The Mother always said her face was too pretty to mar.
Too pretty to mar and scar the only thing good about her.
So she settled for her wrists.
She could hide them, after all.
Hide the scabs and scars with bracelets and long sleeves and body paint.
Hide the evidence of her self inflicted wounds governed by hate.
Ikaara was at war with her own body.
She hated it.
She hated her skin.
She hated her womb.
She hated her mind.
She hated her heart.
She hated everything.
Ikaara hated her skin. At times, she felt restless, unnerved and anxious. Confined. As if her own skin was a cage or confining blanket. Like she was trapped underneath and suffocating under a pile of filth. At times, watching the crimson lazily roll down her wrist from the pulsing and stinging cut calmed her. At least a part of her was escaping the disgusting confines of her flesh. Many said she was pretty. But Ikaara didn't feel pretty. She felt tainted, filthy, used. Soap and water couldn't make her feel clean. It made her look clean, but not feel it.
Ikaara hated her womb. The womb was supposed to be a sacred place. A safe place. The first home to new life. Her womb seemed more like a tomb, and her children destined for death. Her firstborn died within the very temple that was supposed to be her sanctuary. Ikaara's first labor did not end with the cries of a newborn babe, but rather, with silence, chord wrapped like a noose.
Ikaara spent most of her pregnancy with Kulsuleyk in a nervous fret. Her anxiety of her womb serving as another tomb caused bouts of sickness. She obssessed over the condition of her child. If she did not feel the fluttering of the babe moving within her belly, she would become anxious and worried.
The birth of her son may have calmed her fears, but it ushered forth a whole new feeling. Something went wrong when Kulsuleyk was in her womb. Her womb didn't nurture him right. The son of Miraak should be powerful, gifted, fearless-a natural born leader. Kulsuleyk was neither of these things. Her son was too soft of heart, meek and lacking confidence. Her son was a living disgrace to his father's prowess, and the failure of a male heir left Ikaara with a bitter taste in her mouth. It was not Kulsuleyk's fault. No. Never. Ikaara just could not bare powerful male heirs. Her womb was broken.
Ikaara loved Kulsuleyk. She would do anything for her boy. Support him in the best way she could. But that bitter taste was always there in her mouth. A silent reminder of what she truly thought. She was dissapointed of her son. He could be better. Stronger. Unchallenged in skill and power. But rather than focusing upon his nature, he was being a servant of the people.
Ignoring his skills. Remaining weak. Easy prey for wolves, her son like a lamb for slaughter.
Ikaara didn't want her son to be weak.
She didn't want him to get hurt.
She didn't want him to die.
But she also wanted her boy to be happy.
He was not happy training and learning the tactics of politics and war.
He was happy helping others, no matter how small.
Ikaara did her best to support her son.
Her supporting him, however, felt like she was killing him.
Failing him.
Failing to prepare her son for the cruelty of the world.
It felt like she was setting him up to die.
Ikaara hated her womb, but she also hated her mind.
Because Kulsuleyk inherited everything from her that made him weak.
And Ikaara just couldn't bring herself to do the best thing for her son, and go against her own weakness of the mind.
But Ikaara hated her mind the most for convincing herself, over and over and over again, that Miraak cared.
Actually cared.
About her.
About Kulsuleyk.
About their daughter.
It was a lie she told herself everyday.
It was a lie she forced herself into believing.
A lie she forced herself, at the same time, to not think about it.
As if to pretend the lie, and thus, her harsh reality, did not exist.
For Miraak had to care, did he not?
Care for the woman who bore him two heirs?
Care for Kulsuleyk because the boy was his son?
Care for their daughter because the infant was his daughter, and not just his true heir?
Surley he did, at least a little bit?
Many a time did Ikaara almost refer to The First Dragonborn as her husband-
-as her lover.
Many a time did Ikaara have to bite her tongue, and refer to the First Dragonborn as her Thur-
-as her Master.
And once more, like before, she was reminded of the bitter truth of her lie-of her fantasy.
Miraak never once referred to her as his wife-for they were certainly not married-nor,
-as his lover.
Miraak would simply refer to Ikaara by her name, or even worse, Dragon Knight-
-his Dragon Knight.
A tool.
A pawn.
A toy to use until all usefulness was spent and she was tossed aside.
A mere object to be used.
But certainly, he loved her, didn't he?
Somewhere, deep down. Deep, deep down?
He had to love her.
Certainly not as much as she loved him, but to love her, all the same.
He would not waste his time with her if he did not.
Would not have accepted her past had he not-seen passed the horrid creature of bodily filth that she was.
Ruined and used, a mere toy cast aside and forgotten.
Surly, he would not have chosen a woman of ill repute to sire his children, if he did not love her.
Miraak had to care.
Had to love her.
Deep, deep down.
There was no other reason he would accept her so.
Forgive her, for producing him such a disgrace as Kulsuleyk.
Forgive her, for producing him an heir with all her faults.
Forgive her, for merely having such weaknesses.
He loved her.
But she knew better.
It was just a lie.
Because Miraak didn't love her.
He didn't even care.
And knowing that ugly, horrid truth broke her heart, and shattered it.
It made Ikaara wish her heart would just stop beating.
Sometimes, when Ikaara let the truth in, she could feel it.
Her heart felt heavy, and she could feel each beat pulsing through her.
Her heart felt tired of simply beating.
Sometimes she wished it would just stop.
But when she let the lie in, and pretend everything was fine, she couldn't feel it.
Ikaara would rather live of a fantasy than the brutal reality.
Pretend to have a family, and not a broken, ruined one that was never truly a family to begin with.
But believing in the lie was tiring as well, in a different sense.
She felt ever fatigued and winded, trying to break and mold herself to keep her broken family together.
She tried to be the glue to tighten the cracks between her family, tried to bring them together, and keep them together.
Ikaara was just breaking herself instead.
Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never love her as she wanted.
Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never accept Kulsuleyk for being weak.
Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never love Alura just for being his daughter.
No.
Ikaara's fantasy would never be her reality.
But if her reality is too difficult to face, why keep living in the lie?
Ikaara hated her heart.
She hated it more than her mind, more than her skin, and more than her womb.
She hated her heart, because it was too soft, too meek-
-And defied her mind.
The only thing Ikaara loved more than her children-was Miraak.
And the woman could not tell you a single reason as to why.
She just did.
It was a fragile, accepting, and gentle affection from the heart.
Devoted, non judgemental, and unwavering in support.
But Ikaara did not know why she cared for The First Dragonborn.
She could not find a single desirable trait about him.
Miraak was cruel.
Miraak was calloused.
Miraak was sadistic.
Miraak was arrogant.
Miraak was petty.
And yet-she loved him.
Devoted herself to him.
Swore her loyalty to him.
Bore his children for him.
She did so much for him.
All out of love.
All out of love for a fantasy that would never exist.
All out of love for a family that never existed.
Ikaara knew what to do.
She knew she should leave.
She knew she should restart her life.
Restart it with her true family-her children.
But her heart kept her from leaving-too soft, too meek, too fragile.
She knew her weakness well.
It was the same weakness that was in Kulsuleyk.
Ikaara didn't want her son to be like her.
So she tried, if ever halfheartedly, to make her son strong, so he would not be weak.
Not like his mother.
She tried to make him everything she was not-just like his father.
But that desire, in and of itself, was just anther fantasy.
And that knowledge would become just another scar upon her wrist to hide, crimson seeping from a heart too tired to beat.