10.
(Wuld)
- Loredas, 17th of Mid-Year -
She refused to let that off-key note ruin the enjoyment of her recovered freedom, so she curbed that stinging, lingering pang, diverting her attention to the stark, but nonetheless breathtaking landscape of Solstheim until they reached the little Dunmer settlement in the afternoon. She chatted the time away with every merchant in Raven Rock, forgetting Miraak's quiet presence as he silently looked around. Her feeble excuse was that she had to butter them up first to sell the goods, even though they both knew that, in the end, it would be his silver tongue raising the final price of every barter.
It was weird how the citizens of Raven Rock did not recognize his voice anymore, even though he had spoken to many of them. Fethis Alor, however, could not suppress an unintentional flinch after hearing his succinct overture. He was, after all, one of the few that suffered the most from months of mind control and lack of sleep, and was but a few steps away from unwillingly joining his little crazy cult.
She, on the other hand, could not shut up even for a moment, and wasted most of her time talking about inanities with the blacksmith as he tempered some armours. It was so gratifying to banter again with that old fox of Mallory, especially when he was one of the few that still remembered her, and how could he not? Many coins had flowed into his pockets thanks to her purchases.
His company didn't deter her, though, from pestering the Redoran guards on station, monopolizing Captain Veleth's attention for half an hour, or engaging Adril Arano in small talk when he walked by.
She completely disregarded the fact that Miraak had long stopped walking close to her, ever since his brief interaction with Milore Ienth, the local alchemist, and was now standing, arms crossed, in a shadowed corner, following her antics from a distance.
"So, did we get enough?" she asked, sliding her arms around his neck in a soothing way.
He nodded stiffly, seated in front of a desk with a small mountain of scattered coins.
She had to bury her head on his shoulder to stifle a giggle. Miraak was still bristling at the gold Geldis Sadri—that 'shameless gouger,' as he kept calling him the whole evening—had the audacity to ask for just a dinner and a room.
"It is no laughing matter!" he hissed, quite ruffled. He had not calculated the cost of living to be so obscenely high in comparison to his time. She thought it wise to omit the fact that Geldis's prices weren't expensive at all, but rather quite cheap in comparison to other inns in Skyrim. The coins jingled against the wood when his fist abruptly slammed on the table.
"If I knew, I would have bartered to reach much higher prices!"
So that was the reason he had scowled for the whole meal instead of relishing in all those bizarre Dunmer dishes, like she did with unladylike voracity. She learnt much later, when he was in a better mood and only by casual reminiscence, that his taste buds had been burning after he had nipped at some horker meat floating in the yam stew, and it had become worse when he erroneously drank some Sujamma to wash away the sting. He had always disliked spicy flavours.
"You could have warned me," he added reproachfully, and she rolled her eyes, waltzing toward the bed and unceremoniously throwing herself on it.
"You've always bragged about your haggling skills—how could I guess? So you miscalculated a bit. Well, it happens. Deal with it and come to sleep."
He sighed wearily, unable to conceal how that mistake was searing his pride. He was obviously not used to the physical strain caused by the limitations of this plane. It was strange to reason in terms of dimensions, like Daedra did, but it was unavoidable after her experience.
"You may, but I have to prepare a ledger, first."
"Ledger? Are you kidding?"
"Sensible individuals, unlike certain redheads, keep tabulations of their daily expenses."
She let out an exasperated groan as she tucked herself under the pelts. "Divines, you really are a control freak."
She plunged her face deeper in the pelts, one eye still staring at the tremulous shadows Miraak's Magelight projected on the wall. The rhythmic scratch of his quill should have slowly lulled her into slumber, but after so many years of living in stasis, too much had happened in just a single day.
Her mind was reeling. It couldn't stop replaying, like it was stuck in a loop, what had happened in the temple. That obscure feeling of distress resurged back even stronger.
The Magelight faded away and the room suddenly fell into deep darkness.
She heard some rustling, followed by the sinking of the mattress behind her back, and she clutched tighter to the pelt, waiting with some trepidation for his expected approach.
Minutes ticked away and she frowned.
Not an arm around her waist, not even a little touch.
She turned toward him, even if she could see nothing, and nibbled her lip.
Perhaps he was just really tired and she should not infer anything from it.
Or maybe he thought she was already asleep.
She snuggled a bit and delicately pressed her nose behind his earlobe. She smirked at hearing the slight irregularity of his breathing. He was clearly awake, so she proceeded to tease him with a trail of swift pecks down his rough jawline until she found the softness of his lips and locked them in a sensual, wet kiss. All of her silly worries evaporated as he responded with equal fervour to her advances, pressing his hands around her nape and waist—until he abruptly held her hands, stopping their further wandering beneath the hem of his shirt.
"Not tonight."
His voice carried the same strange stiffness it had in the temple, and she could still perceive some concealed tension from the slight tightening of his hold. Her presentiment tingled more strongly. That did not bode well at all.
"Why?"
Her hoarse whisper shouldn't have sounded so tremulous. It took him some time to answer, like he was pondering what the best answer was.
"I am weary."
The candour of his admission was baffling, knowing his ridiculous pride. Nonetheless, she preferred to glide over that detail, as the admission calmed her nagging misgivings. So instead of being dissuaded, she straddled him and bent to murmur sultrily next to his ear.
"Then relax and let me take care of you the way you like the most."
The eagerness to carry on with her promise must have sounded quite lascivious, because the strength in his hold suddenly slackened and she was able to slip her hands away, to free his chest from the constraints of his robe, so that one hand could slip under his loosened belt and stroke his hardness. She teasingly bit the crook of his neck, earning a long groan, and smiled. He was already aroused like she wanted.
"Enough."
He suddenly sat, forcing her to clumsily fall back on the other side of the bed. A little ball of Magelight fluctuated again at the foot of the bed and he swiftly fastened his robe.
"Not now. Not that way."
After hearing that terse hiss, she wasn't able to stop her distress from showing in her shocked stare. Her bold initiatives weren't, after all, a common occurrence, and not even the tiniest possibility of a refusal had ever formed in her mind. A glint of guilt flashed in his gaze before he turned away and sat on the edge of the bed, hardening his expression.
"I would not be able to... restrain myself in time."
The justification of his refusal was even worse than being at the receiving end of one of his unexplained, cold silences, and a sudden want to weep snapped at her, piercing her like a bear trap. She managed, however, to keep the fort from collapsing, and only a strangled, raspy hiss escaped from her drawn jaw.
"Is it so appalling, then? The chance of getting me pregnant?"
Many undecipherable emotions crossed his face, but rage predominated as he stood up and shouted in a rare surge of pure, unconstrained hatred.
"I am done being Hermaeus Mora's pawn!"
He did not give her any chance to question what he meant, but walked away from the room, slamming the door.
She did not close an eye for the remainder of the night. It was worse than she suspected.
- Sundas, 18th of Mid-Year -
The next morning the coward was nowhere to be seen. He had not returned to their room, nor was he seated near Geldis Sadri's counter. Her belly grumbled and she internally groaned. Well, it was not the first time she'd been forced to skip a meal. She was going to leave the inn, even more disheartened, when the Dunmer called her back.
"Hey, stop! Your companion already paid for your breakfast, so pick something before leaving."
"Ah, sure. And what do you suggest?"
"Well, we always have the speciality of the house."
She sat on the far corner and munched another piece of Yam bread, brooding.
Paying for her meal was supposed to be a considerate gesture on his part, perhaps even an underhanded way to mollify her, but if that was his intention, it was backfiring. She was getting more and more irked by the second.
She gritted her teeth, not having gold to even pay for a measly breakfast. How the mighty had fallen! It suddenly put into perspective how much she had debased herself into depending so much on his unreliable, passing fancies.
She drank a sip of Sujamma to calm her turmoil and unclasped Miraak's amulet from her neck.
She inspected it for some minutes, looking pensively at how it shined, and then clutched it tightly. How mushy of her—she did not have the heart to sell it for some easy coin. After all, she rationalized, it would have been no different from taking more of his gold. It would be her last resort, then. She slipped it away in her pocket, and walked toward Geldis Sadri.
"I'm looking for a job. Have you heard any rumours, by chance?"
"Well, aren't you a lucky Breton," he exclaimed with a crooked smirk. "Do you see this?" He put a bottle of unlabelled content on the counter.
"This is 'Sadri's Sujamma,' best drink in all of Solstheim," he boasted. "All I need now is for lots of boozers to flock in here for it. And that's how you, young lady, come into play." He raised his eyebrows in a meaningful way. "Five hundred gold. Deal?"
Not a minute later, she was outside the inn, looking around like a hawk. Her arms were full of little samples jingling inside a cute wicker basket.
Gaining those coins from Sadri was getting too easy, she mused, like accidentally killing an innocent chicken. She just had to throw a smile and a wave toward the potential customer, and then shake the bottle in front of his face with some honeyed words attached. In less than three hours she had distributed almost all of the samples, No one was stupid enough to refuse a free alcoholic beverage, not even the group of soldiers off-duty for the day. To think that Geldis told her they could be troublesome.
She proudly waltzed toward the blacksmithing, intending to reel in the poor, unsuspecting Mallory, when a strong grip on her wrist pulled her into one of the narrow passages between some cabins.
"What are you doing?"
It was Miraak. From the clipped way he worded his question, she understood that his nerves were more frayed than yesterday.
So, she revelled maliciously, in addition to not sleeping, he had already tasted the dubious pleasure of dealing with the captain of the North Maiden. No amount of persuasion worked with Gjalund Salt-Sage, ever. Two hundred-fifty gold was the fee and two hundred-fifty gold he would get, each bloody time. He would not move his rattletrap for a single coin less.
She scoffed, looked at him from head to toe with exaggerated scorn, and then threw him her haughtiest melodramatic look.
"And so he finally deigns to reappear. Isn't it obvious, genius? I am completing a task."
He visibly tensed at her utter lack of common courtesy and folded his arms. Well, after how he treated her last night, she couldn't care less about his susceptible pride. She was certainly not going to offer him a shoulder to cry on.
"This is beneath you, Dragonborn," he retorted with clear disdain. "You do not need to complete such menial tasks." He artfully avoided addressing the real issue, blatantly ignoring her theatrics. How cowardly. "I have obtained more than enough gold for any of your purchases." The forced smoothness gradually vanished under a growing amount of reproach.
She bristled at the implication. If he was thinking to generously bestow upon her some kind of monthly allowance, like some pampered little brat, he had it completely wrong, by miles.
"Well, I like it, so I will do it all the same!" she answered, even more peeved. She had some pride, too, for Azura, and she would not run to him and snivel to get any shiny bauble, like he surely hoped. What a bastard—as if he wasn't overbearing enough.
"I see." His voice suddenly flattened, devoid of any emotion. "And where is your coat?"
"Over the bed." She scowled, puzzled. That was completely unrelated. "Why?"
"Go back and put it on." His terseness was assertive enough to rile her further.
"Are you nuts? It's too warm today!" For Julianos, the coat was made of furs!
"That is irrelevant," he suddenly hissed. "You will not fool around anymore, not in such inappropriate attire." She gaped at him, nonplussed. What? "Your point is valid, nonetheless," he added, sounding slightly appeased, and then went on, suspiciously more amiable, gently grabbing her hand. "Come, I will buy you something more proper."
Now she was seeing red. This went beyond mere clothing. Who in Oblivion did he think he was, to dismiss her and then merrily come back, ordering her around like some common, dullard follower? She was the bloody Dragonborn! The Dragonborn! And she could do whatever she wanted whenever she pleased, even bounce around in jester's clothes, shouting lame rhymes in the name of Sheogorath, and it would still be none of his damn business!
She stomped her feet and freed her hand with an abrupt jerk.
"Inappropriate?" she shouted. "Only my arms are bare, you prude idiot! The hem even reaches my heels!" She instinctively defended her choice, uncaring of the tiny issue that the accursed dragon priest robe had been picked by Miraak himself. It was a matter of principle—she had to antagonize him.
"Don't be difficult." He stressed each word with a calm that was obviously fake. "You are not wearing anything under that vest."
"And only you know that," she muttered with some chagrin, but it was immediately smothered by more anger. "Nobody is the wiser!"
She shouldn't even waste her time justifying herself. The very fact it was occurring was proof enough of how low she had sunk. Just the thought made her blood boil even more.
"That's what you believe," he hissed through clenched teeth, suddenly grabbing her shoulders and pushing her back against the wall. "How have you completed your task in such a brief time?"
"Don't be ridiculous! Alcohol sells faster than sweetrolls."
"Yes. That's why you shamelessly sway your hips while offering drinks."
"What?" This was getting more outrageous by the second. Resorting to underhanded, cheap shots just to win an argument. He wouldn't get his way, that was for sure now.
"I was just being charming! To saddle them with the wares!"
"You stupid girl!" he spat hoarsely. "Flaunting your curves in front of stranded guards! Are you seeking trouble?"
Guards? Her expression contorted in genuine rage. She had given the samples to those soldiers like hours ago.
"So first you dump me and then spy on me like a creep!" she shrilled, furious. "Where the hell were you last night?" There, she said it. She wanted to add 'with a hard-on,' but she feared a specific answer. "Tell me!"
"Ah, now I see," he hissed, his voice dropping to an ugly parody of his usual suave tone. "This is your way to spite me." His grip tightened over her shoulders, like two sharp claws. "Prancing around like a little tart." That unexpected crude insult froze her on the spot. "Or were you enticing them into sharing your wares in a secluded corner?" he rasped venomously, and then mocked with pure malice, "Good choice. Dunmer are certainly voracious and endowed enough to sate all of your unquenchable needs."
She had Shouted at him, thrown fire bolts at him, and once, after a spar, when she had been really peeved, even tried to centre his smug, laughing face with one of her slippers. It was the first time, though, that she had ever slapped at him with unconstrained, pure hatred. Her palm clashed with such force against the side of his face that the mask flew away, clanking against the nearby wall, and then skittered in the mud few feet away from them.
Her hand stung from the clash against pure metal, but it felt just like the prick of a small pin in comparison to the growing burning around her moistening eyes. She quickly brushed them to sweep away any traitorous leakage, and gnashed ferociously, like a pierced beast. He had crossed the line.
"You are a sick, disgusting, lecherous old man. Don't ever forget that!" she roared, with even more spite. He did not turn his bent chin to look at her, but schooled his rage behind a mask of impassivity, and that spurred her on, increasing her urge to burn him to a little crisp.
"You miserable failure," she blew, each word even more scorching. "Just thinking about what I let you do to me, to survive in that hell!" But it was not enough, so she bit down, hard.
"You are the worst affliction Peryite could have ever cursed me with!"
And then the final snap.
"You really make me sick."
She left him there, standing still in the shadowed corner.
He did not step into the inn that night, nor was he seen anywhere in Raven Rock. Now that she had plenty of time to cool off, and had imbibed a good dose of Sadri's Sujamma, she was starting to faintly regret her razor-sharp words, as she continued to stare at the inn's closed door.
- Tirdas, 20th of Mid-Year -
Despite being crammed in that ship for a whole day, they had not spared a single glance to each other. Only at one point had they seemed to tacitly agree to avoid each other like the plague. Miraak had cloistered himself inside the main ship cabin, while she stood outside, on the opposite edge of the ship, throwing up even her soul from sea sickness.
The term 'horrible' was not strong enough to describe a journey that seemed endless.
She had really been tempted to just skip the passage and wait for the next shipment, but then it could have been interpreted as a show of weakness. Why should she be the one fleeing with her tail down when he was the one that should crawl back, asking for her forgiveness? Then there was also the fact that her passage had already been paid for, and she was not swimming in gold.
She silently grumbled, sitting inside Candlehearth Hall, a nail lazily grating on the wood of the table, instead of finishing her cooled supper. Geldis' gold was enough to buy some decent gauntlets, but to clear an average tomb she needed—at least—a complete armour set. It meant she would be forced to work at a mill, and she disliked chopping wood or harvesting for hours. She always ended suffering backaches, like an old, feeble granny.
As if her grim thoughts weren't bitter enough, a familiar shape walked up the stairs, making her completely lose what little remained of her mild appetite.
Her gaze accidentally crossed with the slits of his mask for an instant, but it was enough to incense her with renewed intensity. She bent her face in the opposite direction and silently seethed, her chin held up by one of her clenched fists. What the hell was he doing there? Couldn't he go to the Grey Quarter and disappear from her sight? She snorted. Of course not, that place wasn't posh enough for his sensitive and refined tastes.
Nonetheless she couldn't stop from throwing quick peeks from the corner of the eye, observing from a far distance how he strutted with nonchalance and stopped to ask something from the maid, as if he had not seen her sitting there a minute ago. She bristled indignantly. So the cocky bastard was not perturbed at all. And then she heard Susanna's laugh ring in the room.
She managed to maintain her composure, avoiding a grimace of displeasure, and threw another long glance, immediately noticing how he was slightly bent toward the woman, and how the maid smiled at something witty he must have said.
So the wretch thought it opportune to shamelessly flirt with Susanna the Wicked.
She pursed her lips to stifle an unladylike snarl.
Susanna's reputation preceded her, even in the other Holds. She was infamous as the beautiful and busty Windhelm wench that shamelessly egged all the male foreigners on, only to dump them all when they thought they had finally won her favours. Some say she had become so ruthless after being ditched by a Chorrol captain in front of Mara's altar.
No matter the cause, that woman carried with pride the title of 'The Wicked' for obvious reasons. She would have just sat back, belly full of mead, savouring with gusto the pitiful spectacle of Miraak failing at courtship and getting his male ego heartlessly tramped in the process—if she did not know the true extent of his manipulative speech.
She could imagine the congenial smirk he was wearing behind his mask, while he masterfully threaded his webbed trap around the poor, unsuspecting wench, using that hypnotic, deep cadence of his.
Her fiery rage abruptly waned, leaving in its place a reforged, sharp-as-steel determination, the very same that possessed her during one-on-one battles. So that's how it was, parading in front of her face how easily he could move on. How despicable. He was surely doing it on purpose, in order to add insult to injury.
Well then, she was not obliged to watch further, nor stand his wretched presence anymore.
He seemed to be completely distracted, and that was good. She was not one to be trifled with, but she would not cause some scene. She would slip away unnoticed—she had too much dignity to give him any proof of how effective his mockery was.
She silently descended the stairs, feigning to go to the counter to order something else, and then exited the inn. She marched quickly, almost running when she approached Windhelm's main gates, and stopped in front of the stables. She had traitorously clung, until the end, to a faint, stupid hope that he would suddenly see reason and make his amends. She really was an idiot. It was stupid to expect any better from someone like him. It was time to chop the last thread, and start anew.
"I need a ride, now."
Her sudden, loud request abruptly woke the carriage driver from his little slumber.
"For Mara, don't scare me so! And to where?"
She gave him his twenty coins and jumped in the back seat.
There were no doubts, the right choice was the most improbable and farthest one.
"Riften."
Author's notes:
So were you expecting this sudden abrupt turn for the worse? I think this development was inevitable, stress, pride and temperament are an explosive mix. Susanna in this AU is alive, and the quest 'Blood on the Ice' has not happened yet, because, come on, she is one of the few Nords in Windhelm that is nice to Dunmer *cough*and to my DB*cough*! She deserved better than that, thus she got her little backstory. Couldn't Bethesda have offed that idiot of Nazeem, instead?
To Violence is Always the Answer: Thank you!
To Beawr: I will update regularly, next chapters are already molded so there should not be any author blocks or muses on holiday.
To MicroStarlight: Thank you for the support, I'm happy to hear you are enjoying it so far.
To Guest: A name with an interesting meaning, if not for the fact that her singing is so horrible... but I admit it would be ironic in so many levels. Mmm...
To Guest 2: As you have read, Miraak seems to have reached the same conclusions and is acting accordingly. Now the real question is if he's right, and if it is worth all the trouble. Yes, I want the option too! We have to pester the 'follower mod' author! Well at least we still can make him "carry our burdens" (evil cackle).
To Guest 3: Thank you! I was aiming for that, to give them a sense of normalcy, when their situation is far from normal.