It was cold. He was fairly certain he had never been so cold in his life, from the air in his lungs to the burning icy ache in his toes. Someone was trying to warm him up—at least, he was covered with furs and there was a fire nearby—but nothing was quite making sense…
Turinmar felt someone lift him up slightly, pouring warm mead down his throat. That was nice. The liquid was warm on its own, but the alcohol left a fire in his belly that did much more to warm him than anything else so far. He mumbled something, and the person giving him mead gently set him down and left, much to his displeasure.
He opened his eyes trying to find them, but all he saw was dark stone walls coated in frost. Where was he? The Dark Elf shifted, trying to move closer to the fire, and pain radiated from two spots on his back. Memory followed the twin lances of pain like a tide rushing in.
The little girl—she was Miraak's—and she'd been taken.
Panic warmed him faster than anything, and when the pair of Nord men walked into the room the Dunmer was doing his best to disentangle himself from the blankets, but was having quite a bit of trouble even moving himself. Everything seemed to take a lot more effort than it should, and he couldn't seem to stop shaking. Everything hurt—except the parts that he couldn't feel at all, just a strange sense of pressure assuring him that they were still connected.
"Peace, elf," one of the men cautioned, holding up a hand. "You were brought to us half frozen yesterday morning. You have not yet had time to recover."
"I've got to go," Turinmar stated, collapsing back onto the pallet as his stamina leeched away. "They dragged them off. I've got to tell…" His previous thoughts came back in a rush, and he looked up at the man who must surely be a Greybeard with wide red eyes. "The little girl and boy were taken. There was a group of mercenaries that just grabbed them."
The Nord's face was grave. "So you did see what happened. I'd hoped you might. Klimmek said he saw signs of fighting on the way up, and then found you half dead at the bottom of our steps. You are lucky Argis the Housecarl requested he bring healing potions to us. Had he not, you would be dead. As it is, you will be many weeks in recovering without a healer." Turinmar digested this as the Nord settled on the floor near him in what looked like a meditative posture. "Now, tell me all you remember about these mercenaries."
Turinmar did, knowing it would get back to the Dragonborn, one way or another. When he described the swords the man's face tensed. When he mentioned the woman, the Nord's expression took on such a sour note the Dunmer was momentarily reminded of Dorte. "Blades," he said wearily, almost as if he wished to curse the word. "So they came for Darva. We must tell the Dragonborn," he added, rising. "You would do best to rest, regain your strength. Our leader returns to us tomorrow, and he will send word to Ysmir. She will wish to speak with you."
He just bet she would. He had already told the old man everything he knew, though, and Turinmar had another Dragonborn to answer to. He drank his hot broth and warm mead and slept until the monastery grew dark, then drank the sole magicka potion he had left and set about healing himself as best he could. Feeling not quiet better but able to move, he finished what was left of the soup and mead before he made his ponderous way out of the monastery.
It was snowing out. Of course it was. The Steward more fell down the steps than walked down them, ending up gasping in a snowdrift and wondering if he should just go back inside. But no; Miraak needed to know. He needed to hear this. Healing himself again, Turinmar pushed himself up—ruefully wondering if that Nordic stubbornness at the expense of sense had rubbed off on him—and continued on, doing his best to ignore the growing pain in every extremity he had. When he was finally past the statue of Tiber Septim he fell to his knees, pulled out a small box with ink and ancient parchment, cut his hand and let it bleed until said parchment was soaked, then lit it afire and whispered Miraak's name.
A portal opened almost immediately, and his lord stepped out into the blizzard as if into a sunny day. "Turinmar?" he asked, displeasure and surprise in his tone, "what are you doing up here?"
The Dunmer almost smiled, but he had bad news to impart. "Dar-d-d-d," shit, his teeth were chattering too much. He tried to summon a flame spell, but his magicka was still returning from his earlier healing; he'd barely been able to set the parchment alight. He could almost sense Miraak's puzzled irritation.
Abruptly, the Daedra turned toward the storm. "Lok Vah Koor!" he Shouted, dispelling the clouds immediately above and leaving them in a little pocket of calm before striding to the Steward. "What happened, Turinmar?" he asked, kneeling down next to him when the Dunmer was unable to rise. "Why are you at High Hrothgar?"
He really didn't want to tell him. He shouldn't have come, he knew that now. Miraak probably would kill him for being so curious. It didn't matter so much, he supposed, he'd long ago given his life to the man anyway, so he looked up into that cold mask and rasped past his chattering teeth, "Your d-d-daughter...they t-took her."
That finally out, he fell face-first into the snow as his world went black.
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Dorte pursed her lips as she looked around Turinmar's office. She sincerely hoped his niece was as good at organization as the man claimed, because she couldn't find a thing. Of course, it would help if the blasted man didn't insist on keeping records dating almost back to the Oblivion Crisis. What use was a receipt for one hundred potatoes dated when her grandfather had been a child? On the one hand, she would have loved to have everything running so smoothly and efficiently that the Dunmer was rendered speechless. On the other hand, she'd had no idea how much work he did. The building was going fine—she knew how to run that like a well-oiled Dwemer spider—but she'd not known that the Steward personally took care of making sure there were enough materials for bedding and clothes, food and magical apparatus. She wasn't even sure what most of the things the mages were asking for were, let alone how to get them. What on earth were Wisp Wrappings, for instance? And what did they need a Giant's toe for? And who was this Sam character that kept requesting Hagraven feathers and asking why they didn't have an inn yet?
She sighed, going to the back of the room and opening the door there. It was perhaps a bit odd to venture into Turinmar's bedroom, but he had stacks of records in here, as well, and she hadn't finished skimming through them. Briefly, she wondered if this sudden trip to Skyrim had anything to do with her demanding so much of him. Granted, she'd had no idea that he wasn't one to delegate anything, but…
There was someone in the room already. Grinding to a halt, she could only stare as a large Nord man with blond hair and eerily familiar robes finished covering up a half-dead Dark Elf. She gasped as she recognized the Steward, hand flying to cover her mouth, and the man turned towards her, glaring at her. She rocked back, leaning against the doorframe as her knees shook.
Half his face was covered in the same scales as the beast that destroyed her sister's home. She'd know those scales anywhere. The handsome face they merged with was made alien by them, twisted by unnatural magic that went against everything she had ever learned, but she found she couldn't look away no matter how it twisted her stomach. His forbidding expression was made all the worse by his pitch-black eyes, narrowed in anger and something she couldn't place.
"Close the door, woman," he finally ground out, and she jumped at the familiar tone even as the room shook slightly.
"Miraak?" she asked incredulously, then found herself stumbling forward as the door closed anyway. He glared at her before turning back to Turinmar, gold light arching around them both as he raised his hands over the Steward, palms down.
"There are potions around here somewhere," he told her, voice still tightly controlled and underlaced with fury. She rushed to find them, starting at the Alchemy table she had once teased the steward that he was going to poison himself at.
"What happened to him?" she couldn't help but ask, yanking the top off a barrel and peering inside, then staring in appalled silence when there actually was a Giant's toe in there. Quickly, she slammed the lid back on and went to the next one.
"Frostbite," Miraak replied curtly, "as well as two arrow wounds, internal bleeding, and laying on his injuries for at least a day. If he has any potions for resisting cold, those would be nearly as helpful as healing potions."
Dorte halted, staring. "But you're a mage—Daedra," she corrected herself. "Surely you can heal him?"
"I don't have power over time," he ground out. "Some things can only be healed before they progress too far. Frostbite is one of them. He'll be lucky if I can get his hands working again."
"Found them!" she cried jubilantly, pulling a large pinkish-red bottle from a chest and reading the label. "It says 'ultimate.'"
"Bring it here," he commanded, hands still glowing gold.
The woman didn't bother to ask before she lifted the Dunmer up, tilting his head back as she pulled the cork out with her teeth. "Turinmar," she said gently, bouncing him a bit as she would a small child. "Wake up. I need you to drink something."
The Dark Elf's eyes slitted open, rolling a bit as he looked around. "Oh, good," he said, eyes falling on the potion. "I'm not dead."
"Not yet, you great idiot," Miraak told him wearily. "But you have a lot of explaining to do."
Turinmar actually smiled. "You could have told me," he told the Daedra lightly.
Dorte sniffed, then her eyebrows shot up. "Turinmar, have you been drinking?"
"Mead. Warm," he replied.
She cursed. "It makes you feel warm," she agreed, "but it's a lie. People have frozen to death because alcohol fooled their bodies into thinking they were warmer than they really were. Idiot!"
"Potion, Dorte," Miraak reminded her harshly, gazing at them both with narrowed eyes.
Turinmar sighed as she lifted the potion bottle to his lips, and Miraak's eyebrows shot up incredulously, but he didn't say anything. Some of the ashy-grey pallor fled from the elf's ears and cheeks, and his hands returned to their normal, healthy grey. The tips of his ears were still black, though, and he would probably lose at least one of his toes, if not an entire foot.
"Dorte," Miraak said tightly, and the woman risked a glance at him, completely unsure of this half-dragon man with black eyes. The cool indifference of the mask she could deal with—she wasn't entirely certain she could handle Miraak as a person, especially when he looked about to commit murder. The fact that she was still holding Turinmar was probably the only reason she was still breathing.
"No, milor'" Turinmar mumbled, reaching up listlessly from where he lay. "I told her…my fault. Got…curious, you know."
For a moment Miraak just stared at him, face expressionless, then sighed. "I gave you an assistant to help your health, not so you could leave her in charge as you put yourself in danger."
"Couldn't help myself," Turinmar muttered. "Potion nice. Just going to…potion nice," he added, eyes finally shutting. Blisters started forming on his cheeks and chin, the skin around them a mottled purple-blue as ice crystals inside his body unfroze. Laying him down with the blanket tucked carefully around his shoulders, Dorte poured health potion on a spare sash to make an impromptu poultice, swathing his face lightly. Other than that and ensuring the room stayed warm, there really wasn't much more she could do.
Nervously, Dorte turned to look at Miraak, whose gaze was once again on her face. What she saw there did not bode well for her. "Dorte, there are currently three people in existence who I truly give a damn about. That stupid, nosey Dunmer is one of them. If he dies before I get back you will never make it to Sovngarde. You will spend the rest of eternity floating in a black sea, drowning and unable to die. Do you understand me?"
She nodded numbly, licking her lips, not even bothering to protest that she didn't want anything to happen to the Steward either. He could see that right from her mind. "What are you going to do?" she asked, heart hammering so loudly she was certain it was going to burst out of her chest.
"Get Iriel," he replied, turning and opening a portal, "and drag her back here to heal her uncle. Then I need to go find the last two people I care about." He paused, giving her a suspicious look. "Why are you smiling?"
Dorte shook her head. "I knew there was an ordinary man in there somewhere," she said, perhaps unwisely, but he would have read her mind anyway.
Miraak growled something suspiciously like "You're lucky I have need of you at the moment," before vanishing into Oblivion.
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Hi people. Been an eventful week for me. I quit my job, so now I have to find a new one. Don't know if said new one will give me much time for writing or not. I feel rather weird about it, because I wasn't ready to quit yet, but something happened that made me just throw the towel in, and while normally I'd be a lot more angsty about it (wondering if I did the right thing quitting, or quitting right then, lots of self-doubt, yadda yadda yadda), everyone keeps telling me they're glad I did, so I'm not as frantic about this as I could be. Mostly quiet panic staved off by cooking and cleaning and watching copious amounts of Bleach. At this point, I was only making enough to buy gas for where they were sending me every week anyway. No point working to work-I have bills to pay.
Thank you everyone who read and reviewed. Welcome new followers and favorites!
Wicked Lullaby: Glad you approve. :) Sofie is one of my favorites as well. If for some reason she wasn't one of the two I adopted (before I got the multiple adoptions mod, anyway) I had to avoid Windhelm altogether, because I felt horribly guilty I wasn't going to rescue her from her horrible life. If you're feeling on a Cicero kick, have you checked out the story "With a Dragonborn Like This?" It's one of my favorites, even if some parts of it did horrify me first reading.
Nax: I hope hearing about Miraak was all you could wish. As for Cicero, there is no reason to kill him for his clothing. There is a spare set of the Jester Outfit that he wears right in the Dawnstar Sanctuary during the quest Cure for Madness, so you can spare him now, if that's what you want. :)
Roger509: Thanks! Glad to hear somebody would! I'll post it up when it comes out, though it might not be until after this story is finished. As for the login feature, I believe it logs you out every few days for security purposes. There is a bit of a reunion, yes, but it is technically off-screen.
Wynni: Ditto with the transfusion thing, but perhaps plants don't have as much maternal instinct. Personally, I don't see why the tree needed to be hurt to get the sap-there are plenty of ways to get sap from a tree without stabbing it and incurring the wrath of several Spriggans. The "ink treatment?" XD You'll be happy to know that Ulfric is alive and well in this fic, even if Ysmir doesn't side with him in the war, being firmly in the "Fuck Your Faction" faction.
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I haven't decided what's going to happen next week yet, sorry, but it'll either be a little side-quest with the Dawnguard group or back with Ysmir going to see Augie. Probably.
