11.

(Nah)

- Turdas, 22th of Mid-Year -

Nobody noticed a plain little Breton sneaking off from the side door of the temple and mingling again with the market crowd. Nothing about her was remarkable, after all—not her young features nor her armour. The only distinguishable trait that could have caught some eyes was well-braided and covered by a paltry fur helmet too big to be carried by such tiny head.

She walked aimlessly through the streets with her chin tilted down, lost in thought. She would have been a tempting target for any pickpocketer, if not for the obvious air of misery that surrounded her slow gait. They said even the Thief Guild had some standards, and when she tripped on an unseen obstacle, and her knees fell in the unexpected sludge of disgusting self-commiseration, she even considered the mad idea of joining their ranks.

She rose again, and slightly flinched when Miraak's amulet, buried in her side pocket, briefly pressed against her thigh, reminding her of its presence. Its cumbersome weight increased the more she tried to forget it, bumping against her side at every step. Soon the need to get rid of it became irrepressible when, like a burning coal, it started to wear down the already threadbare lining of her nerves. She sold it to an Argonian jeweller she met in the market, and went straight to the blacksmith's shop.

The owner, a Nord called Balimund, seemed to be quite the nice fellow, despite his rough, battle-scarred exterior. When he came to know about her current gold shortage, he even offered to buy some fire salts from her if she ever found some during her travels.

After much pondering and some quick napkin calculations, she opted to buy the cheapest armour, a simple fur set, in order to get two Dwemer-quality swords. She was used to wearing so much better, but for her current purposes it was more than fine. She planned to explore some nearby caves for some easy treasure hunting; she would just rely on the speed of her offensive combat style and the power of her Thu'um to kill all the wild beasts she was surely going to encounter.

It was strange how nobody noticed her as she passed, how she could stroll around without feeling a scorching gaze lingering on her back, following all of her movements.

It was unsettling not being the centre of any attention.

The familiar knot in the stomach intensified and she mentally scolded herself for her unacceptable lack of spine. That slight nausea had not left her throughout the entire journey. It was not receding like she hoped, and to her growing frustration, none of the god's blessings were having any positive effect.

At first she knelt in front of Mara's shrine to get some restoration from her sickness, but upon noticing that nothing seemed to change, she tried to gain some fortitude through Arkay's benevolence. It didn't work either, and that put a dent in her plan. Only a fool would venture into the wild without a calm mind and full physical strength.

So she resorted to waiting, and sat slumped in a secluded corner of The Bee and Barb. Sooner or later it had to go away, right?

It had started innocently enough, with little sips of that famous Black Briar mead Lydia had always told her to never drink—ever. Her nagging, no nonsense, familiar voice floated into her mind. The Dragonborn had to always be at the top of her form, be ready for any fight, and flawlessly carry out her duty. And, of course, that beverage was too strong for her little physique, so it was out of the question.

Nonetheless, the Argonian bartender, Talen-Jey, told her in clear, rude terms, that she could not slack off there, warming the chair, without spending any coin. Considering that she was in the very city that produced the best mead, and her lack of appetite, she ordered a pint just to indulge her sorry self for once.

She was supposed to stop at one, like the good, responsible bore she had to be, but then she noticed it was making her feel livelier. As she had suspected, Lydia, like a typical, overprotective Nord, had just been coddling her.

"Another, Talen-Jey!" she cried, waving her palm in the air. She was a seasoned warrior and the ultimate dragon slayer. Surely she could handle some more Skyrim alcohol with little problem!

After the third drink, however, that unbearable, sickening disorientation, the same one that had stalked the back of her mind for the whole morning, assaulted her senses with renewed ruthlessness. She drained a third pint of Black Briar in hopes of intensifying the pleasurable intoxication and returning to the previously soothing numbness.

It did not seem enough, though, so this time she asked for the whole bottle. However, no matter how much more she drank, it still couldn't sweep away the horrible whirlwind of confused memories. It made her mind spin like a crazy whirligig.

She hit the mug on the table, spilling some mead, and whined, exasperated. What in Oblivion was happening to her? She was behaving like a bloody wimp!

It was only a matter of time, she consoled herself as she refilled the mug again.

It was just loss of familiarity, an abrupt change of environment!

New people, no familiar faces, a sudden loss of assurances...

Nothing new, been there, tackled that before, like her first weeks in Whiterun.

She would soon return to the same strong, independent, carefree woman she had been before putting foot in Solstheim.

Yes, she thought as she lifted the mug to her lips, she only had to stay far away from that cursed wretch and erase her memories of everything that had happened before then.

Everything.

One of her elbows pushed the empty mug to the floor.

Yes, yes. That was the best solution. It had never happened.

She lifted the bottle and drank another sip directly from its neck.

How she hated him. He had reduced her to a shadow of her previous self!

How she despised herself... How could she let him reduce her to such disgraceful state?

But she would retain the lesson, oh yes. She set the bottle down with a bang, gaining the attention of some irked costumers. Avoid men at any cost! They were only a source of trouble and not worth it! She would slay them all if required! None of them would ever have a chance to even blink at her, ever!

Oh yes, now she was herself again.

It was then, when she raised her arm to ask for a new mug, that she overheard an interesting conversation going on near the counter. She had been too distracted by her misery to notice the unnatural amount of frightened people trembling in front of the entrance.

"That's a joke, right?"

It was the innkeeper, talking to an off-duty courier, or so she deduced from his type of pouch.

"If only I was. Three cities have already been attacked since yesterday."

"No!" The Argonian gasped, covering her mouth. "But that's terrifying! Which ones?"

"Solitude, Markarth, and Falkreath."

"For Mara and Dibella! Why don't they just leave us be?"

"Who knows what those beasts want."

She rolled her eyes and groaned. She had disappeared for only a few years and the dragons were already out of control? An unrefined burp left her mouth. To think that Paarthurnax had assured her they would all have been converted to the Way of the Voice by then. Yeah, sure. She grabbed her sword and wobbled out of the door. She couldn't even mope in peace anymore.

And there it was, the blurry silhouette of a dovah perched on a roof frying some guards. She sighed and tried to focus on its form, squeezing her eyes to little slits. No, she concluded, she really wasn't feeling quite well enough to deal with it alone, so she raised her chin to the skies and shouted with all the power in her lungs.

"ODAHVIING!"

Seconds ticked by as she waited, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Would Odahviing still answer her call?

A proud roar pierced the skies and her chest swelled in joy when red majestic wings shone under the sun.

"Dovahkiin! Ahst laat hi rein!" The dragon's rumble shook the ground, and terrorised, high-pitched screams rose around her, but she just stood there with a goofy grin plastered in her face. "Veyn lost hi kosaan?"

She clumsily waved her arms in the air and shouted back, stifling a gleeful laugh. "Sorry! No time to explain, I need your help first!" She pointed at the ancient dragon soaring over their heads, but Odahviing kept staring at her, with what seemed to be a dumbfounded expression.

"Krosis, did you really understand my rot?"

"Of course," she frowned, "is that so weird?"

The red dragon puffed out what seemed the equivalent of a snigger, and then regained altitude.

"Knowing your fangs, geh, kung. Yol-Toor-Shul!"

The two dov engaged in a deadly flight. She blinked, bemused, until his comment finally hit home. The brass of that dragon! She snorted. Odahviing had not changed a scale. Nonetheless, he was still following their tested strategy flawlessly, forcing the other dovah into flying far from the centre of Riften and beyond the city walls so that she could shout Dragonrend in a safe place.

She skittered out of the city, never letting the shape of the two dragons out of her sight, ready to shout again, when an unexpected, powerful gush of wind hit her back, pushing her forward with unstoppable force. All of the air she saved for Dragonrend left her lungs, and her body crashed far away, rolling on the grassy ground.

A hoarse growl reached her ears from afar.

"Did you truly think you could be rid of me so easily?"

Her glossy eyes widened in apprehension, a burst of foreboding tightly clamping her stomach, and she quickly tried to stand up without stumbling. She did not need to detail the unfocused, blue-ish form to know who was fast approaching her.

And then her mind did something incredible, given its numbness. Dragon, Miraak, attacks. It made the connection.

"You!" she blurted out, rudely pointing an accusing finger, "You attacked the cities!" Her dumbfounded dismay rang too clearly from her loud cry, much more than she wanted.

"Why?" she went on. "Why did you do that? You put lots of people in danger!"

The moment her word left her mouth, she mentally cringed. Instead of sounding righteously accusing, it was simple-minded and shrilly, and that didn't help her tough façade.

Far from being unsettled, Miraak merely snorted and stood proudly erect, arms folded, not even trying to deny the charges.

"It was the fastest way to lure a certain little heroine out." He purposely spat out the last words like they were dirt, and a renewed surge of dread overcame her. He knew very well that her home was in Whiterun. She had always been blabbering little anecdotes about Dragonsreach and its people during their time in Apocrypha. It was the main reason she chose to stay far away from the place. It was too predictable and risky.

"If you dared attack Whiterun...!" she managed to choke out, unable to curb her anxiety.

"I did not waste my time there." The unrestrained hatred in Miraak's scorn was worrisome. "Scuttling to one of the farthest holds like a little rat. How weak-minded and predictable."

Even more unsettling, was the fact that he did not care to conceal his barely contained rage, nor did he seem to have any qualms about victimizing others in his rampage.

"But we have a matter to settle, you and I," he added menacingly.

She couldn't deal properly with him, though, not with the butterflies in her head and the nagging worry that an ancient dragon was still threatening the city. There was an orphanage nearby, for Mara's sake! To Sithis with him and his sense of timing.

A sudden dizziness overtook her, so she rested on the nearest outer wall, pulling off her most cheeky pose to conceal it.

"And now you found me, so make him stop," she drawled, flaunting her lack of tension as if it was truly premeditated, thus sounding incredibly insolent and sure of herself. It was a handy trick she often used when she was losing too much blood, in order to mislead the enemy.

"Very well." he conceded smoothly, but from his stiff, straight stance he was clearly peeved by her act.

"Viinthuruth, zii los di du."

He just stood there, impassive, as golden flames flowed into him. Her face blanched.

"Why that look?" he viciously taunted, gloating at her unconcealed reaction. "Wasn't that what you asked for, Dragonborn?"

Odahviing. Even in her heavy stupor, her mind couldn't stop repeating his name like a mantra. Her protective instincts kicked in and she unsheathed both of her Dwarven swords. That simple gesture enraged him even more.

"So that's your choice," he hissed, like a rattlesnake ready to strike, but with a disconcerting touch of dismay. However, it was quickly smothered by a baleful, severe murmur. "Then this will be over soon. Well, for you."

The cold steel in his statement sobered her enough to cross her blades in a basic defensive stance. He was about to charge at her when an unexpected breath of powerful fire forced him to cast a deflective spell.

"Odahviing, don't!" she shouted in vain. The red dragon did not deign her a glance. He floated a few feet over her head, his fiery eyes never leaving his new target.

"Miraak!" he thundered. A sliver of pure dread was detectable in his roar. He had watched first-hand how easily Vinthuruth had been devoured. In spite of it all, though, he was still trying to aid her in some way, and that really touched some tender strings inside her heart. How could old 'Viing be such a wonderful, but meddlesome, idiot?

"Drem Yol Lok, Odahviing." Miraak did not bother to conceal any of his contempt. "Very foolish of you to attack me so. Now you, too, will bend to the mul of my Thu'um, like all of your kin."

His threat shook her to the core, especially because behind the arrogance of his voice lurked an eager glee of malicious anticipation. Her gut twisted at what was going to come next, the Bend Will Shout, and then swiftly after... She didn't dare to imagine it, but immediately acted instead.

Her Fus Ro Dah hurled him against the trunk of a nearby tree, leaving him breathless for a few precious seconds.

"Odahviing, go! Tell the others to stay away from this area! Quickly!" she ordered frantically, shooing him away with her arms. "Do not leave Monahven for any reason at all!" She had never sounded so frightened, so completely opposite from that cheeky, careless forwardness he was used to, and that alone alarmed the red dragon.

"What mess did you fly into, Dovahkiin?"

"Not now! Just go!" she screamed, exasperated. It was that unvoiced 'please' that stopped Odahviing in his tracks, and extinguished the burning spark of a new, vehement protest. After casting a worried glance, he reluctantly flew away, and she finally sighed in relief, feeling that squashing burden lifted from her shoulders.

It was short-lived, though, because heavy, determined steps marched forbiddingly behind her back. She turned to face him, ready to dodge any type of destruction spell he could throw. Miraak had recovered from her Thu'um too fast for her liking, but at least Odahviing was safe from his wrath.

"Impressive," he commented in a clipped tone. "Odahviing, right-hand of Alduin, following your orders without any coercion." The slight awe present in his tone swiftly shifted to plain, accusing grudge. "In league with dragons are we, now?" he tutted reprovingly. "How unsurprising of you. Wuld."

She had but a second to parry his cleaving blow, her heels slowly sinking in the soft soil to counter his brute strength. His golden mask was inches away from their clashing blades, the resentment in his growl unmistakable.

"So easily you betray me after all this years," he spat with unprecedented ferocity. The blades screeched as they slid against each other, and she had to put forth all her strength to stop her knees from giving.

"After all I have done," he growled like a rabid beast, "you flee at the first opportunity!" He retreated back with a sprint and then flung forward, almost making her lose her balance.

"I surrendered the key to my destiny!" he stressed with more venom. She managed to hide her uncertainty, rolling to the side just in time to avoid a horizontal swath from his sword. Wobbly, she stood up, and was forced to raise both of her swords to halt another assault.

"I renounced my opportunity to unlock the gates to my freedom." He suddenly disengaged and spun to lunge at her back, as he had done in many of their spars, and she automatically twirled backwards to match his blade. "Only to be compensated with treachery!"

His raw shout shook her hearing with such thundering, boiling accusation that her frail, almost non-existent dig broke with a loud crack. The gall he had to play the victim!

"You vile fraud!" She lunged forward. "Wretched scum! Rotten, ugly troll!" A flood of obscenities poured down on him with a high, deafening screech.

"Waste of Sithis!" she roared in her frenzy, and he was forced to retreat from a rain of slashes just to preserve his hearing. "Foul spawn of Sanguine! You dare to talk after calling me a trollop!"

"That does not justify your prompt defection!" he hissed back in defence, but his tone slightly wavered, and it was obvious his words were more to avoid the admission that he was partly in the wrong, and that she was, after all, due an apology. However, he quickly recovered, and went on with even more grit, "And your tongue was no merciful balm either!"

"And then you shamelessly coo with that hussy wench at the inn!" She swung her swords with alarming, unpredictable carelessness, and he retreated even more.

"What?" he exclaimed, sounding clearly flabbergasted, but his protest was drowned by even higher screams, each of them very well stressed with blows, lethal in brute force, but sloppy in their aim.

"I hate you! I hope you die! I hope you got brainrot, too!"

"So you left me because of unjustified jealousy." His voice suddenly dropped to his usual low, assertive smoothness, but a tinge of surprised calculation was still detectable.

"Me, jealous? You wish, arrogant jerk!" Her deranged voice was getting hoarse and raw from too much yelling.

"I was just ordering a meal, you fool."

"Don't try to play innocent! I saw! I saw!"

"Your aim is sloppy," he suddenly commented with a calm usually reserved for soothing wild, skittish horses, and how could one blame him? She was brandishing her swords like they were one-handed maces. "And, as you can see, I am restraining myself," he went on with a trace of uneven breath as he dodged her swords just seconds before they could slice his shoulder. "So desist, and stop this foolishness. Now. Do not force my hand."

He lunged forward in an attempt to anticipate her next assault and gain some ground, but she tripped, like a novice, on her own very steps. The force behind the leap was too powerful, and his abrupt slowdown could not stop his Daedric poisoned blade from plunging into her shoulder and cutting diagonally to her hip, tearing the fur like common paper.

She laid motionless on the ground, stinging warmness seeping from her back and forming a sticky pool around her waist, soaking the fur. She twisted her nose; the fresh grass was tickling her face.

"Don't move!" The odd anxiety in his tone should have warned her of the gravity of her situation, but she could only feel her head pounding. Stupid mead. Her dizzy vision slowly obscured and her lids drooped more. Her cheek suddenly stung.

"Stay awake!" A sharp bark reached her muffled hearing. Had he really pinched her? She should have slapped him for that, but instead she laid still, and certainly not because he had ordered her to do so. An odd tiredness was creeping around her limbs, sedating her muscles.

"You were supposed to block such a simple blow!" The far echo of a hoarse shout made her blink. It carried the same distress of someone abruptly forced to fix a hazardous negligence.

An annoying buzz diffused over her back and penetrated inside her numb ears, making her frown. It was identical to the bothersome hums that could be heard in Whiterun when one walked near Kynareth's temple.

"Foolish girl! How much alcohol did you imbibe?" His angry yell sounded oddly panicky.

"How- How did you know?" she slurred, confirming his suspicions.

"The wound is not responding to the mending as it should." His gritted hiss resumed a more smooth quality, similar to the professional detachment of Danica Pure-Spring.

"Oh." The light and its hum became even more intense. "Did you see?" Her own voice was barely a rasped whisper, but she did not seem to notice and went on. "I could keep up with you even a bit tipsy!" Now that the rabbit was out of the hat, she could at least rub it in his face, right?

"You are drunk, stupid ninny, and you are forcing me to cast Healing Wounds." There was a renewed strain in his voice. "Bless Lorhkan I did not tap my magicka pool before."

"You ruined my armour again. How annoying," she drawled with a heavy tongue. It may have been inconsequential to him, but it was her bloody gold. His resigned sigh was amplified by the mask. "We will buy another one."

"Uh. Your magicka itches. It tingles. Like lots of ants. Stop?" she blurted out of the blue, and then giggled, after hearing another long, weary sigh. Perhaps she really was a little drunk, but just a bit.

As abruptly as the hum disappeared, she felt arms slide under her waist and lift her up like a potato sack.

"I can walk," she grunted, peering around. "Put me down, you idiot! This is embarrassing!" She swung her legs in the air in a clumsy attempt to kick him away, when she noted with alarm that they were approaching Riften's eastern gate. "Did you hear me?" she screeched and wiggled, only ridiculing herself further in front of the two sniggering guards.

Miraak just grumbled something unintelligible, and with one arm tightened his hold around her knees. "Stop it, and no, you can't. You will stumble like the pitiful drunkard you have become."

He stepped into The Bee and Barb and nodded tersely to the Argonian owner, quickly throwing a small pouch he managed to quickly grab from one of his hidden side pockets on the counter, and proceeded to go upstairs.

"How did you buy that armour—did you steal it?" he asked with a slight grunt while climbing the stairs. She did not even hide her rolling eyes and huffed. Great, he expected answers now.

"I did not, you nasty-minded bastard. I earned them fair and square, for your information!"

"Well, you needed not." From the way he spat those words, she knew that he was sneering. "Especially in light of their innermost benefit." Even if his voice had regained its velvety low cadence, it was obvious he was still irate. A discordant, lurking contentment smoothed the sharpness of his following tirade. "Such recklessness. Did I not tell you I would have provided it for you? Mm? But, of course, perish the thought that you would exercise even a little common sense."

It was his authoritative tone, though—not the rant, per se, or the insults entwined within it—that sent her ballistic, despite her current daze.

"I don't need your support! I didn't before and I certainly don't now!" she tried to holler in his face, but only a weird cry came out from her throat.

"Yes, and how well you are handling it, addled in alcoholic stupor." There was a note of annoying gloating in his condescending comeback.

She did not have time to mull over a decent retort. He had already entered the room and laid her on the bed. "Wait here and don't move."

She grunted, irritated. He was still ordering her around. However, that line of thought died away as her gaze lost itself, and she blinked at the wooden framework of the small ceiling. Too many crossed girders.

Heavy, metallic steps could soon be heard again, passing through the corridor.

As fast as the wooden door creaked, the metal wires of the door sprang with a loud click and Miraak's shadow covered her face, distracting her from the ceiling patterns.

"Here," he said succinctly. "The innkeeper has been gracious enough to sell me this." And he threw a green maid garb over her chest. She tilted her chin to the other side and folded her arms stubbornly. "I won't wear that stupid dress!" She was a warrior, not some common tavern wench!

"Enough of your childishness." The hiss resounding behind the mask left little to the imagination. His teeth were clearly clenched in an ugly snarl. "I'm really getting tired of it." And that was an understatement. From the way his fists were tightly squeezed at his sides, he was more than peeved, he was positively seething.

"Then just go and leave me be," she snarled back, uncaring or oblivious to his anger. "I am already used to it."

"Very well. As you wish." His tone returned to his terse, but low, controlled smoothness as he turned back towards the door. "Don't expect me to come back." His gloved hand gripped the door handle.

"I do not," she said scathingly, but then added, "They never do."

It was murmured with reproach, a fleeting afterthought of a gloomy daze, not intended to reach his ears or to be shared, but it escaped, nonetheless. He stopped from turning the handle and stood there, still.

"They," he said out loud, almost like he was tasting the word, and then remained silent for some time as if he was quickly analysing the matter. He had always been much too perceptive and shrewd for her liking. He could have asked many irrelevant questions, like 'who,' but instead he nailed the right one. "Why?" he worded, slowly, loud enough so that it could not be ignored.

A little part of her brain, the one that was still lucid, told her to shut that big mouth of hers or lie through her teeth, but the rest was too numbed, so she just carelessly blabbered, because, well, it's not like it would have changed anything.

"They just don't like it," she explained with an airy tone, like it was so incredibly obvious. He slightly turned around, and threw a calculating gaze at her.

"Like what?" There was suspicion in his voice, as though he was, for a brief moment, truly considering that she could really be pulling his leg.

"The truth," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Explain." His hand left the handle and he completely turned to stare at her. He was now intrigued.

"They first go all gaga. When they meet the Dragonborn. And so they expect. Ask, ask. To do this and that. But it is enough. They see past." She waved her hands in the air to accompany her disconnected phrases and her deep frown, like she was explaining a very difficult concept. And then she dropped her arms, suddenly brooding. "They don't even try to remember my name."

Some seconds of silence ticked away as she stared morosely at the ceiling.

"I... see," he commented at last, sounding quite taken aback.

"So that is the issue," he muttered more to himself than to her. "Is that what you truly believe?" he questioned in a more assertive tone, while slowly approaching the edge of the bed. "What about Lydia, then." His large shadow was looming over her again, his tall shape obscuring the lamp hanging from the wall. "She never left your side."

"She is my Housecarl, she thinks it is her duty." She looked straight at his mask. The flickering lights gave it an ominous look. He continued, undeterred.

"Paarthurnax. He was your cherished teacher, wasn't he?"

"Only because I am the Dragonborn."

"The Greybeards, then." His tone became slow and deep, almost hypnotic. "You told me they welcomed you with unexpected warmth."

"They follow Paarthurnax's lead. They were bound to do so." He sat on the edge of the bed, next to her waist, and went on.

"The ones that helped you during your first hunts." His delicate prodding was strangely soothing.

"Delphine and Esbern?" she muttered, disoriented. "They are the Blades. They swore to serve the Dragonborn."

"Odahviing. He tried to protect you from me at great risk, you can't deny it."

"He promised his fealty if I defeated Alduin." She must have sounded too pained, because he grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly, to catch her attention.

"This self-defeating attitude does not belong to you," he commented resolutely, his tone suddenly sharper. "This is just the alcohol and the loss of blood taking their toll."

"You know nothing!" she barked, but as soon as her temper exploded she returned to that eerie, spaced-out calm. "As I said, you are no different."

His shoulders stiffened. "What makes you believe so?"

"I only grabbed your interest because of my title and all those stupid books you read." She whispered that, like she was commenting on the weather. However, her expression abruptly morphed into an ugly snarl. "Well, I am not like all those idiotic bards sing about, I will never be." She continued with the same previous candour, "Sooner or later you will have enough, too." And then she added with a note of arrogant, challenging superiority, "Ha! You will see." It was ruined, though, by a slight grimace.

"So you read only one of those books and only a little part." Miraak's tone turned darker as he slightly inclined over her to stress his point. "I assure you, I know more about you than you credit me for." He gently held her upper arms and pulled her in a sitting position.

"Yeah, sure," she grumbled, as he lifted her legs to rest them over his lap.

"What if I told you, then, that every single detail written in those books changes every time the reader turns to the next page." He added slyly, as he pulled out one of her boots, "Or when you make even the most insignificant choice." She squirmed the toes of her feet, suddenly chilled by the fresh air.

"Are you telling me," she inclined her head to look at him, baffled, while he started to unfasten one of her gloves, "that I won't attack Windhelm for the Imperials? Or hunt vampires?"

"You could, or you could not," he answered vaguely, as he switched to the other glove. "I've read them over and over. There are so many different, discordant paths and, believe me, I know how much you may shine, but I also know many facets of your worst side." He took the fur helmet from her head and dumped it on the floor, together with the other pieces.

"These little theatrics of yours," he remarked with some contempt, as he loosened her unkempt braid, "are nothing in comparison." And then he started to unclasp the various buckles of her armour.

"Tell me," he went on, as he freed her chest from the leather fur, "do you really desire to fulfil this silly self-prophecy of yours?" He did not give her a chance to shake her head, he had already put the dress on her. "Then stop acting like a fickle, spoiled Daedra," he acidly stated, and she couldn't stop from blushing at his sudden, harsh reprimand. She tried to hide it as she wiggled to fumble with the laces, but he turned her around and took over.

"I have been tempted to retrieve the Oghma Infinium," he abruptly admitted in a darker mood, as he fastened the last lace with a tight pull, "and be done with all of this."

She swiftly turned around incredulous. "You would never!"

"I would." One of his gloved hands gently rested on her cheek and tilted her chin up, a sharp contrast to the threatening edge of his low growl. "If you force my hand."

She continued to stare at him, dumbfounded.

"You look very pale," he commented casually, as he played with one of the curls that rested over her bosom. "You should get some sleep."

He was going to get up, but she grabbed his arm and pushed him down.

"Wait. Why in Oblivion would you ever want to go back?"

He sighed, quite irritated, and then stood up. "Must I always spell everything out for you?" he grunted out and walked toward the door.

Even in her addled state she could see it was just a mean-spirited bluff, an insincere threat to keep her in check. No way that he would be so vindictive, and do that just to spite her. However, in a warped, completely twisted sort of way, it was the sweetest thing he had ever said to her. Later, she would blame it all on the alcohol. It was easier, too convenient, and probably even half true. In that moment, though, she just knew she didn't want him to leave, so she leaped forward to grab his waist, and with a strength she wasn't even aware she was exerting, she slammed him against the door. He did not have time to react, or question her crazy behaviour, because he was already being dragged to the floor by the crash of her weight, tightly clasped against his body.

"What the..." he tried to shout, but she tore off his mask and took advantage of his shocked bewilderment and shut his mouth with a fierce, demanding kiss. She was too light, though, and he easily rolled her down, pinning her arms at her sides. When she looked up, her eyes prickled at the sight. His face was contorted in pure rage.

"Enough!" he spat with such vehemence that she instinctively cringed. "You clearly are not in a right state of mind!" A tear slid down her cheek. "I won't lengthen the list of your recriminations," he gritted, more subdued, as a sob escaped from her throat. However, his moment of faint regret did not last long.

"Are you truly so desperate," he added in a low, cold hiss, "that you would throw yourself at my feet at the mere mention of losing your freedom?" Her chest was shaking now, and tears rolled down freely, but his grip around her wrists tightened, and he went on ruthlessly.

"Do you truly think," and his tone dropped even lower, to a strangled hiss, as his eyes thinned to mere slits, "that your wiles would still work, after you flat-out said I make you sick?"

"I said that to hurt you!" she bellowed in his face, but he did not even flinch.

"And nothing plunges sharper than the steel of raw truth, right?" he hissed back with pure venom.

"Yes, but you don't understand!" she shrieked as she thrashed about to free her arms, but his hold was too firm. "It gets worse when I'm far away!"

"What are you raving about now?"

"At first I thought that I was truly sick," she started to wail, "that I got brainrot or something."

"You really are wasted," he commented with disdain, but she continued, completely ignoring his scorn. "So I went to the Temple, but the blessings did not work. It got worse."

"Indeed. Worse."

"Yes. Weak. Confused. Dizzy. Breathless. Like an invisible leash choking my throat." She was calmer, and just hiccupped, but went on nonetheless, in a high-pitched whisper. "Like a curse. I thought it was you, a way to spite me for what I said."

"I did not do such thing!" he commented, outraged. "But of course you would blame me. I am the cause of all of your disgrace, right? You are inebriated, you stupid fool!"

"Yes, yes!" she whined. "I am always feeling like that. Inebriated. Help me. I don't recognize myself anymore."

He remained oddly mute and kept her pinned on the floor for some minutes, wearing a peculiar, nonplussed frown, while his gaze wandered over her head, lost in thought, until a weird grunt finally left his throat, and his grip slackened around her wrists.

His shoulders slightly trembled and his lips pursed in a tight, tensed line, but the guttural snort that leaked from them, no matter how much he tried to stifle it, soon turned into a low chuckle. He was soon sitting on the floor, clutching his bent torso as he let out a rich, loud guffaw.

She sluggishly sat up, throwing him a confused glance. It was surreal, hearing Miraak laugh with such abandon.

"How... You..." he rasped hoarsely, while trying to catch his breath. "How in Oblivion can you be so obtuse?" His expression visibly softened with a sly smirk and a strange glint appeared in his eyes. He was suddenly in an inexplicably better mood.

"Oh yes, little dov.I will help you." His voice resumed its suave, manipulative, slow cadence, but a trace of laughter was nonetheless still perceivable. "I cannot deny such heartfelt pleas, after all."

If she had been more clear-headed, she would have immediately been on the lookout, because something was clearly off, and, if she had been completely sober, she would have already screamed obscenities at him for mocking her plight so shamelessly. Instead she just accepted his offered hand to stand up and sit again next to him on the bed.

"Akatosh is witness that I try," he murmured, with a soft, strange edge. And then he did something really odd: he gently lifted her hand to his lips and kissed its back. "But you were right," he added, as he pushed her down with him in the fur mattress. "I am a sick wretch." His warm breath tickled her nape, as he unfastened the laces. Then one arm slithered between the furs and over the curve of her side to encircle her waist tightly.

"Beyond cure." His hand slowly pulled down the shoulder strap until the scoop neck of her loosened bodice could not hold up her exposed breasts anymore. She slightly curled up, only to feel his arm pushing her waist against his torso, and his heavy bulk adjust over hers, pressing her side against the pelts.

"This is all your fault," he whispered near her ear, in a mocking parody of a stern reprimand. His hand slid over her thigh and dragged the hem of the gown to the hip, eliciting a faint moan. "I always try to play nice." The arm clasping her waist slightly rose so that he could touch her breast, and her small hand clutched his gloved one, encouraging his gentle fondling.

"But you have to be such an unruly little ninny." His lips rested on the curve of neck, and she arched it further, so that his lingering kiss would shift to a soft, possessive bite. "Spouting such idiocies." She heard the unclasping of his belt and shivered at its meaning.

"Yes, I should have coaxed your forgiveness from the start," he remarked, pressing his bare loins against her thighs, and the blood rushed like a scorching blaze to her cheeks. It was the first time she had ever heard him utter any form of apology, even the faintest. "But then you would not be here," he growled darkly, as his arousal slowly slid between her soft, tightened legs, "pining like a little Argonian maid." The gloating attitude dripping from his husky, unsubtle insinuations, should have pricked her touchy pride. Instead she only clamped her thighs even more, squeezing between their softness his familiar, welcomed intrusion, just to draw forth that cherished, guttural hum next to her ear. The same one that always made her skin shiver and her heartbeat speed up in a startling, terrifying race.

He nibbled her earlobe in retaliation, and got a tiny, strangled whine, which soon became an erratic, long moan, when his tongue teased the back of her ear. His hips pressed further against her back, and his large bulk slightly squashed her against the pelts at each new push.

He was trying to extort another, needy whimper from her, stroking her drenched lips with the alluring promise of his hardness, while slightly brushing her hidden, swollen spot with its tip.

She could not stop herself from letting a small wanton moan escape, and snuggled up a little more, pressing her back against him, just to let it slide better. After gripping the gloved hand that fondled her breasts more tightly, she let her other hand wander down, so that her fingers could slightly rub the underside of his arousal, each time its tip reached them. Her tentative touch became a delicate, but pressing caress of her palm after he released a guttural hum of appreciation. However, the same hand that firmly anchored her waist, quickly held her wrist back.

"Behave, or I won't last much," he growled as he raised her leg over his own, spreading her thighs with his knee.

"I will make sure," he added in a low drawl, as the tip of his cock parted her folds, "that you will always be this feverish." His words became hoarser as he slowly sank farther inside her embracing warmth. "Light-headed." And then his tone dropped even lower, to a husky purr, as if he was whispering a well-guarded secret. "Weakened." And the leathered palm that pressed her belly, slid down to rest over her soaked mound to rub it with teasing gentleness.

"I will intoxicate you over and over," he tried to add sinisterly, but traces of a stifled chuckle still rumbled in his throat, "if necessary." And he plunged hard, to stress its twisted meaning, and force a little cry out from her.

"But enough of this silliness," he continued with heavy condescension as he resumed a milder rhythm, just to make her groan in frustration and flaunt who retained still some control. "You will call it by its proper name, from now on." Even with her flushing face pressed against the furs, she could still hear how his voice wavered, as he buried his nose deep in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent.

"I am lovesick. Say it," he whispered just over her ear, kissing her cheekbone, and she trembled as his fingers continued to ruthlessly stroke around her little, aching spot.

"Say it." And her breath hitched when the leather of his glove scorched her sensitized breasts, and his thumb slightly rubbed her nipple.

"And you will feel better." She clawed the pelt in desperation when he started to withdraw even more slowly, only to plunge again with more harshness. She was under siege.

"I promise you," he went on, and she whimpered louder when it hit that far away spot, one he knew how to reach all too well. She couldn't supress a suffering, high-pitched moan when he once again pulled out excruciatingly slowly, just to dive in with a sharp thrust. It was pure torture.

"So?" he hissed through gritted teeth, as if it was affecting him too. "When did you become such a coward?" And he sank harder, like he was ramming a fort.

"I'm..." she managed to squeak after his new assault. Her body was reduced to a quivering mess and she could not handle it anymore. She just capitulated. "I'm lovesick." It was a feeble whisper, interrupted by uneven intakes of breath, but he caught it nonetheless.

"Yes, that's my girl," he rasped in approval, and plunged fast and hard a few more times so that her weakened limbs would finally crumble under the weight of a shattering burst, spreading fast from its core to overwhelm her, relentless and piercing like the erratic wail that left her lungs.

It did not matter anymore, she thought, as she quivered in pleasure. She had already been losing it in Apocrypha—after she read those poisonous Mara's pamphlets, or after she heedlessly indulged in seemingly innocuous fantasies of play pretend. And then, he had always known how to seize what he wanted, from the very beginning.

"Ah, if only..." she heard him grit in frustration, through her muffled haze. He pulled out and forced her to firmly shut again her thighs, so that he could reach his own pleasure between them. Now that she was a tiny bit more collected, though, she grabbed his hand in a little spur of devious revenge, pulled away the glove and slid the tip of his index finger in her mouth, with very clear intent.

"Next time," he grunted as he shoved with raw strength, crushing her against the furs, "I will put that little mouth of yours to good use." His threat, however, did not sound very menacing, nor did the feeble groan that left his throat, and so she could not refrain from letting out a giggle and teasing him more.

"And then I will suck it all, like the sweetest Honey Nut Treat," she whispered back brazenly, as she kissed the palm of his hand. It must have been lewder than she thought, because his weight suddenly shook, falling over her back, and a guttural, unrestrained groan resounded loudly from the crook of her neck. The clamped slit between her inner thighs became more sticky and warm, and then his bulk slowly lifted away as he lazily pulled back and rolled to her side in order to recover his uneven, heavy breathing.

"So… Did we make peace? Did w—" She turned her head, only for her next word to be stifled by a kiss.

"Mm. What do you think?" he purred after parting from her lips, and rolled her with delicate subtleness, caressing her hip to slightly part her thighs, so that he could peek, with dark appreciation, how his come lingered on her slippery folds.

She was going to demand some cuddling, when, without any forewarning, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed. "Where are you going?" She blinked, perplexed, unable to smother a whine of disappointment, when he started fastening his outer robes.

"I," his odd mellow voice wavered in an unusual way as he stood up, "need something to drink." He hesitated a moment, but then turned back and softly caressed her cheek. "You rest. Tomorrow we will resume our travel." And then he quickly left the room.

She stared dumbly at the closed door for several minutes, with a silly, contented smile on her face, basking in the afterglow of soothing appeasement. It was wonderfully dizzying how suddenly everything seemed to readjust itself, like magic! Perhaps she could still indulge in her little reveries, in the safety of her mind. Perhaps she could even dare to hope for some of them to come true. Perhaps... Her inner rambling was chopped from the root, though, when a horrible thought struck her chest, like a jolt of lightning from a clear sky.

The amulet. She had to retrieve it in some way before Miraak noticed, and fast. She quickly lunged forward to reach her boots and put them on as she bit her lip in apprehension.


Dragon language:

Dovahkiin! Ahst laat hi rein! = Dragonborn! At last you roar!

Veyn lost hi kosaan? = Where have you been?

Krosis = sorry

Rot = words

geh, kung = yes, a lot

Drem Yol Lok = Greetings

mul = strength

Thu'um = Voice

Monahven = Throat of the World


Author's notes:

Writing drunken people is troublesome, there is a weird, but logical reasoning behind their dazed stupidity. This chapter was inspired by the quest 'A Night to Remember'. There's a reason that DB knows Sam Guevenne, but doesn't take his challenge. Lydia, like the dutiful Housecarl she is, never lets her drink, and for good reasons! About birth contraception, you will know about it together with the DB in the next chapter.

To Guest1: It is very difficult that Miraak would come 'clean', as you say. He hates to be out of control and the idea of being manipulated.

To Dovahkiin: Good, that's how it's done! Pity, my goody two-shoes thief chose to side with the Dawnguard.

To Violence is Always the Answer: sorry, but nope, not today... Make love, not war! (a Lennon's song plays in background)

To Guest2: This DB is really prideful, but has a flare for drama, like any diva *cough* I meant celebrated heroine. She is used to be treated like some special snowflake. You have to thank the Blades, the Greybeards, and Lydia for the attitude. Miraak's fixation just reinforced it, so she is very susceptible at everything that may brush her ego. And then she has the gall to criticize Miraak for the same defect, oh the irony.

To Trace: I love long reviews, that's the best part of fanfiction, sharing with readers point of views and opinions. Yeah, they end to be to docile, thus boring! I would like to share my opinion about your theory, but sadly I can't, because it would be spoiler! I will just say that Miraak feels like a novice in comparison to Mora's manipulations and the fear of being duped is always gnawing at him. He ended stuck in Apocrypha for six millenia, can you blame him?

To Meredith Sock: Oh, I think you are underestimating your abilities, I really loved your fic and the translation was good, so I'd say, if you have a plot-bunny go for it, one-shot or multi-chapter! Divines only know how much I'd like to read other versions of DB/Miraak. I am currently following the 'Hades and Persephone' fill in skyrimkinkmeme, but the more, the merrier!

To Yamato: Hi and thank you! I'm happy to hear you find the story entertaining so far!

To Sihayya: It is more like "So I'm ok for fun, but not for serious business?" in a context where Miraak is an emotional clam, gives roundabout answers, and she managed to have some control over him only through sex. So if seduction doesn't affect him anymore, and he avoids 'serious business', what is the DB to do? DB is a "I will deal with it when it happens" type, and that's exactly why she is in this mess.

Edit: thanks for the tip guest2, already corrected!