A/N: Translations for Dovahzul in this chapter at the end. Enjoy.
Chapter 12
The plan to leave at first light fell through, due in no small part to the Dragonborn. She had decided to let the child sleep longer, claiming more rest meant he would regain more strength and be better fit for travel. Then, after Alesan was woken, she insisted on briefing the Stormcloak commander on what the boy had witnessed. She had warned she was not in a habit of making plans, so it was to be expected that she might not stick to the rare ones she did make. Miraak tried not to let it annoy him, he really did, but it seemed the extraordinary patience that had seen him through countless lifetimes in Apocrypha, as well as Hermaeus Mora's repeated gloating and threats, had at last run dry.
"You realize you could have saved us time by briefing him while the boy slept?" Miraak said from a chair near the firepit. Gone was the rigid, dignified posture he normally adopted; he sat somewhat slouched, his long legs stretched out before him, leaning an elbow on an armrest, chin on his gloved fist.
Liv knelt on the floor nearby, helping a groggy Alesan into her mage's robe so that he might keep warm on the journey to Winterhold, if they ever got around to it. "I want Alesan present for it, in case Ralof has questions for him," she murmured, forgoing the usual cheeky response.
Miraak thought she sounded and looked tired; there was a faint slur in her speech, a drawn look about her, sluggishness in her movements. And something more: a faint, lingering sense of melancholy. "Why should he be briefed at all? It's evident by the way he commands his men that this Ralof is incapable of efficiently utilizing the tools he's given. Whatever information can be gleaned from the boy's experience would go to waste on him."
Liv leveled frosty eyes on him. "That's your opinion," she said, then she made a soft, dismissive noise and lowered her gaze back to the task at hand, fingers knotting the robe's belt at the boy's waist. "I'm not in the mood to argue, Miraak."
"No?" Miraak replied, arching a brow a fraction. "How utterly unlike you. Are you unwell?" Sarcasm aside, he was actually surprised by her unusual passiveness this morning. He'd been under the impression she looked forward to and found spiteful delight in their verbal sparring matches. But perhaps there was a reason behind this abnormal shift in her behavior. As he recalled, there had been that nightmare earlier.
After listening to Alesan's story and coming to a reluctant agreement with each other, they all had tried to get what rest they could before their dawn departure for Winterhold. Miraak had managed, at last, to shut up his grumbling thoughts long enough to get to sleep, but no sooner had he dropped off than a wordless shriek had jolted him back awake. Of all the things that might have disturbed his much-needed rest, he was not at all surprised it was her, the little pestilence.
The scream—really more of a wail of bereavement than terror—had roused her sibling and the boy, as well. From his room, Miraak had been able to hear all the commotion that followed; the boy whining about monsters, the Dragonborn's efforts at reassuring him there was no danger, that she'd just had a bad dream, Leif fussing over her. By the way the siblings had talked it seemed these nightmares were not an uncommon occurrence but a frequent one. Liv had dismissed Leif's concern, insisted she was fine and didn't want to talk about it, it was just a dream, so on and so forth. Yet, she had not been herself since; withdrawn and dejected when she was normally chatty and spirited. Even her body language was different, shoulders sagging and back stooped as if she carried some great weight upon them.
Miraak held no sympathy for her, of course—she certainly deserved what suffering came to her—yet he found this particular occasion galling. It was unacceptable for the Dragonborn who brought down the World-Eater to be overcome by something as inconsequential as a nightmare. Simply unacceptable.
"Explain to me, Dragonborn, how it is you were able to slay Alduin, a formidable adversary," Miraak spoke with the tone of a stern mentor disappointed in a gifted but unfortunately foolish pupil, "and yet you are so easily defeated by your own mind."
Liv made a derisive sound, but it did not escape his notice how her shoulders tensed, as if absorbing a blow. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, that same coldness he'd seen in her eyes a moment ago now in her voice. "And you clearly don't know what you're talking about, either, so why don't you just do us both the huge favor of shutting up?"
"Indeed. So you would have me believe it's merely coincidence that you woke screaming in the dead of night from a nightmare and have since not been yourself?"
"I wouldn't have you believe anything, seeing as how it's not your business."
Miraak shook his head, sneering at her with disgust. "Vanquisher of the World-Eater or not, you are pathetic to be brought low by something so trifling. You shame yourself and dishonor the Dragonborn name with your weakness."
A shadow of anger flitted across her face and then was gone; if he'd have blinked he'd have missed it. Not that it would have mattered, as he could feel her wrath even without it exposed on her face, radiating from her like heat from a hearth.
The woman didn't respond otherwise. She yanked her travel pack to her and rummaged through it with unnecessary force, eventually pulling out a small glass bottle filled with some dark blue liquid and thrusting it out to the boy.
"Here, drink. It'll ward off the cold."
Alesan obeyed without complaint, his hazel eyes looking from one adult to the other, then back again. He forced down the potion in large gulps, grimacing, then handed back the empty bottle.
As Liv was stuffing it inside her pack the door to the inn opened, admitting a gust of cold wind that stirred up the flames in the central firepit, followed directly by Leif. His dragonbone armor clattered as he strode into the common room, brown woolen cloak fluttering about his legs, the long, dark hilt of his greatsword looming behind his right shoulder. Normally he wore his blonde hair in a loose ponytail that left some tendrils hanging about his face; this morning it was all tightly pulled back and secured above the nape of his neck.
"Ralof's awake and waiting for us," he announced. "When you're ready."
Liv pulled the hood of her robe up over Alesan's head and smiled at him, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Ready?"
The boy nodded, the loose hood flopping with the motion. Liv shouldered her travel sack and straightened up, then took Alesan's hand in hers.
"Let's go."
The four of them left the inn and walked the short distance to the Jarl's longhouse, which now served as the center of operations for the Stormcloaks garrisoning Dawnstar. Miraak hung back as the others carried on up the steps to the door; he had no intention of sitting through the boy's story again or any questions Ralof might have for him.
"I will wait here."
"Hmph," the Dragonborn said.
"You sure it's wise to leave him without adult supervision?" Leif questioned.
"Hmph," she said again as she opened the door and disappeared inside the longhouse with the boy in tow. Shrugging, Leif followed her, the door clicking shut behind him.
With nothing to do but wait, Miraak put his back to the longhouse and took in the morning. It was a dreary and blustery one, the sky crawling with smoke-gray clouds that forewarned more snow, the wind wailing hard off the somber ocean, smelling of salt and sharpening the chill in the air. It yanked at Miraak's hair and clothes with phantom fingers, stung his face with a thousand frosted needles, made his eyes water, his nostrils burn and his lungs tingle. But he welcomed it all; it was stimulating, made him feel present, alive, and he hadn't felt like that in…forever.
Twenty or so minutes later, the door to the longhouse opened and the trio came out, joined by Ralof. They all paused there on the steps to make their farewells; Leif clasped forearms with Ralof, Ralof tousled Alesan's hair only to have his hand indignantly batted away, much to the man's amusement. Then the Stormcloak commander and the Dragonborn embraced for some moments, longer than was necessary and entirely inappropriate with their bodies pressed together the way they were and his hands splayed across her lower back. When they finally parted, the man said something that made her laugh, the sound full and lurid, her eyes sparkling with it. Quite the remarkable transformation from her earlier, gloomy self.
For some reason he could not explain, Miraak felt a sharp prick of annoyance.
"If you are done wasting time, let's go," he rumbled as he marched past them all, more impatient to leave than ever. "Perhaps, if we are fortunate, we'll reach Winterhold before dark."
They made Winterhold long before dark; before midday, even. The journey took a whole four hours and was mostly silent and uneventful, aside from one occurrence.
They followed the coastline at Liv's assurance it was the quickest and safest route. The pair of Dragonborn took point, Miraak walking just slightly (and deliberately) ahead of Liv. Leif and Alesan were content with trailing along behind them.
They were perhaps five miles out of Dawnstar, trudging along a shore of slushy black shingle littered with clumps of hardy yellow grass, when Leif suddenly pulled up at his sister's side and laid a hand on her shoulder, pointing ahead with the other.
"Liv, look."
Slowly, as if waking from a dream, Liv blinked and lifted her head, gaze following Leif's finger. Apparently whatever effect Ralof had had on her mood was short-lived, for she hadn't uttered a word since leaving Dawnstar, seemed to be long, somber miles inside her own head again.
About thirty yards ahead of them was a lump of golden-bronze metal lying at the tide line, a stark contrast to the gray seascape. At first it looked like it was moving with weak convulsions, but at second glance it was just the low waves, washing around it, nudging at it.
Liv squinted. "Is that what I think it is?" But as they all drew closer to it, it became clear what it was; there was no mistaking its arachnid form.
"Dwarven Spider," Leif confirmed. "Must be the one chased that peddler from Dawnstar."
"Is-is it still alive?" the boy asked with a tremor of fear in his voice. He stood in safety behind Leif, peering around the man's side.
Miraak stepped to the tide line and bent over the inactive contraption, his curiosity for Dwarven technology wanting a closer inspection. He had come across some rare diagrams of automata in Apocrypha but had never had the real thing in front of him before—not intact, anyway; the Sphere they'd found inside Ironbreaker mine had been mostly in pieces. The Spider was whole, every appendage accounted for, the complex assembly of gears and cogs, gyro and red crystal the size of a robin's egg, and soul gem all intact within it. All this, working in tandem to bring metal to life. Say what you will about the mer, no one could deny the Dwemer at least were innovative geniuses.
The Dragonborn nudged the contraption with the toe of her boot. "It's defunct now, but there doesn't appear to be any damage to it."
"Maybe it wandered into the water or got too close and the tide pulled it in," Leif suggested. "Flooded the gears and such, caused it to stop working."
Liv hummed, pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger in a contemplative gesture. "Maybe. It clears up one thing, at least."
"Which thing?"
"That peddler clearly wasn't on skooma, contrary to what Dagur at the Frozen Hearth believed."
"That doesn't exactly help answer the bigger, more important questions."
"No, it doesn't. Maybe we should look around the area, see if we can turn up any clues."
"Another waste of time," Miraak declared. "Since it seems you've forgotten, I shall remind you: it has snowed within the past two days. Unless you intend to shovel it all out between here and Winterhold, you will find no clues."
Liv frowned at him. "I didn't forget. There's no harm in looking, just to be sure."
But, as it turned out, Miraak was right. The search turned up nothing, unless you counted the frozen, days-old carcass of a wolf, half buried in the snow; the apparent victim of an angry bear, judging by the four long, deep gouges carved through its neck and shoulder. To his credit, Miraak wasn't smug about it.
The four of them continued on without further incident.
By the time they reached Winterhold, the clouds smothering the sky had darkened like a bruise and a flurry of snowflakes swirled and twisted in the wind, sticking to hair and clothes and adding a fresh coat of white to the ground.
"Back so soon?" the housecarl, Lydia, greeted when they came through the front door of Winter Hall. The woman stood before the fireplace in the main hall, stirring the contents of a large pot set on a metal frame over the fire. The gentle aroma of hot milk and oats filled the room, and Miraak was yet again reminded of his empty stomach.
The woman's face twisted hatefully when her eyes fell on him. "And you brought that back with you. Here I was hoping you'd 'accidentally' Shout it off a cliff or something."
The Dragonborn smiled weakly. "Sorry to disappoint, Lyds. But Leif and I have a surprise that might make up for it." She reached a hand behind her, where the boy was hiding shyly, and ushered him forward. She pulled his hood back, but Alesan kept his head down and worried nervously at his bottom lip.
Leif hadn't lied when he'd said his wife would be thrilled to have the brat around. After exchanging introductions with Alesan and hearing his story from the Dragonborn, Lydia gushed over him, pinching his cheeks and insisting he was a handsome boy that would make the girls swoon when he became a man, much to Alesan's disgust and embarrassment; he was at that awkward age where girls were becoming interesting, but would still be deemed gross for appearance's sake.
"I'm sorry to do this to you without warning," Liv said after the sickening display of motherly affection was at an end. "I just didn't know what else—"
"Nonsense. We've plenty of room for him, you know that, and I wouldn't mind the company or the help; got enough chores to do around here," Lydia said as she helped the boy out of Liv's dirty and wet robe, the clothes beneath mostly dry, then guided him to the long table in front of the hearth. "Besides, I adore children; I'd like to have a few of my own someday." She looked pointedly at Leif, who found his armored boots of sudden fascination.
Miraak sensed some measure of shame in the man. Apparently he was failing his duties as a husband to follow his sister around, and knew it.
"Actually," Liv said with serious tones. "I was thinking it would be best if you and the boy stayed somewhere else for a while."
Leif raised his eyes to his sister, looking surprised. Then his gaze shot to his wife. "You know, that's not a bad idea, especially now. Better safe than sorry."
Lydia had paused in the midst of scooping porridge from the pot over the fire into a bowl for Alesan, frowning at the siblings. "Especially now?"
"Well, I did manage to piss off Hermaeus Mora when I set him loose." Liv jerked a thumb in Miraak's direction. "Mora might seek revenge on me or he might force me to finish the job and accept the dubious honor of becoming his next champion. Probably both. I'd like to think he'll come right for me and leave you alone, but Daedric Princes are unpredictable at the best of times. Better not take any chances." She made a disgusted face. "I should have thought of having you leave before, but—"
"No. If anyone should've thought of it, it's me," Leif corrected, shaking his head, frowning. "Some husband I'm turning out to be."
"If I thought you were an inadequate husband, I'd have our marriage annulled," Lydia said with a playful grin. Then she was serious again. "You've had your minds on other matters, having to deal with that—" she waved a hand vaguely at Miraak, who was growing increasingly irritated at being referred to as 'it' and 'that', "—and now this thing with the missing people. Perfectly understandable, so stop beating yourselves up."
"Safeguarding the people we care about should be our first priority," Liv insisted. "Failure in doing that is inexcusable."
"And yet I'm excusing you," Lydia replied stubbornly. "Look, the important thing is that you thought of it now, while there's still time to take action. So let's focus on where the boy and I are to go. What place is safe from a Daedric Prince?"
"It's really his minions, whoever he charges with exacting his revenge, that I'm more concerned with," the Dragonborn said. "Mora can only physically manifest from one of his Black Books, and only partially. So as long as you're nowhere near one of those, he can't touch you. But it's anyone's guess who his minions are, how many there are, or when they'll strike."
Lydia made a face like she'd just cut open an apple only to find it full of worms. "Unknowable enemies—one of the worst and most dangerous kinds."
"I thought about it on the way here, where you should go," Liv went on. "The College. You would be surrounded by a formidable force of master mages, some of the most powerful in Tamriel."
"More powerful than the Voice of the Greybeards?" Lydia questioned, raising a brow.
"Greybeards aren't an option; they prefer their reclusive life of peace and Shouting at the sky. They won't welcome potential trouble on their monastery steps, especially when it involves a Daedric Prince. It was hard enough getting them to help with Alduin and hold the peace talks with Tullius and Stormcloak. More often than not, though, the College mages welcome trouble with open arms, just for the chance to challenge themselves and put their magic to good use. And most are close friends. They'll be willing to help."
"But can they really be trusted? No offense, but mages tend to be more likely to consort with Daedra than anyone else."
"They can be trusted," Liv assured with strong conviction. "With the exceptions of Brelyna and Drevis, who both worship the Good Daedra, it's highly unlikely any of them have come in contact with any Princes, as they rarely leave the College grounds. And even if there was any forbidden consorting going on, Tolfdir would sniff it out and deal with it accordingly. As Master Wizard, he makes it his business to know what's going on with the instructors and students, to ensure they're not breaking any rules."
"Will they be okay with it?" Leif asked. "I mean, assuming you're going to tell them the whole story. Will they agree to help, knowing you consorted with one of the more dubious Daedric Princes?"
Liv released a brief, humorless laugh. "Honestly, I'm not sure if they'd even believe it. 'Pissed off Hermaeus Mora by freeing his wayward champion from Apocrypha, at the request of a god in a dream-vision. Oh, and did I mention his champion is a four thousand-year-old Dragon Priest who also happens to be the First Dragonborn?' If I hadn't lived it and someone told me that story, I'd accuse them of being drunk and insane."
"Nonetheless, if you're asking them to help, to risk their lives, you owe them the truth," Leif said.
Liv sighed gustily and nodded. "I know it, but I don't have the time to sit down and explain it all. For the time being, all I can offer is a measure of the truth, and it's a terrible way to ask for such a favor, but it'll have to be done by letter." She looked at her brother with a rueful but firm expression. "You can take it to Tolfdir when you leave for the College with Lydia and Alesan."
Miraak wasn't certain who was more surprised by that, himself or her sibling.
"Wait—what?" Leif demanded, frowning deeply. "What do you mean?"
Liv breathed out another sigh and held her brother's gaze. "Before, you said you couldn't follow me in this, you couldn't trust Miraak, wouldn't take the risk. And I shouldn't ask you to. It's not right, it's not fair. You've stood by me my entire life, put yourself in constant danger for me; you've done more than enough. It's time you did something for yourself. It's time you stood aside."
Leif's face twisted through a range of emotions, from surprise and disbelief to concern and anger. "I thought we'd established that there was no other choice but to try to work together against the greater enemy?"
"There's always a choice, Leif. You don't have to be involved in this and I'm not going to ask you to. You should go with Lydia and Alesan."
"Where is this coming from? Why now?" Leif's green eyes widened, as if the answer had suddenly slapped him in the face. He whipped around on Miraak, baring his teeth. "You. What the fuck did you say to her?!"
"Nothing," Liv snapped before Miraak got the chance to do it himself. "As if he could sway me even if he had said something. Just what do you take me for? Some gullible, empty-headed nit who can't possibly think for herself?"
Leif winced. "I wasn't implying—"
"That's exactly what you were implying," she spat. "It's what you're always implying when I do or say something you don't agree with. And frankly, I'm sick of it. It's not his fault, it's mine. I've changed my mind, and I'm free to do so without being accused of having someone else change it for me."
Silence followed this. A heavy, awkward silence in which the Dragonborn scowled at her brother, her brother scowled at a wall, unable to meet her gaze, and Lydia stared between them, frowning.
Leif finally looked at his sister, brows furrowed, lips turned down. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to offend you. It's just… I don't understand. What happened to make you suddenly want me to stay behind? We've always been a team, ever since we were children. I've always looked out for you; I'm supposed to, I'm your brother."
The Dragonborn's eyes were cold, like chips of glacial ice. "Well, I'm relieving you of that obligation. In case you've failed to notice, I'm an adult now, and the Dragonborn besides; I don't need you to hold my hand or protect me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Perhaps you should devote your time to your wife, seeing as how you've clearly been failing in that. Haven't you neglected her and your responsibilities as a husband for long enough?"
That certainly struck some nerves, no doubt as Liv had intended. If she could hurt Leif, make him resent her, then suddenly the idea of staying behind didn't look so bad to him. It was an obvious ploy to protect him, but Miraak seemed to be the only one to catch on. He could have laughed. Leif was so worried about him manipulating Liv that he couldn't see Liv manipulating him.
"How can you say that?" Lydia demanded, frowning. "It's a load of horseshit."
Liv scoffed. "Is it? How much time has he spent here with you since you've been married? A couple weeks? You've admitted you want to start a family, but that'll never happen if he's never here. Are you okay with him constantly ignoring your wants and needs, shirking his duty to you to fulfill some duty he thinks he has to me, a duty he already fulfilled several times over? Do you think it's okay that he puts me before you, after he stood before Mara and promised to honor and protect you, to love and cherish you, now and forever? Now and forever—not tomorrow, not months down the line, not when he's performed his 'brotherly' duty to me. Now. But all he's done is neglect you. That's not okay, Lydia."
Leif and Lydia stared at her wordlessly with expressions of disgust and surprise and anger, as if Liv was an offensive stranger who'd come into their home without invitation and started breaking things.
"Sometimes, Liv," Leif said quietly after a moment, looking wounded and shamed now as well as angry and disgusted, "you can be a real fucking arsehole." Then he stormed from the room, armored boots clunking loudly on the floor. A moment later, there was the sound of a door slamming shut somewhere, followed by a string of muted expletives.
Lydia stared at the Dragonborn with something between revulsion and disappointment. "It's only neglect if I feel neglected, and I don't. You're his only kin, his blood; he's always going to feel he has a duty to look after you, no matter if he's already fulfilled it. I don't think it's wrong. I don't resent him for it. I understand it, and I love him all the more for it. How dare you."
"Might be you're too understanding."
Lydia frowned. "And when did you become so cruel? How could you hurt him like that, after all he's done for you?"
"There are bigger things to worry about than his hurt feelings," Liv said, hiding her own hurt behind a wall of indifference. "He'll get over it. I'm going to write that letter to Tolfdir now, then gather up some provisions. You should do the same; make sure you have enough supplies for all three of you, a couple week's worth at least. If it should be more than a few weeks, the College can provide what you need for a few more."
"As you say, my Thane," Lydia replied with cold formality, then stomped past Liv and made for the kitchen.
The Dragonborn sighed when she was gone, her shoulders slumping. She started up the stairs, presumably to get busy on that letter, but paused halfway up as if she'd just remembered something. She looked down over the banister at Miraak. "It'll probably be an hour yet before we leave, so might as well make yourself at home. Just mind you don't touch anything that looks valuable or important. You'll get a painful surprise, if you do." Then she disappeared up the stairs, leaving him alone with the boy.
While Alesan sat at the table, shoveling porridge in his mouth with a spoon, Miraak decided he might as well have a look around. A person's home usually spoke some words of who they were, so perhaps he might learn something useful about the Dragonborn. So far, she was turning out to be a bit more complex than he had anticipated. Her behavior was often inconsistent, and therefore unpredictable; utterly foolish at times, but also keenly insightful; quick to laughter, but just as quick to fury; merciful and merciless, kind and cruel, hard and soft. There was no real in-between with her, no subtlety; a whirlwind of change that did what she wanted when she wanted, with no forethought. Possibly a touch insane. Definitely frustrating.
The house was spacious and spoke humbly of affluence. There were four wings, all of them furnished in the traditional Nord style of practicality; solid, reliable wood, carved with Nordic swirl design, with padded surfaces stuffed just enough for comfort. There were some diverse cultural touches here and there; lush Khajiiti tapestries and bright banners in the Dunmer style hanging on the walls, rugs woven in the earthy colors and exotic patterns of Hammerfell covering the floors, bronze-banded Dwemer urns and graceful gilded vases in the Altmer's arabesque motif sitting on tables and shelves.
The east wing held the sleeping quarters, two large bedrooms and two smaller ones, what Miraak surmised were guest rooms. It was plain which one was Liv's; one of the large rooms was full of only feminine things, dresses and dainty undergarments (the latter of which he could've done without seeing) strewn across the floor and unmade bed, one dresser cluttered with perfume bottles, combs, hair accessories and jewelry, another with drawers half-opened, drooling with more clothes. Somehow, he wasn't surprised it was a sty; it certainly spoke to her untame personality.
Another, smaller room was attached to the bedroom, and inside he found the Dragonborn sitting at a desk, her back to him, writing her letter by lantern light; her study, apparently, and just as messy as her bedroom. The desk, floor and wall shelves were cluttered with books, whole sheets and crumpled balls of parchment, bits of charcoal worn down to nubs, ink-stained quills and empty, overturned inkpots, worn maps and tattered scrolls.
Either she didn't sense his presence there or she decided not to knowledge it. Whatever the case, he was glad; he didn't want to have to explain what he was doing in her private quarters.
The west wing was perhaps the most interesting. He spent a good deal of time there, browsing the rooms dedicated to the study and use of alchemy and enchanting, and the library tower with its shelves upon shelves overflowing with books, and more on the floor, stacked in towers that were almost as tall as he was; everything from astronomy to zoology, and some even written in different languages. It was nowhere near as impressive as Apocrypha's collection of tomes, but not bad by mortal standards.
Finally, he moved on the north wing, where the Dragonborn kept her famous 'collection room'. Miraak would have thought a room full of treasure and artifacts would be kept under lock and key and ward, but the doors stood wide open. Perhaps the housecarl had been doing a bit of cleaning or organizing in there, and forgot to lock up afterward.
Miraak froze when he stepped past the threshold, finding himself looking at a few familiar 'faces' hanging on the back wall; Dragon Priest masks, nine of them, all but the ones of Solstheim. But if she had these she likely had the others as well. Probably at her dwelling in Raven Rock, and he just hadn't noticed them; it had been chaotic as her bedroom, after all.
"Visiting your friends?" a voice spoke behind him.
Miraak jerked around to find the Dragonborn standing there. At some point she'd changed into a fresh mage robe of pale green with darker green accents, and yet again, but like a punch in the gut this time, he was reminded of how inconveniently attractive his nemesis was. Green was certainly her color. The fabric flickered with the telltale glowing runes of enchantment, which boosted her magicka and made Destruction spells easier to cast, if he recalled the symbols correctly. In her hands she held a long and skinny cloth-wrapped bundle.
"They were never my friends," he said with a grimace. "Why do you have them? I presume you would never willingly use them."
"A correct presumption."
"Then why?"
Liv shrugged, her gaze focusing beyond him, on the iron faces that stared back indifferently from the wall. "As a pleasant reminder; after all, the only good Dragon Priest is a permanently dead one." Her eyes flicked back to him and she smiled coldly. "With the exception of you, of course."
Miraak pulled a face at the blatant sarcasm in that latter remark, but otherwise said nothing.
Cold smile still in place, the Dragonborn stepped forward and held out the linen-wrapped bundle on the palms of her hands. "Here, you're going to need this."
Suspicious, Miraak made no move to take it. "What is it?"
"A better weapon than that gladius." She moved a step closer, urging the object on him. "Go on, before I change my mind."
Miraak narrowed his eyes, still uncertain, though he sensed no deception. Eventually, he reached out and took the thing from her, unwinding the cloth around it, revealing a scabbard of ebony chased through with quicksilver. A worn sword belt of dark leather was twined around its length. The protruding hilt and crosspiece of the weapon were made of dark steel, etched with Nordic swirls, and the pommel was a faceted egg of stalhrim.
The Dragonborn took the cloth from him and stepped away, giving him room. Miraak cleared the weapon from its sheath and gazed with some surprise upon a blade of pure stalhrim, rare as a blue moon. Runes of enchantment, shimmering with a faint mix of white and red energy, flickered on its glacial-blue surface.
"Enchanted with frost magic and a boost for more efficient handling," the Dragonborn said. "It's called Frostbite."
"Appropriate," he grunted, and then held the sword out and flicked it about, testing its weight and balance. It felt right, perfect, almost as if it had been molded for his hand alone. Miraak lowered the blade and looked at her. "Why? I thought you were adamant that I earn it?"
"Oh, I was. I abhor the idea of just handing you a weapon, let alone a good one, when you're less than deserving, but something told me I should."
He frowned, not understanding. "Something...?"
"Call it a gut feeling," she said, shrugging. "Maybe this is a mistake, maybe it isn't; only time will tell. All I know is, I made the mistake of not listening to my gut before and…well, suffice it to say, it was a hard lesson to learn. And besides, you're going to need it, like I said. Blackreach doesn't fool around, and neither does Hermaeus Mora."
"Your brother approved of this?"
Her face hardened. "I don't need his approval, or anyone else's. Only my own." She gestured to the scabbard in his other hand. "Better see if that sword belt fits. It's one of Leif's old ones, and the longest I could find, but maybe you can squeeze in to it."
Miraak did, and managed to have a bit of slack left on the belt once he'd knotted it. The weapon was a solid, cold weight at his left hip, a bit heavier than the gladius had been but a better sword by far. He wasn't sure if he should feel grateful or not; after all, she was the one who had taken away his weapons to begin with. Although, I might have done the same in her position.
"No need to thank me," she said, almost as if she had heard his thoughts.
"I did not intend to," Miraak replied gruffly. He saw a corner of her mouth twitch with amusement and scowled. "Is that all? Are we prepared to leave now?"
"Aye. Let's go."
The supplies the Dragonborn had put together for them were waiting by the front door. She had managed to fit it all into only four travel packs, which was surprisingly efficient of her. They carried two a piece, and while Liv struggled a bit with the weight of hers, Miraak hardly even noticed his own. He could have carried hers too with no trouble, but he'd sooner dunk his head in boiling oil.
"Lydia!" Liv called loudly. "We're leaving!"
The housecarl appeared from the kitchen, wearing a sour expression and carrying a bulging knapsack, which she dumped on the dining table with a thump. "Leif is in the cellar, taking his anger out on the practice dummies, in case you were wondering. You know how stubborn he gets when he's mad; he won't come out, so you need to go to him. I mean, the least you could do is tell him you're leaving, or apologize for the cruel things you said."
"I can't help it if the truth isn't always kind," Liv replied sternly. "He belongs here with you, and I'll manage to get along fine without him. It's probably best we don't speak, as he'll just try to change my mind and I'm not changing it, nor do I have the time to continue arguing about it." She reached inside a pocket of her robe and pulled out a small roll of parchment and an iron key engraved with an eye, holding them out to Lydia. "Give the letter to Tolfdir. The key is for you; it opens the Archmage's quarters, where I've told him you are to stay."
Lydia snatched the things from her with a surly "Fine."
Miraak shook his head disapprovingly. Why the Dragonborn didn't have that woman flogged within an inch of her life for her blatant impertinence he would never understand.
"Well. Guess we'll be off then." Liv adjusted her packs and turned toward the door. "Stay safe," she added softly.
"Aye...you too," Lydia said, her tone also a shade softer. Then she glared poison-laced daggers at Miraak. "You lay a finger on her and I'll send you back to Oblivion myself. In pieces."
Miraak didn't bother returning her threat; that he could drop her dead before she even drew a weapon on him went without saying. He followed the Dragonborn out of the house, leaving the door open behind him. Not ten seconds later, Lydia swore at him and slammed the door shut with a solid bang.
When the stone, bronze-topped Dwarven towers came into view and the Dragonborn announced they had arrived at Alftand, Miraak was overtaken by a flood of relief. She had insisted they ride Arvak, that strange half-skeletal, cobalt-blue steed of hers with its mane and tail of harmless blue fire, to cut a two hour trip down to one hour, but that hour had been spent in discomfort pressed against the Dragonborn's back with his arm looped reluctantly about her middle to keep from sliding off the horse, a proximity he found difficult, if not impossible, to ignore. Never mind his aching nether regions; riding bareback on a skeletal horse was about as comfortable as sitting and bouncing on a pile of rocks. His stones and arse were probably black and blue.
When Liv nudged Arvak to a halt near one of the Dwemer towers, Miraak couldn't dismount fast enough, stifling a groan and an urge to rub the pain from his backside. Liv followed suit, appearing as though she had not shared in the same discomfort as he. Perhaps she'd grown used to it.
With a wave of her hand Arvak was swallowed up by a dark purple vortex, returned to whatever plane of Oblivion the creature had come from. Then she and Miraak trudged through the snow toward the tower, an unsightly column of stone and Dwarven metal rising from the top ridge of a massive glacier, where within Alftand had been built. Near the edge of the ridge sat a ramshackle building of wood planks, and a wooden ramp had at some point been built to give access to the tower, which was barred by copper-bronze gates.
The Dragonborn stood at the foot of the ramp, hands on her hips, frowning up at the tower. "Well, I can definitely confirm someone has been here. Last time Leif and I were here, I left those damn gates open." She sighed, rubbed at her forehead. "I was hoping to use the lift to save us having to go the long way into Blackreach, but I don't think it's possible to open the gates from the outside."
"I recall you using a Word of Power—bex—to open a door," Miraak said. Admittedly, he was not familiar with bex ever being used as a Shout, and was certain she'd learned it from the Greybeards, rather than a Word Wall.
Liv shook her head. "These gates aren't gates in the traditional sense; they're operated by machinery, are more or less contraptions. You can open a door, but you can't open a contraption. Bex, as it's understood, won't work in this case."
Miraak couldn't argue with the logic, as it actually made sense. He was, however, irked at being schooled in the Thu'um by a novice. "Then our only option is to take the long route. Where is the way in?"
Liv didn't answer. She stood there staring up at the closed gates for a moment, pinching at her chin thoughtfully. Then she started up the ramp toward the gates. "I have another idea that might work."
Miraak sighed and followed. "Would you care to explain this idea, or shall I guess?"
"There's a lever inside the lift that opens the gate. Might be I can pull it with a bit of Telekinesis."
Liv pressed close to the bronzed gates, craning her head to the left to peer inside. She lifted a hand, the familiar reddish orange energy of the spell beginning to glow inside her palm, ribbons of it swirling up around her fingers. There was a quiet pause, the only sound the wind howling. Then she curled her fingers into a fist and slowly pulled her hand down, the magic around it swelling for a moment.
There was a soft rumble and a loud clank, and then Liv stepped back as the gates swung open, beaming with pride. "Success!"
Miraak was just stepping onto the lift as the Dragonborn was stepping away from it, heading back down the ramp. "Where are you going?" he demanded impatiently.
"I just saved us a few hours' trek through the belly of Alftand, so I'm going to take the opportunity for a quick breakfast," she said, stopping to look back at him. "People can only live so long without food, and it's been two days since I've had a proper meal. I imagine it's been significantly longer for you, so I would suggest you also take the opportunity."
Significantly longer was an understatement. Miraak could hardly even remember what any food tasted like. But he couldn't deny his hunger. His stomach had been little more than a quiet, empty void in Apocrypha, but now that vacant space was filled by a ravenous wolf that had been growling since Windhelm.
"Very well," he said, trying not to sound too eager, as he started down the ramp. "As long as it's quick."
They took shelter from the wind and snow in the ramshackle building. Liv tossed her travel pack onto a rickety table and began rummaging through it.
"How do you feel about porridge? I took some from the pot when Lydia wasn't looking. Just needs to be heated up."
Miraak made a face as he sat cautiously on a crate pushed into the corner by the door, glad it held his weight. "It will suffice." He'd never cared for porridge, but he doubted the woman had a nice, thick venison steak paired with roasted potatoes stashed away in her pack.
He watched her pull a medium-sized clay jar from her pack, along with two small wooden bowls and matching spoons. Once the porridge had been slopped into the bowls, Liv held one on the palm of her hand, which began to glow like embers in a hearth. She stirred the bowl's contents with the spoon, and steam soon began to curl up from it.
Miraak shook his head slowly. "You seem to have a gift for finding unorthodox uses for magic, Dragonborn."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"And yet that's how I'm taking it." She stabbed the spoon into the porridge, then thrust the bowl out to him. "Eat."
For once, Miraak obeyed without question. Despite the porridge's unappealing resemblance to sabre cat vomit, it tasted divine, even without the honey and cinnamon he would've normally drenched it in to make it more palatable. Then again, dirt probably would've tasted like heaven after four millennia without food. It was gone before he knew it, sitting comfortably warm in his belly.
Once the Dragonborn finished her own breakfast, she scooped snow from outside into the bowls and melted it with fire magic. When the bowls were clean, she packed them away and shouldered her knapsack.
"Ready?"
Miraak nodded and ducked through the doorway, Liv following him out.
The snowstorm had worsened over the course of breakfast, the world veiled in windswept snow. Only the lift tower and the ramp leading up to it were visible through the white-out.
As they started up the ramp, a sound suddenly came down to them from above, a distinguishable roar that reverberated around the mountainside.
Miraak froze mid-step, heart thumping, hand instinctively reaching for the stalhrim blade at his hip. I know that roar. Odahviing.
And apparently he wasn't the only one to recognize it. A small hand touched his sword arm, and then the Dragonborn said, "Easy. He's a friend."
Friend? Miraak tried to burn holes into the side of her face with the power of his disapproving glare. It didn't work.
A massive winged shape emerged through the snow and landed with a heavy thud at the apex on the lift tower. "Tahrodiis Miraak," the black-eyed, red-scaled dragon snarled. "Hi mey wah daal. You should not have come back."
The Dragonborn stepped forward, intending to put herself between Odahviing and Miraak, but Miraak wasn't having it. He snatched the back of her robe and yanked, making her stumble back to his side. He didn't want and certainly didn't need her trying to defend him.
"It's by Akatosh's will that he's here," she said, a challenge in her voice, as she jabbed him rudely with her elbow. "No matter how tempting it is, it wouldn't be wise to bite his head off, assuming that's why you're here."
Odahviing looked disbelieving, or as disbelieving as any dragon could look. "I do not see the humor in the jest, Dovahkiin."
"No jest. Akatosh willed it and I was the instrument that carried out His will; He bestowed me a Shout to free him from Apocrypha. For whatever reason, Akatosh is giving him a second chance."
Odahviing rumbled with astonishment. "Hahdrimme do rahhe los vomindok. Truly, it is impossible to understand the will of the gods." He stretched back his maw, displaying his deadly sharp set of teeth. "Krosis. I would have enjoyed killing you, Miraak, but…zu'u nid vothaarn. I will not defy Akatosh's will."
Liv nodded her approval. "Onik. Certainly wiser than your former master."
"But beware, Dovahkiin," Odahviing said severely. "The dov have felt Miraak's return, and many are…rahgron, bahlok fah nahkriin. They are angry, and seek vengeance for his betrayal. They gather as we speak, at Skuldafn."
"Fantastic," Liv sighed with much irritation. "Just what I need, an army of pissed off, revenge-seeking dragons. As if I don't already have enough on my plate to deal with."
"Who leads them?" Miraak demanded.
Odahviing glared down his snout at him. "I do not answer to you, tahrodiis lir."
"But you answer to me," the Dragonborn said. "And I'm curious."
"They have no master yet, Dovahkiin, but it is only a matter of time."
"Then I want you to deliver them a message from me," Liv said, iron in her voice. "Tell them the Last stands with the First, by the will of Akatosh. So they can either stand down and go about their lives or face us and be devoured."
"Such a grievous offense is not easily forgotten, nor is the wrath of a dovah easily extinguished. I fear they are beyond listening, Dovahkiin."
The woman straightened her back, stood a little taller, a little prouder. "Let them know, all the same. It's the only chance I'm giving them. If they persist, so be it. They know how to find us."
Translations:
Tahrodiis - Treacherous.
Hi mey wah daal - You (were) foolish to return.
Hahdrimme do rahhe los vomindok - (The) minds of (the) gods are unknowable.
Krosis - Sorrow/Unfortunate (in this context, it's an expression of great disappointment rather than regret).
Zu'u nid vothaarn - I won't disobey.
Onik - Wise.
Rahgron, bahlok fah nahkriin - angry, hungry for vengeance.
Tahrodiis lir - Treacherous worm.