A/N: heyyy, new chapter. Not sure where to go with this, but I have tons of ideas. This chapter will get into character backgrounds, so hang on if it gets slow. It will get interesting later on, I promise.
All rights belong to Bethesda studios, not me. If I own it, Alduin would not have died at the end of the main quest, Lucien would be alive, and Cicero would be immune to damage…
"We are never getting out of this one… I hope you happen to enjoy eternal suffering dragonborn."
"Only if it happens to be yours, Miraak. I thought I said to go bother someone else." I sat there banging my head against a wall in anguish.
"It's your subconscious, who else could I possibly talk to? And don't even think about bringing Mirmulnir into this, I am not talking to any of the dov again." He was the only person I knew who could sound so damn arrogant, as he sat poking at me with a stick he conjured from the depths of my own mind. How the void did he do that anyway?
"What does that make us, elves? For sithis' sake you lily-livered half-wit, grow a damned brain already! And leave me the void alone! I can't think of escape with you sitting their berating me for things I had no control over!" And as I said it I gave him my absolute dirtiest glare, shooting bound axes at him with my eyes. It had its desired effect. I remembered Alduin telling me once that I reminded him of himself when I made that face. I didn't know how to respond to that, and merely thanked him. I mean, by oblivion and the void, it isn't every day a dragon gives you a compliment! And Alduin isn't just an ordinary dragon; no he's the damned world-eater. By the eight, I had not been expecting that at all. He laughed at me when I thanked him, making some comment about me finally learning some manners… I muttered a curse half audibly, and he had smirked through the mass of ebony scales. I didn't believe it was normal for sworn enemies to tease each other, so I asked him about it. He merely chuckled and asked if I really thought of him as my enemy. He laughed again, this time at my flustered confusion. That laugh sounded through my whole head, a dark, possessive sounding cackle that rung out and made my hair stand on end. I sat and listened to the deep tones of his voice in my head. That was so long ago, but it felt as though I was there once again. Miraak's words from earlier echoed back at me. "we are never getting out of here." Ever,ever, ever…never. Ifelt the stupid liquidflow down my face. I cursed at Mora in every language I knew. Damned rain falling every time I grew upset. Of all the possible forms of torture…
I felt someone shaking me, and not gently. Looked sideways at that damned mask and cursed. Loudly.
"As much as I appreciate the weather changing, you had better calm down. And what was with that memory? I can't believe you actually put up with that." He tried to act bored, but failed. He really only looked confused. I focused deep in my mind to pull up an image of Cicero, an enlarged image of Cicero, holding a knife to Miraak's throat, muttering about stabbing and murder. Miraak was utterly unfazed… by the knife. Cicero was another matter entirely.
"Who is that fool? I do not appreciate his insistence on pressing so close. Make him leave." I could have sworn that even his mask was frowning with annoyance… after all I've seen it would not be even the slightest of a shock. I felt myself growing bored of his complaints. They were all I seemed to have heard recently, no outside communication. No contact with the world outside this constrictive little prison. I caught myself wondering if this was how Alduin felt, when he was trapped between time and space, imprisoned in the sheer nothingness the scroll had shipped him off to. At least he didn't have this damned nuisance pestering him the whole time… or would he have enjoyed the company, despite personal differences. Looking at the man in front of me I could almost see the resemblance, their mannerisms and personalities were rather similar. Now that I was thinking about it, it all came into place… they were the same underneath, its why they could not coexist peacefully; both of them wanted more power, and they struggled to grasp just a tad more. And I was different. I was made differently, for fear of the same outcome. I learned at a young age that in trying to control every aspect of ones life it is possible to restrict it, it may fight until eventually, somewhere along the way it would slip out like smoke between the fingers of the grip tightly strangling it. . That was the difference; I knew patience and humility. That was why I could handle their rampant desires to be the dominant. I was as powerful as they both were, but, I was willing to choose one side and stay true to my own choice as long as I was not violently provoked towards other initiative. I knew the sting to well personally to have the desire to cause another to bear that empty shallow whole that will not be filled or mended, merely hardened towards others wanting to push them away for fear of a repeat, for another dull void that eats its way through body, mind, and soul causing shear agony and rage that will never be silenced again as long as life remains in the same shell of the being who feels it. It is more than any should have to bear, yet everyone must. I have accepted this…
"How did you get to where you are? I know how I got dragged into this eternal struggle, but how about you, why did you go through so much trouble for a being like him? What made you fall into this same path of damnation?" Miraak's tone held the true epitome of a curiosity. He truly wanted to know, to understand.
"I will tell; on one condition." I look for his affirmative nod to be certain he is listening. I so terribly want to see what he looks like under the damned thing; is it like he appeared in that dream of his death, or was he a corpse underneath, like some of the others I'd met? Or was he different entirely? I saw no tail when he turned, and his voice did not rasp, but he always wore robes, and training and age could easily smooth his vocals; for all I knew he could've been kajit. "Take off the mask, for the entire time while I'm telling you my life story keep it off. I want to see what you look like."
For a second he hesitated. His hand reached, quivering beneath his gloves, towards his face. It wavered there a bit before he found the edge of the hard metal, deftly maneuvered his fingers underneath the cold hard plating of the enchanted means to hide his face. He pried the thing off of his face, slowly, carefully. I blanched for a second, drawing a blank, for this was the last thing I had expected. I sat there and stared, taking in every last detail.
They even look similar on the outside was the only coherent thought. He sat there with long ebony locks trailing down his neck, clinging to his cheekbones and shoulder. His skin was pale, pale as the dead rotted flesh of the nightmother's bare arms, pale as the snow that fell so abundantly in the tundras of Skyrim. Even the eyes, glaring sharp ruby-crimson, like so much blood spilt on a field of battle. The edges of his thin mandible outlined thickly against the soft flesh of his neck, through wich I could see the subtle pulsing of a translucent strand of blue. Upon reaching inspection of that particular section of his body, I had to resist the urge, trapping my fangs inside the small sockets placed to keep them tucked away whilst hiding. I was in a dream, I couldn't feed here. Besides, he was dead, the pulse wasn't real he was simply trying to elicit a reaction, one he wasn't going to get.
I opened my mouth, ready to begin the story when I felt something slimy crawling up along the exposed skin on my arm, leaving trails of slippery goo.
"You have a visitor in the outside. Normally I would force them to leave, but under the threat of long drawn out war, I decided to allot them a one hour visit. Come, they are rather impatient." Before I could even protest I was whisked off harshly, and dropped into my body. I felt around the stacks of books massed throughout the room, relishing in the feel of the hard leather, and soft pages. Even the smell of age, the sweet rusty scent, brought on by the musty old paper was a welcomed familiarity. I felt a hand on my back, soft and familiar.
"We need to talk, but not here. I will get you out of here, dragonborn, if it takes a full-fledged war of the daedra to get it. That would be splendid though, wouldn't it? Until the cheese ran out of course…"
You ask if it's necessary, and I say of course. Who could have a good skyrim fanfic without old Sheogorath…