her again.

Miraak wanted to tear his hair out. And he wanted to kill someone even more. But the one he so eagerly sought to annihilate was immortal. And powerful: every day, Hermaeus Mora regained more control over the piece of Apocrypha that his rebellious servant had taken.

In the end, only the Tower remained. And even here, Miraak's defenses weakened every second.

***

In their forest, she was nowhere to be found. Miraak searched for her in vain and then realized that even if he met her, it would be useless to talk to her here.

"These dreams are just dreams." So she had told him earlier, although she was not real.

Well, she was right.

Miraak made a decission. He opened his eyes, got out of bed, and summoned magic to transfer himself in flesh to the mortal plane. For the last time, because without the support of the Stones, he wouldn't have had enough strength for more.

For the first time, he came to her at night. The tiny camp greeted the uninvited guest with a cozy crackling of the fire. The Dragonborn was occasionally adding twigs to the flame, and her Dunmer friend snored in the tent nearby. Lying behind her back, Rose of Sangvine and a taut Stalhrim bow gleamed in the firelight.

Stopping in the shadow of spruces, Miraak was admiring her. The reflections of the flame played on the woman's face, creating splashes of fire in her dark olive eyes. She hugged her legs, leaning her chin on between knees, and her thoughts seemed to be far away. Quiet sadness was imprinted in the thin folds at the corners of her eyes and on her nose, her shoulders were lowered. And even in such a sad and tired state, she seemed more beautiful to him than Nir herself.

Miraak froze, enjoying the scene before him. Narrow holes framed her with a rough – completely unnecessary – frame of yellowish metal, so, after a couple of moments of reflection, he took off his mask.

That was how, with an open face, he stepped out from behind the trees. The Dovahkiin looked up. An instant surprise was almost immediately replaced with bitterness.

"It seems I dozed off after all," she said.

Encountering no resistance, he approached her and sat down beside her on the ground.

They were there side by side listening the sound of the fire consuming the dry branches, an owl hooting in the branches, the cicadas chirping. Dragonborns took turns throwing brushwood between the glowing logs, and at some point, Miraak touched her hand. Her palm froze, and he gently squeezed it with his own. Their fingers intertwined. The woman hesitated for a moment, then lowered her head onto his shoulder and quietly sobbed.

"I thought the potions would help, but you've settled into my dreams even more strongly than in the enchanted minds of the locals. It's not fair, Miraak. Everyone else gains their freedom as soon as I purify another Stone. But I only feel worse myself." She gasped and closed her eyes. "It seems you've really managed to enslave me."

Miraak was silent, pondering her words, and it seemed to him that the thumping of his surprised heart drowned out all the sounds of the nocturnal forest.

"You appear in my dreams too," he finally confessed quietly.

She nodded, as if to say that she didn't expect any other words from her own nightly illusion. And he leaned slightly towards her and began to greedily explore every feature of her real face. A happy smile bloomed on Miraak's lips: just a few hours ago, he was absolutely sure that he would have to win her feelings for a long and painstaking time, that it would take months or even years. But if she really came to him like this every night, then...

"Look at me."

She obediently raised her gaze to him. There was moisture in her green eyes. And he saw himself reflected there – excited and in love.

Slowly, as if afraid to scare her away, Miraak reached out his hand to her face and stroked her cheek. Her skin was as soft as it was in his dream. His gaze slid to her dark lips. He wondered if they tasted as he remembered.

The kiss was timid at first, but only for a couple of moments. The Dragonborn quickly took control, using one hand to toss aside her weapons, while the other pressed Miraak's chest, urging him to lie on his back. Straddling him, the petite Bosmer claimed his mouth so fervently that he almost felt how Dwemer fireworks exploded in his head. Her dusky hands deftly slipped into the slit of his robe, while her hips ground against his almost painful arousal. At first, Miraak merely held the woman close to his chest, eagerly reciprocating the caresses of her sweet mouth, allowing her to do whatever she pleased with his body. But soon her passion intoxicated him more powerfully than could the wine, in which he had once hoped he would drown all thoughts of her. With one deft movement, he switched places with her, rolling the Dragonborn onto the grass and looming over her.

With a light tug, her leather armor's collar was unfastened. Miraak pulled, and the armor slid off her shoulders. Savoring the touch, he traced his fingers over the graceful clavicles. Each scar was exactly where he remembered it from his dreams. Bending over her, Miraak eagerly began kissing the exposed skin, lingering over the unevenness of the scars. Her hands instinctively buried themselves in his thick, black hair.

"Y'ffre, how... foolish..." she breathed with a sigh when his tongue found the most sensitive spot on her neck.

"Not foolish," he countered, scorching her with his quickening breath. "It's the only way it should be."

She nodded, unable to argue, and reached up for another kiss. But when they finally parted, she bit her lip. He saw how tears trembled on her lashes.

"Tomorrow, in reality, I'll kill you, Miraak. I have to."

***

On the following day, she indeed came to Apocrypha for his life.

Mora reveled in his triumph, as the old Champion had betrayed him, and the new one walked willingly into his grasping tentacles. Watching as Sahrotaar flew to the top of his Tower, Miraak closed his eyes.

He remembered last night, as he greeted her.

He imagined her hands sliding over his bare skin once more, while her slender fingers pulled the bowstring taut, expertly shooting arrows that he couldn't always deflect with his spells.

He thought of the sweetness of her lips when she used destructive thu'um.

Madly, he smiled at her – though the woman who was winning round after round couldn't see it.

Hermaeus Mora watched the duel. Miraak felt the suffocating wave of the Master's joy – he was immensely pleased that the young Dragonborn seemed stronger than his former Champion. Miraak only tightened his grip on the staff.

His magic reserves were running low – exhausted by complex spells of teleportation, illusion, and protection from Mora, and deprived of the much–needed sustenance of the Stones, he had to sacrifice his own dragons to restore his magic. And yet, knowing the nature of their souls, Miraak suppressed his sorrow – his old allies would not disappear without a trace. Besides, it would anyway be the same consequence for his loyal Dovah if he lost this battle.

However, the life force of the dragons’ SIl was insufficient for both the fight and the maintenance of the charms. In the end, Miraak ran out of strength and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. As if through a thick wall of water, he heard the creak of a taut bowstring – the Dragonborn was about to shoot, and it would all be over. 

But the end came in a very different way: a sharp black tentacle made a crack in the weakened Tower's defenses and pierced the almost defeated body through.

Struggling to keep his mind conscious, the first Dragonborn whispered his parting words full of contempt to his former Master. And then the fire came, and Miraak plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.

Paulo Coelho, "the Alchemist"

She first saw him in her dream on her first night in Raven Rock. He was tall, strong, dark-haired, and had incredibly bright eyes, so she couldn’t help but think that he looked exactly like a hero of ancient Nordic legends, which she had heard plenty of in the Bards College. He was very surprised by her, and she, as bold as any dreamer, approached him and touched his cheek covered in thick stubble.

At that time, not knowing his name, she was pleased and charmed by what she saw: a majestic posture, a powerful aura of a mage and a warrior - powerful enough to make her knees tremble - an open face that, despite its arrogant gaze, had features typical of fair and generous people.

Fair and generous! Later, realizing who he was, she laughed bitterly at her naivety. Apparently, her gift of ‘reading’ human essence through eyes and manners began to fail her. Because how could there be any generosity involved when it came to Miraak? Learning more about her would-be killer, the Dragonborn realized that only a madman could sympathize with someone like him.

Nevertheless, the damn priest continued to appear in her dreams every night, and every night the anger subsided as if driven away by magic. "It's just a dream," she thought, closing her eyes in ecstasy from his kisses, "I can go a little crazy here, and it won't hurt anyone."

But soon she had to admit that the harm was still there. In reality, she remembered everything - their embraces, long conversations, the deep and stirring timbre of his voice, and his hands, beautiful like those of a statue, which she could admire endlessly. And the way her body heated up from just one glance at his bare torso... Dragonborn had never met such brawny men among Elves, and she had never slept with any Nords before. That was why, seeing Miraak without his robe for the first time, the woman froze in surprise. And that surprise instantly transformed into desire as soon as she ran her hand over his bulging muscles. Ever since then, after every awakening, she inevitably realized that this craving was not disappearing in real life, turning into a painfully pulsating knot in the lower part of her abdomen. And no matter how much the Dragonborn tried to relieve the painful tension on her own, she could only manage it to some extent when she closed her eyes and imagined him .

"Maybe you should try to find a normal man after all?" Jenassa suggested over breakfast.

The Dragonborn blushed and looked embarrassed.

"You know you call for this Miraak at night, right?" the Dunmer continued, putting a piece of baked Ash Yam in her mouth. "And judging by the tone of your voice, you're definitely not fighting with him. Well, unless it's horizontally..."

"What?!" the Dragonborn exclaimed and poked her laughing friend in the side. "Wait, w-were you eavesdropping?"

"I'm not to blame that the walls here are thin, and beyond Raven Rock we have to share a tent for two," Jenassa ironically remarked. "Well, it's your choice, I don't judge... By the beard of Sheogorath! You both carry those dragon souls within you. That's probably what draws you to him… It's just the way, how rabbits like rabbits and wolves like wolves. But, daeljuhnyi*, he's a Nordic half-draugr, after all..."

"He's not a half-draugr at all!" the Dragonborn retorted and immediately bit her tongue, catching the sly glance of her companion. "Ohh, Jen, come on! It's all just silly fantasy! Everyone has strange dreams from time to time!"

"Especially on this cursed island, yes," the Dunmer conciliated, handing the Dragonborn a bread roll and cheese. "But, to be honest, I would feel more at ease if you were having an affair... even with the dremora summoned by this thing." Jenassa pointed at the Sanguine Rose. "Anyone but this Miraak... Cause when my friend dreams about someone like that... gahmal** , I start to worry, you know."

"I'm not dreaming of anyone!" the Dragonborn exclaimed passionately, tearing apart the bread roll as if it was a treacherous arsonist of the sacred forests of Valenwood. "And I remember that he's gahmal!" She pointed her finger towards the entrance door, from behind which the steady pounding of pickaxes against stone could be heard day and night. "I won't be able to forget it, Jen, no matter how much I want to!"

***

His temple was frightening. Here and there, she stumbled upon burned and mutilated bodies.

"I do not wish to imagine the kinds of things that happened here!" exclaimed Frea in horror as they passed by another corpse. "Who were the poor souls trapped in these cages? What tortures did they suffer at Miraak's hands? Was it in service to the dragons, or for his own purposes?"

Each of these questions made the Dragonborn feel dizzy and overwhelmed. She simply didn't know how to answer the daughter of the Skaal shaman. And even if she could, the effort alone would make her feel nauseous and turn her insides, so she remained silent.

"Look!" she thought, gazing at the ancient rusty cages with burnt corpses inside. The body in the central cage was too small even by Bosmeri standards. The Dragonborn realized she was looking at the corpse of a child and pressed her hand to her lips in shock and grief. "Look at what he did! Look and remember that well, you fool!"

Perhaps if she remembered this scene tonight, she could resist the allure of her disturbing dreams about Miraak. Remembering the stains of blood, the suffocating smell of smoke and death that had penetrated her very being, she had to fight the urge to throw herself into his outstretched arms every time she closed her eyes. From now on, she couldn't allow herself to kiss the lips that once gave such cruel orders. She could no longer allow the hands that killed a child to touch her body. No!

What made her feel a bit more at ease was that her dreams were just an illusion and had nothing to do with the real Miraak. No, she wasn't dreaming of a real child killer every night! Her desire to catch this scumbag had been fueled by a lack of meaningful relationships in her life, and that was the only reason why her mind created these sick fantasies. She had seen too much, witnessing the insidious games of the daedra and the spells of powerful wizards, far more than she would have liked.  She had faced consequences that were both sad and strange, and the corrupting influence of his magic catalyzed a fatal effect on her mind. Yet she refused to be deterred. With every step forward, the Dragonborn strengthened her warrior spirit, determined to complete her mission. Afterward, she would go and take care of her mental health by leaving Solstheim far behind.

At the end of the path, behind the enormous grotesque statue of Hermaeus Mora, the Black Book awaited her.

And there was Miraak, behind the portal of fragile pages, appearing before her in the flesh for the first time.

For a moment, the world froze still for the Dragonborn, before exploding into a million fragments that hit her squarely in the chest. She bit her lip, barely suppressing a bitter groan.

The same robe. The same pauldrons. And even the mask that could not be mistaken for anything else.

But how could this be?

Either the games of her inflamed imagination had randomly and coincidentally conjured up an overly precise image in her mind, or...

The Dragonborn was so bewildered that she didn't even realize how she ended up on her knees, bound by powerful paralysis charms. She listened to the familiar voice boasting about his imminent return, she gazed at the man, dressed in the same clothes as her nighttime visitor, she watched him mount his dragon and fly away, while silent tears of devastation rolled down her cheeks.

All this time, she had been fooled. It wasn't her own mind playing games with her, but rather Miraak's magic - just like with all the other Solstheimers. But while the dragon priest mercifully forced the locals to only construct the Temple, depriving them of just a good night's rest, he took so much more from her.

Peace. Laughter. Confidence in her goals and desires. Her own - so foolish! - heart.

She hated it.

His spell released her only when she was thrown out of the Apocrypha. The Dragonborn collapsed on the ground, burying her nose in the cold stone and sobbing uncontrollably, unaware of Frea's frightened attempts to calm her down.

***

On that night he was particularly tender, and she was unusually silent. As before, she found herself unable to resist Miraak's touch and felt frozen in his arms.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered, gently kissing her forehead as if she was a small child. "You should understand if the Gardener finds out that I..."

"Stop it!" Her voice was hoarse and tears streamed down her face as she spoke. "Please, enough..."

He didn't argue but only nodded in understanding, falling silent. And she, hating herself for it with all her heart, pressed herself against his chest and cried.

***

When the Dragonborn "cleansed" the first Stone, it felt like she was being torn in two. Her mind insisted that she was doing the right thing, but her heart... Her stupid heart was tearing and flailing inside her chest, screaming for her to stop immediately, to...

"Don’t even think to fool me again!" She gritted her teeth, threatening his green magic with a glare. "I won't let you take over my mind, do you hear me?"

It was easier to defeat the huge black lurker that appeared near the Stone than to quell the tremble in her body after the fight. The Dragonborn leaned heavily on her Rose, unable to take a step without collapsing to the ground.

Two awakened Dunmer waited for the outcome of the battle behind the large boulder, and seeing that the danger had passed, they rushed to the savior, took her by the arms, and led her to Raven Rock. Along the way, they didn't stop thanking the Dragonborn for freeing them.

"You don't look well," the woman remarked, bringing the Dragonborn straight to the doors of the mansion and handing her over to the excited Jenassa. "If you need any potion or tincture, just say the word. I'm Milore, the only one here who knows alchemy."

"It's okay, Milore. I just need to rest. And you guys too." The Dragonborn sympathetically pointed out the blisters on the Dunmers’ palms.

"Nonsense," Milore smiled and hugged her companion. "Garyn and I live in that house over there. You can always come to us if you need anything."

That night, the Dragonborn chose not to sleep, but the next morning, staggering from exhaustion, she set off to cleanse other Stones.

Upon returning home, she just sat on the nearest bench for a moment to take off her boots and rest her aching feet, but against her will, she immediately fell asleep.

***

His eyes burned with such bitterness that it took the Dragonborn's breath away. She turned away, unable to bear his gaze any longer.

"Why are you doing this?"

I didn't want to, I really didn't...

The woman pinched herself - as if she needed to start justifying herself to him! She shook her head and spoke about how it was necessary, how he was causing harm to people. She spoke, but with each word, she realized she wasn't really answering Miraak, but rather reminding herself of these simple truths. So that she would not show weakness. Again.

Besides, there was no going back now.

Tightening her grip on her resolve, the Dragonborn took a step to the side, indicating that the conversation was over.

"You enslaved all these people, just as you enslaved your dragons, Miraak. But it won't work on me."

And the Dragonborn left. Slowly, as if a Dwemer beam was attached to each leg.

She had left! She should have been happy: she succeeded, and stood her ground! The Dragonborn had triumphed over Miraak in the dreams he had sent her, in which he, like a spider, had ensnared her until now!

But there was no joy. There was only pain - in her empty chest, there was nothing left but pain. And it was no wonder. She had just torn out her own heart with her own hands, leaving it to bleed on that forest edge.

***

Upon waking up, the Dragonborn began to train, swinging her sword until she shattered two dummies into splinters and damaged her blade. Roaring like a wounded beast, she discarded the now useless sword, rushed to her weapon rack, and pulled off her enchanted axe — a long-ago gift from Jarl Balgruuf as a reward for slaying a dragon. Well, now she had also in some sense triumphed over a dragon — the first of the Dragonborn! And that was far more difficult than simply beheading the damn Alduin himself! So, wouldn't it be fitting to "celebrate" this new achievement with such a memorable weapon? The axe's blade split the wooden "skull" of the third dummy, which crumbled, covered in a layer of magical ice, and then broke the tabletop in two. Cackling like mad, the Dragonborn accurately struck the corner of a chest, then sliced a barrel next to it into small planks, narrowly missing the staff leaning against the wall, and then... She would have continued destroying the house if it weren't for Jenassa, who returned just in time from "The Retching Netch" with a basket full of food.

The Dunmer immediately assessed the situation, darted forward, deftly intercepted the axe from her friend's hand, tightly hugged the struggling and shouting Dragonborn, and held her in her arms until the body of the Dragonborn went limp, no longer thrashing.

"What, in the name of Azura has gotten into you?" Jenassa asked quietly when the protests of the Dragonborn finally subsided.

And the Bosmer, choking back tears, told her everything, no longer able to keep her stirred-up emotions and feelings inside.

Jenassa listened silently, snorted, and then carefully but firmly seated her friend on the miraculously surviving chair and rushed to the chests of belongings.

"What are you doing?" the Dragonborn asked, hiccupping.

"That's enough for you," Jenassa cut her off with a tone that left no room for argument, deftly sorting clothes into piles. "Let someone else deal with the darn half-draugr. There are plenty of warriors in Skyrim, but I only have one friend! And she only has one mind, and nobody's giving her a new one!"

The Dragonborn gratefully smiled. Oh, how awesome it would be to just take off and leave! To forget accursed dreams about him, like a nightmare! Stop thinking about the people he tormented! Get Miraak and the whole damn island out of her head...

But she didn't know how to do that. The woman wiped her running nose with her palm and approached Jenassa, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Jen, but I'm not going anywhere until Mira-" Why is it so hard to say his name! - “until he is no longer a threat to Solstheim. You see, if he comes back, it will only get worse. For everyone - the locals, Skyrim, and us.”

Jenassa could only helplessly crumple the linen shirt in her hands and angrily toss it back into the chest. She knew perfectly well that once the determined Bosmer had made up her mind, she couldn't be convinced otherwise.

"Daeljuhnyi, explain to me why it always has to be you?" she asked.

The Dragonborn bitterly laughed, picked up the axe from the floor covered in splinters and melted ice, and carefully reattached it to the stand.

"If only I knew."

***

She had stocked up on so much potion from Milore that she could go with dreamless sleep for another year. And she drank it diligently every night, as she and Jen made their way deeper into the island.

Yet, in the end, the potion failed her. The Dragonborn sat by the fire—it was her turn to keep watch—and at some point, she must have dozed off. There was no other way to explain why Miraak was here, on the edge of the forest, where the women had set up a small camp.

She let out a hopeless sigh: she wanted to be angry, but instead, cozy warmth spread in her chest. She was genuinely happy to see him, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Miraak smelled of fire, liquid ink, and pine. The Dragonborn breathed in his scent deeply and knew she was giving in. After spending several days without her nightly dreams, she had missed him too much to simply turn away this unexpected but long-awaited guest.

"Look at me," he said.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Oh, the sound of his voice, so deep, smooth, velvety, with barely perceptible growling notes. It was the kind of voice that made her want to lose herself in it if she could.

At Miraak's request, the Dragonborn looked up at him. His eyes reflected the stars and her own stunned face. Her breath caught, and she realized that there was nothing she wanted more in life than this man.

Suddenly, she didn't care if it was all just another manipulation - today she wanted to give in, to surrender, and to forget about all her doubts. She knew he had come to her for the last time. In reality, all that awaited her was battle, pain, and tears. Perhaps even death, if she lost to him. That's why the time slipping through her fingers was so precious, and so here and now she would do what truly spoke to her heart.

When their lips met, his beard lightly tickled her tender skin, but she didn't care. She clung to Miraak with all her being, and he responded eagerly to her every movement, his body malleable as he allowed her to take the lead.

The Dragonborn moaned, feeling the hot, wax-like skin under her fingertips. Her hands slid over his body, occasionally stroking the taut, pulsating muscles on his shoulders, then slipping under his clothing to walk along his broad chest and down the dark trail of hair, straight to the embroidered belt of gold thread. And lower - where she had never dared to touch him before. Every previous dream she had wanted to - and every time she had backed away. But not now.

Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she realized that the Nords differed from her brethren in more than just height. His fingers skimmed over his hardened flesh inquisitively. Dovahkiin bit her lip. His size frightened and excited her at the same time, but, judging by the sensations, the excitement prevailed.

As soon as she touched him there, Miraak froze, and even his breathing seemed to subside. And then he opened his eyes, and the Dragonborn saw the flame in them. Something predatory, almost dragon-like, rumbled in his chest, and in a moment the woman was on the ground, pushed down by Miraak.

She couldn't help but let out an enthusiastic sigh. His body was much more massive than her own, and he seemed to cover the whole sky with himself. Playful sparks danced in the Bosmer's eyes: the heated, slightly disheveled Miraak now seemed much more attractive to her than any distant star in the Aurbis. Wrapping her legs around him, she felt his erection through her clothes and leaned in close to tease him, rubbing her crotch against him. Miraak exhaled noisily, abruptly lowered his body, pinning her to the ground, and, twisting his hips, repeated her movement, but much more forcefully.

And then all the sounds stopped at once, and a thousand bright flashes exploded in her head. The Dragonborn didn't know what to call the intense sensation that boiled under her skin, burning her belly in waves of something that felt so right and wonderful that Dovahkiin couldn't restrain herself and laughed loudly. This something differed from simple arousal as strikingly as the sun differed from a light of a candle. Miraak smiled at her and raised an eyebrow. She smiled back at him, admiring his face.

"Don't stop," she pleaded without a word.

“Never,” his eyes answered.

With one tug of his hand, her leather armor unbuttoned, uncovering her shoulders and upper chest. The Dragonborn barely had time to worry that a few exposed scars might seem too ugly to him when Miraak leaned against the roughest of them and kissed it hungrily. And again. And more.

Her heart was beating like crazy as he slid his lips and tongue along the throbbing vein, from her collarbones to the sensitive area under her ear. The woman closed her eyes. Even this simple caress brought her more pleasure than anything she had known with men before him. Heady languor pierced her body. His movements, his breath on her skin, and the sounds that erupted from his chest created a violent hurricane that stirred up all of her thoughts and emotions, leaving her soul exposed and trembling in euphoria, as if offering itself as a gift to Miraak.

Intimacy has never felt so strong before.

And it won't happen again. As tomorrow...

She was overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of memory, crushing everything under it - pleasure, desire, and joy. Her camp was close to the Skaal village. Just a few hours ago, the Dragonborn had made up a feeble excuse and fled, like a coward. Frankly speaking, she just couldn't bring herself to share the grief of losing Storn with anyone close to him. She doubted she could ever find the courage to speak with Frea about it. The shaman had given his life so that the Dragonborn could learn the third Word of Power and finally reach the Traitor, and now...

A sharp pain throbbed beneath her ribs.

"Y'ffre, how foolish... " she whispered.

The Dragonborn met Miraak's gaze, her eyes filling with tears. A lump formed in her throat, as if a noose was tightening around it. Everything she had done on Solstheim, all her losses and battles, were aimed at only one thing - defeating him. Storn believed that only she could do it, and he died for that belief. And now, she knew that someone else had to die too, someone whose death she did not want to cause...

She reached for Miraak, took his face in her hands, and kissed him passionately as if trying to communicate to him everything that was raging inside her. She desperately wanted to share her grief and love…

Love?

Her eyes widened in surprise. The Dragonborn had never dared to call her attraction to him that, but now only this word seemed right. The shocking revelation paralyzed her for a second, but the numbness quickly faded. She held onto Miraak tightly with her arms and legs, her eyelids closing again as two heavy tears fell from the tips of her lashes.

The kiss was bittersweet, passionate, and fraught with tension - the Dragonborn poured all her sadness about their impending farewell into it. Considering what she was about to say, it truly was a goodbye kiss. At times, she felt the kiss wane, felt the need to let go, and then she would press her lips to Miraak's with renewed fervor, in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

Yet, sooner or later, she had to break away from their embrace. The Dragonborn lay back on the grass, holding his shoulders to prevent him from leaning in further, and felt a prickling cold seep under her skin.

Excitement on his face gave way to concern when he noticed her tears. Anticipating his question, she blurted out in one breath:

"Tomorrow, in reality, I'll kill you, Miraak. I have to."

And then she closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze after what she had said.

When his cool hand brushed against her neck, she thought he was going to choke her. Strangely, the thought didn't frighten her; it only brought bitter relief.

It would serve her right, such a fool, for revealing her plan to the enemy! If she were to die by his hand in her sleep, she would most likely die in reality too, and finally be free from the conflict between her duty and her heart...

She realized her mistake when Miraak merely fastened her armor beneath her throat with care, and then leaned in to kiss her forehead. Just as tenderly as always.

"Then we have much to discuss today," he said, breaking the silence.

Chapter Text

"My path is hidden from me."

"It is already laid before your feet, you cannot falter now."

"Arwen..."

"If you trust nothing else… trust this. Trust us."

Arwen and Aragorn, "The Lord of the Rings"

Magic trembled like a soap bubble around her small camp – the conversation could go wrong, and the Priest didn't want to attract the attention of the entire village of Skaal. The Dragonborn sat across from Miraak, keeping arms crossed over her chest, and looking at her enemy with disbelief.

"Do you… do you mean this isn't a dream?" she asked, and her skin turned pink. Something in her gaze made Miraak prepare to summon a protective ward, just in case.

"I wanted to tell you right away, but then you..."

"But then I wouldn't have acted like... like..." She cut off, while her cheeks colored in a deep crimson hue. "You… manipulative bastard!"

Miraak managed to put up a ward a second before the thing she had thrown could reach him - not a spell, but the first item the Dragonborn got her hands on. A cooking pot clanged as it rolled across the ground.

"Liar!"

A frying pan was the next thing hitting the magical shield.

"You were sneaking around here in the dead of night! All this time crawling around in my head! And on top of that, you made me..." She seemed flustered, searching for the right word to describe what they had just done while lying in the grass.

Sleepy Jenassa emerged from her tent, saving her from having to say it out loud.

"Why are you yelling, daeljuhnyi? What's go..."

The Dunmer froze, her eyes going wide. In a second, she grabbed a dwarven bow and arrows that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, drew the string, and aimed directly at Miraak's head.

"Who is this n'wah?"

Her gaze traveled over the man's tousled hair, the open garment revealing his chest and neck covered in oval hickeys, his unevenly fastened belt with no weapon, and the cookware scattered at his feet...

The arrowhead lowered slightly, and a mischievous light flickered in her eyes.

"Oh... I guess I interrupted something?"

Her entire demeanor suggested she'd run back to her tent now, but in the morning she would request the Dragonborn to tell her everything, down to the smallest detail. Beginning, of course, with who the mysterious night visitor was.

"Yes," Miraak dryly confirmed.

"No!" the Dragonborn shrieked, becoming even angrier at her friend's inappropriate assumption. "It's him! It's Miraak, Jen!"

The Dunmer's expression changed, and she raised the arrow again. Her red eyes sparkled dangerously.

"One word from you, halberag*."

Miraak looked directly at the Dunmer and nodded at the weapon in her hands.

"Tatavanye**, Jenassa."

"How wou...?" the Dunmer began, but the Dragonborn interrupted her.

"You won't beat two arrows off," her eyes blazed with the fire of retribution. The bowstring creaked as a dragon arrow settled into the graceful Stalhrim bow. The weapon gleamed with familiar light blue enchantment of magicka damage.

"I could do that," the Nord answered calmly and extinguished his protective ward. "But I didn't come here to fight, Dragonborn."

The moment was perfect. The arrow was aimed directly at his chest, no longer shielded by a magical barrier. The Dragonborn knew Miraak wouldn't have time to deflect the blow: summoning a new shield would take time. And as she was widely regarded as the best archer in Grathwood, missing from such a distance was simply impossible. His heart, unprotected even by his own armor, was too easy of a target, and it was precisely this vulnerability that proved to be the most effective weapon against her - the Bosmer simply couldn't let go of the bowstring. Helplessly roaring, she threw the bow aside.

"Then what the Oblivion do you want from me???"

"I've already told you: I came to talk."

"Are you going to mess with her mind again?" Jenassa hissed. Her arrow was still aimed at Miraak's face.

Miraak shook his head. Then he grimaced and rubbed his neck, as if a noose was tightening around it.

"I didn't influence you any more than I did the others, Dragonborn. The only thing you did on my orders was fortify the stakes around the Temple."

"You're lying!"

"Why would I lie?"

"I don't know," the Bosmer exclaimed and kicked her own staff in anger. "Maybe to gain my trust, sneak up on me, and kill me?"

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago," Miraak calmly countered. "For example, when you were beneath me with your eyes closed."

The Dragonborn immediately regretted throwing away her bow. Now she would have shot that smug face for sure!

"It looks like you got bored in your dusty library and decided to have some fun with me first then!"

Miraak chuckled.

"Have fun? There are plenty of women in the Cult, Dragonborn. Half of them have hinted to me, directly or indirectly, that they wouldn't mind. But as for me..." He closed his eyes briefly and then looked back at her. "You know, I wish it were just about lust. Then I could satisfy it with others and return to Nirn without any obstacles."

The Bosmer swallowed. Something in his face told her he wasn't lying.

Jenassa interjected.

"You talk now like you haven't tried to 'remove the obstacle'! It is no mystery who ordered assassins after her head! And we know it was you who sent that dragon after us!"

The Dragonborn pointed a finger toward her friend, silently agreeing with her words.

With a single motion, Miraak threw back the hem of his robe and sat down on the grass, crossing his legs.

"I won't hide it: my people did attack you in Ivarstead. They came there as I ordered, and I regret that order. Ailen and Ethias were still so young... They wanted to help so badly. I mourn for them, but at that time I was sure they would return. Everything indicated that you were a fake, a puppet in the hands of the Imperials..."

"A puppet? Though, you know... even if that was true! You were about to kill me for that?"

"In my time, Dragonborn, people were killed for less. A dragon soul is a gift from the gods, sometimes a legacy of blessed ancestors that you have rightfully earned. But regardless, it is not only an honor but also a great responsibility. People like us have always had followers. It was true in my case, and it has been true for every Dragonborn that came after. The path of a Dovahkiin is consecrated by the deity now known as Akatosh. But there have always been pretenders throughout history, and they always created chaos - for these impostors were not guided by the gods, but by their own selfish desires. Great sacrifices, made by the true chosen ones, were defamed by such people. Moreover, often the integrity of the entire world has been threatened by the actions of these false Dovahkiin. They are a stain on the name of all true Dragonborns. So, in your case, I... I believed that I was doing the right thing."

The Bosmer stamped her foot.

"If you think that excuses you..."

"No, I don't think so. Not anymore. I am telling you what happened, plain and simple. Every person, no matter how intelligent they may be, is prone to making absolutely foolish decisions from time to time. That was it. My emotions got the best of me, and rashness overtook prudence." He shook his head. "Do I regret it? Yes, I do. After meeting you, I realized that I didn't want to see an enemy in you. If I had realized that sooner, my followers might still be alive. So you were right - it was my fault that they died. I didn't want to admit it, but it's true. You know, on the day of my return, Ailen and Ethias wanted to share their joy with me and have a wedding."

Miraak lowered his gaze as if images of the past were racing through his mind. After a few seconds of silence, he continued.

"Perhaps if I had acted differently, the old shaman who has heard tall tales about me since childhood would have also been saved from dying in vain. But no matter how much I want to, I cannot turn back time," he said and looked back at her. "I can only speak to you candidly. I intended to kill you once. You tried to eliminate me in return. Now it's my turn again, isn't it? But I won't attack you, Dragonborn. I have learned my lesson."

"And what about the dragon?" The Bosmer exhaled.

"Krosulhah?" The Nord smirked bitterly. "The most reckless of my Dovah. He came to you on his own accord, you see." Miraak plucked a few blades of grass from the ground and began to crush them in his hands. "I couldn't be honest with my followers about you, Dragonborn. The Gardener may not have been able to attack while the power of the Stones sustained me, but as long as I remain within the walls of his Plan, he always hears me. If he found out about my true desires, you would really be in danger. Jenassa," he suddenly turned to the Dunmer, "haven’t your hands gotten weary yet?"

Jenassa frowned but lowered her bow. Miraak turned back to the Dragonborn.

"I don't want to be your enemy. I am here to offer peace."

"I think you just realized that you're losing and decided to use me!" she retorted.

Miraak scowled and once again ran his hand over his neck and shoulders.

"Without the Stones, I have truly lost powerful magical sustenance and have become weaker. And I really wouldn't refuse your help, Dovahkiin. But not because I want to use you."

"AND WHY, THEN?"

"I already told you. You also appear in my dreams."

The camp fell silent. Miraak continued.

"Until today, I was sure it was just... foolish fantasies. Echoes of past desires, a craving for something human... warm. You carry within you a warmth that I have never felt in the Apocrypha, Dovahkiin. I learned a lot about you while you lived here, in Solstheim. You managed to surprise me... charm me... conquer me - I don't know which word would be more appropriate here. But those dreams seemed like just dreams, until today, when you said that you also... Now I understand - it's not an illusion, not madness, not just a thirst to fill the void. It's something greater."

The Bosmer held her breath, it felt like her heart had stopped beating for a few long seconds. Miraak smiled, looking at her. And this smile made her lips dry out.

"Dovahkiin, you have a birthmark on your back, under your shoulder blade. It is in the shape of a rabbit. You love it when I kiss you right here," he touched the spot behind the ear. "Since moving to Skyrim, you can't live without sweet rolls and snowberry mead. Your father made your first bow, but no one knows about it, because your influential stepfather didn't allow you two to see each other. When you touch my hair, you often call me 'your Nord bear’. Five nights ago, I showed you my mother's favorite constellation. Last Turdas, you admitted that you're happier with me than in reality. Two days before that, I..."

"...said that you want to settle down with me in a small house on the edge of the forest and get a fluffy dog with droopy ears."

His smile widened even further.

"I wanted to rebuild, correct, and reshape the world that has gone off the rails, ruled by fools. Not too long ago, I was attracted to all this madness, but you know... During the time we spent together, I... " He leaned his chin on his hand and his gaze slid warmly over her face. "I realized how tempting was the idea of just at last living for myself... and for someone dear to me, Dragonborn. And yes, getting a dog too."

The Bosmer bit her lip, her cheeks flushing, and for some reason, she felt a stinging sensation in her eyes. In the absolute silence, there was something that made the Dragonborn think that the whole world had frozen. And the only one who existed now sat opposite her, seemingly telling her that what she felt was mutual...

"You made us build," Jenassa reminded him. She may have put away her weapon, but she wasn't going to give up that easily. "Have you ever worked like this, against your will, even for a day in your life?"

"Yes. Three eras have passed since I started 'working' for someone against my will. And I sincerely would have preferred to swing my pickaxe against stone than to do what I had to do," the Nord answered calmly, still looking unwaveringly at the Dragonborn. "Don't think that I have forgotten about the service of the locals, even if it was involuntary. In any case, I had no choice: time was pressing. I found a loophole in the Plan of the Gardener, I developed a formula for new enchantments that he didn't know about - not yet, and I had to hurry. The help of cultists and even dragons would not have been enough. That's why I had to borrow strength from people - but only from those who could lend it. The sick, the weak, and the children were not affected by my enchantments."

The Dragonborn felt a hammer strike on her head. The pleasant numbness dissipated, and a lump formed in her throat.

"You didn't touch the children, did you? What about the kid in your Temple, then? The burned child's body in the cell? How long was it there, Miraak? You..."

Something in Miraak's face made her fall silent. He closed his eyes.

"It has been there for four thousand one hundred and eight years, six months, and five days, Dovahkiin. And believe me, if it were up to me, the little one would have been laid to rest long ago with all due honors, like the bodies of those others, who are chained next to her. But in the Temple, built for the Gardener, only his laws apply. The draugr, once my friends and comrades in life, now serve him. What you saw there was done by his will. As a punishment to me. So that the dead would always remain before my eyes as a reminder. All this time, his spells have not allowed me or my people to approach those cells, and..."

His voice faltered. The Dragonborn hesitated for a moment, and then, driven by something incomprehensible but as powerful as her own dragon nature, she rushed towards Miraak. Her small, trembling hand cautiously lay on his shoulder. He immediately covered her hand with his.

"I am rebuilding the Temple just for the sake of it, Dovahkiin. When it truly becomes mine... the rules of the game will change. Magic will obey. And I will finally be able to bury my daughter."

Chapter Text

Maybe a little influence from your old uncle Sanguine could help adjust your course a bit...

Sanguine, "The Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim"

She had never been so scared before or after. Not even when Alduin's massive jaws snapped an inch from her face, scorching her with inferno heat, not even when Harkon's sharp bone wing pierced her chest, miraculously missing her heart, not even during the sleepless nights by Lydia's bedside, as Lydia nearly gave her soul to the gods, spending eight days on the brink of life and death at the Temple of Kynareth. All of that paled in comparison to the horror that churned in her chest now.

She trembled all over as the dragon Sahrotaar began to descend. Only his arms, tightly wrapped around her waist, gave her a sliver of calm. And then even those were gone.

"This is madness..." rang in her head as she slowly stepped onto the stone circular platform.

"I'm losing my mind!" she thought as she talked to the tall figure in priestly robes, drawing her bowstring taut. She kept asking herself if this was all just a dream as she watched the dragons fall one by one.

Several times, it seemed like everything was about to crumble. Miraak had not much strength left, but they needed his strength desperately. It was a pity, but the Dragonborn couldn't help him. She simply didn't possess the necessary knowledge and skills. Despite her best efforts, she knew she wouldn't have enough time to master them overnight.

The Dragonborn bit her lip, knowing in advance that it would all happen exactly like this. She knew it would be frightening, that it would be difficult to watch as three Dovah gave their lives for their mad and desperate plan. But there was no other way. Not after yesterday.

***

They talked until dawn, without noticing that Jenassa had left them alone long ago. Embracing him, knowing that this was reality, was so strange, so exciting, so... right. And yet, doubts still lingered deep in her soul. What if this was a trick? What if...

"Do you not believe me?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes and couldn't answer such a simple question. The Dragonborn believed and didn't believe at the same time, her mind in such chaos that it was easier to remain silent. Miraak stared at her face, then, as if making a difficult decision, he smiled bitterly. With a swift movement, he unhooked the elven dagger from her belt and placed the hilt in her palm.

"I wasn't lying. And, as I said, I won't fight you anymore. Even if you..."

Miraak didn't finish his sentence as he pressed the blade to his own throat. Seeing that she didn't move, he slowly leaned forward.

His whisper burned her ear.

"Better here, in freedom, than there, Dragonborn. I don't want Apocrypha to be the last thing I see."

The Dragonborn, as if enchanted, watched as the sharp metal plunged into his skin, as the yellow tip sank into the yielding flesh. Her stupor dissipated as a thin stream of blood ran down the blade. Gasping, she threw the dagger aside and used her magic to heal his wound. Her eyes flashed with anger.

"Don't ever do that again, do you hear me? If you give me a reason, I will kill you myself. Myself! But tomorrow..." She shook her head defiantly. "I won't leave you there, Miraak. No one deserves eternity in Oblivion. Not even… even..."

Unable to find the right words, she leaned forward, pulled him by the collar, and kissed him decisively.

At another time, the decision could have seemed at least questionable, but now something inside her was telling her that it was the only right one. Even if all his words were indeed a deception, she knew that she wouldn't forgive herself if she didn't give Miraak a chance. If she did what she had planned just yesterday.

Enough losses for her. Storn, Kodlak, Skjor, Alvor - she couldn't save them... But she wouldn't allow anyone else to be taken away from her. No more.

***

The acrid green vapors and poisoned air of Apocrypha choked her. It felt strange to fight without the Rose. It was even stranger to fight like this - when her accuracy was worth more than just victory. Two lives were at stake - his and her own.

And yet, Miraak's magic was almost depleted...

What a foolish…

He told her what every minute in Nirn was worth, only when she noticed the deep cuts on his shoulders caused by Apocrypha's invisible bindings. She almost cried out in helplessness when she learned how much energy he had spent on this night visit. Yet, she could understand why he preferred staying with her despite his pain and weakness. He couldn't know if she would truly believe him. And he couldn't be sure that their crazy plan would work. Breathing in the air of freedom, which he knew might be his last chance to do so, was so tempting...

Something pricked in her chest: if it weren't for her destroying his connection to the Stones, everything could have turned out differently.

When the first dragon fell, the Dragonborn closed her eyes. She knew that Mora wouldn't believe otherwise, she knew that the dragons were doomed anyway, and yet...

A couple of times she thought that the "Gardener" would figure everything out. Miraak warned her that it was difficult to outplay the old Daedra. Even if the power of another Daedra was helping with that.

And yet, they were succeeding so far.

If someone had told her just a few days ago that she would attempt something like this, the Dovahkiin would have thought them insane. Mora was the smartest being in the Aurbis, and she had to use cunning to steal from him what he considered his own. And not get caught.

Her palms were sweaty, and the bow occasionally trembled. And only memories of the midnight campfire flames reflected in his eyes dispelled the icy fear that numbed her fingers. The bowstring obeyed her – the Dragonborn hit the target with precision, breaking arrows on his wards or piercing his robe with accurate shots.

Yesterday, which felt like an eternity ago, they had come up with the craziest and most unimaginable way to pull Miraak out of Apocrypha. Mora wouldn't let Miraak go alive. So, he had to...

The Dragonborn swallowed and shot another arrow at her masked opponent.

He had to die.

Last night, together, they had come up with the idea how.

***

The Rose made a graceful twirl in Miraak’s hands, and Dremora Valkynaz, a servant of Sanguine, stepped onto the grass. He carefully surveyed the small camp with his bloodshot eyes and arched his bushy eyebrow.

"I do not see a battle here, summoner. Who do I need to fight?"

"There will be a battle, but not now and not here," Miraak smirked. "And for it, you will need to change your outfit, DeyRA*."

The dremora looked at the offered golden mask with incomprehension.

"Ah, yes," Miraak added. "My arrogant master is a fan of fire shows. His spells burn flesh and often leave only a pile of cinder and bones. So if such a thing happens, be kind enough to leave behind a suitably sized skeleton."

***

Dressed in the garb of the first Dragonborn from head to toe, Valyknaz circled opposite her, occasionally getting hit by an arrow in his shoulder or leg. And she was sweating from the tension. Unlike Miraak, who had no doubt that the servant of Sanguine, the Prince of Debauchery and Revelry, would gladly help in such an adventure, she feared exposure every second.

And yet, Miraak had indeed planned everything well. Cloaked in invisibility and directing Valkynaz with the Rose, he followed the disguised Dremora as a shadow, occasionally summoning Thu'um or spells, growling and shouting as soon as another arrow pierced the summoned helper's body. Massive eyes watching the battle only saw what the Daedric Prince wanted to see, and Miraak's voice dispelled any possible doubts of Hermaeus Mora. When the Dremora or the First Dragonborn were exhausted, Miraak moved the Valkynaz to the center of the platform and replenished the energy of dragon souls for both himself and the Dremora. And he did so, until all the Dovah fell, and his own magicka was almost emaciated.

At some point, he felt such weakness that he could not stay on his feet. Falling to his knees, Miraak disabled the barrier that protected the Tower from Mora. The only thing he could do now was to maintain the invisibility charms and hold the Rose tightly, not letting the arrow-riddled Dremora disappear.

Hermaeus Mora did not wait long. The black tentacle appeared out of nowhere, making a sound like a wet whip. It tore apart the remnants of the magical shield and pierced the belly of the disguised Valyknaz.

The Dragonborn sighed, even though she knew that Dremora didn't feel pain, she felt pity. A chill ran down her spine. After all, he could have been the one in place of the Valkynaz...

"May she be rewarded for his service as I am!" croaked Miraak, playing his role until the very end. Flames engulfed the summoned helper. Covered in fire, the Dremora disappeared, leaving behind, as agreed, only someone's charred bones.

Mora disdainfully threw the remains aside. And he said it - the words of renunciation of his fallen Champion, offering the vacated place to the Dragonborn. Through the haze, Miraak saw the woman shaking her head from side to side in a disagreement.

Miraak fell onto his back. For the first time in millennia, he felt like he could take a full breath. The Apocrypha chains, which seemed to have long been embedded in his skin, crumbled to dust.

It was done! Mora had refused his previous servant, acknowledging his death due to his own oversight. And thus, according to the terms of the oath, Miraak had served his time honestly and was released. Even if it was "posthumously".

Only the old Northern gods knew the effort it took for Miraak not to burst out laughing.

Protected by magic from the attentive gaze of Mora's split pupils, the Priest lay on the cold stone and looked up. Slowly blinking, he examined the thin green clouds that hung over this accursed place like a foul mist. His heart throbbed with joy: he would never see it again! He would no longer have to breathe the stench of black mold and rotting books! He would no longer have to obey the commands of the withered Prince! It was all over!

Renewing the spells of invisibility with his trembling hand, Miraak realized that his strength was completely depleted and that his consciousness was being consumed by darkness.

But on the threshold between wakefulness and oblivion, he managed to hear her cautious footsteps and smiled contentedly: now they both finally had a chance for everything that had once only been a dream.

Chapter Text

“I wonder,” he said, “whether the stars are set alight in heaven so that one day each one of us may find his own again...”

 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

The setting sun cast a warm amber glow over the small house and the forest clearing around it. On the porch sat a dark-haired man in a simple white shirt and a Dunmer woman clad in armor. At their feet lay a large shaggy dog, sprawled on its back, enjoying the master’s hand scratching its belly.

“And then it turned out that this Ebony Warrior who dreamed of Sovngarde wasn’t even a Nord—he was a Redguard. A Redguard, Miraak, can you believe it! Teldryn and I were stunned speechless when we found out!” the warrior woman concluded her story with a laugh, sipping a dark-brown brew from a deep mug. “Hey, what do you put in this tea? It’s so good it makes my cheeks tingle.”

“Crushed snowberry with honey and dried jazbay,” Miraak replied with a smile. “Along with the usual herbs, of course. Interestingly, your Chimer ancestors loved this tea too. Back in my day, caravans sent snowberries to Resdayn by the load.”

Jenassa smacked her lips and took another sip, making it clear that she fully endorsed her ancestors' taste. The door creaked, and a petite Bosmer woman in a green dress stepped onto the porch. Even the loose waistline couldn’t hide how much the Dragonborn’s belly had grown. The dog wagged its tail excitedly and ran to her, licking her hand eagerly.

“Lucia’s calling you to the table,” the Dragonborn announced, scratching the dog’s ear affectionately. “She made sweet rolls for the first time, Jen, but, between us, I snuck a taste and I’d bet that soon even the Gourmet himself will bow to our daughter’s cooking.”

Miraak stood up and embraced the woman, nuzzling the top of her head.

“She gets it from her father,” Jenassa replied confidently, quickly finishing her drink. “Even if your husband is half-Draugr, he makes tea like his hands were kissed by Meridia herself. No offense, my dear, but even you can’t match him…”

“Oh, there’s no offense taken,” the Bosmer smiled, watching as Miraak raised his hands dramatically at the mention of ‘half-Draugr.’ This joke never got old in their circle, though he found it far less funny than the elven women did. “It’s better this way; you know I don’t much enjoy cooking. But he really does whip up more than just tea. I mean, forty centuries spent in a dusty library, with access to all of Tamriel’s recipes?”

Miraak laughed.

“In places like that, you start to miss simple pleasures like good food. I read plenty, but I could never taste it. I often thought about what I’d eat on my first day of freedom. The list was endless…”

“On that first day, you could barely even drink water—I remember that well,” Jen scoffed. “You were retching so badly we thought you’d cough up your soul. Poor Milore, we’d just begged her for six pints of potion that evening! She probably thought we were trying to revive an entire Imperial legion.”

“But once you got a bit used to things, you were devouring food so quickly that I thought you’d soon be too big to fit through the door,” the Dragonborn laughed and kissed his shoulder. “I’ll never forget how at The Netch, we practically had to buy out the place just to feed our ‘unexpected guest from far away!’ And remember how Geldis looked every time I cleared out his stock of hams? Yet Miraak always grumbled that things tasted better in his time.”

“Well, because they did,” Miraak smirked, gently brushing a stray lock of black hair behind his wife’s ear. “People just don’t know how to cook anymore. I had to take matters into my own hands, and I found it quite enjoyable.”

“They’re masters at it, he and Lucia. Soon, I won’t fit through the door myself,” the Dragonborn quipped with a shrug.

“But not because of that, my dear.” Miraak’s hand slid over her rounded belly. “It’s just that our son takes after his father in appetite.”

“No surprise that a wood elf’s and an ancient Nord's child would eat like a bear,” Jenassa grinned. “And it seems like Teldryn and I will have it much more straightforward—none of that interspecies variety…”

“Mama, Papa, Aunt Jen, Meeko, where are you?” came Lucia’s impatient call from inside. “They’ll get cold!”

Meeko barked and dashed toward the call. Smiling, the others followed him inside.

The house smelled of fresh pastries. Through the large windows, they could see the pine forest; between the trees, a small hill crowned by a stone statue of a little girl in an old-fashioned Nord dress was visible. The cozy dining room echoed with laughter, songs, and happy barking. Above the hearth, in a place of honor, hung a dried, withered Rose, no longer in service.

Noticing a smudge of cream on his wife’s nose, Miraak reached over, wiped it with his little finger, and immediately popped it into his mouth. The Dragonborn laughed as she watched him.

“Are you sure you’re not a dream?” she asked softly, as Jen and Lucia admired a gift from Teldryn Sero: a golden ring that the Solstheim native had shyly given Jenassa to show his deepest intentions.

“And if I were, wouldn’t this be a good dream?” Miraak replied, smiling.

“The very best,” the Bosmer agreed, wrapping her arms around him.

Today marked exactly one year since Hermaeus Mora and his cursed Apocrypha had been erased from their lives. Everything was good.