It was not the first execution-turned-show, not of the evening, not of the rebellion, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. The grimace refused to leave his face as he watched the beast's claws tear through flesh as though it were linen. In his periphery, he saw Vahlok leaning forward; Miraak ignored what he thought was a smile on his lover's face.
"Some traditions cannot be forgone," Zahkriisos remarked from his other side, placing his hand on the armrest of Miraak's seat. "Some sense of familiarity provides stability."
Miraak looked to his fellow priest, admiring the deep-set lines marring his face, marking a lifetime of suffered cruelty and a wealth of experience and wisdom. He respected Zahkriisos and was immeasurably grateful for his support, but that respect didn't blind him to his own misgivings.
"I trust your judgment," Miraak said, unwilling to force his expression to match his words. "I simply find this spectacle… tasteless."
His partner patted his forearm, as though it would suddenly bring Miraak the same pleasure it provided Vahlok.
Zahkriisos's hand returned to his own lap. "I understand," he replied. "But controlled violence, such as this, not only establishes our unwavering resolve in not tolerating the oppression of the dragons and those who seek to return us to their clutches," he explained, pausing as a crackling cough shook through his body, "it also ensures our people are no stranger to brutality. Not all under the dragons' rule encountered the cruelty those of us here have faced."
Holding up a hand, Miraak sighed. "Spare me your lectures, Zahkriisos. I have already stated I would trust your judgment in this matter." His next words were given with a smile. "Even if I am not pleased about it."
"I find it a fitting end to those who denied our call," Ahzidal said. Her coiled hair bounced as she approached them, the early onslaught of gray coating each strand, contrasting her hardened yet youthful features. "Traitors to their own kind," she spat, her words punctuated with an aggressive plop into one of the seats in front of Miraak.
"Not to mention the sheer invigoration," Vahlok added. "Look beyond yourself, Miraak. To even speak to one another, we must practically shout. Their cheers are nearly vibrating the very stone." He looked at Miraak, sliding his hand to Miraak's and giving it a squeeze. "Have you ever seen your people so enlivened?"
"Only after Ahzidal has given one of her rather uplifting speeches prior to battle," Miraak replied, smiling, though it fell short of meeting his eyes.
Dukaan followed behind, taking the seat beside Ahzidal. "While I agree they deserve no clemency," she began, "I admit a dislike of this use of the arena. But perhaps that is merely my own bias tainting my view."
Miraak rested his elbow on his armrest, holding his head in his hand, pressing his fingers gently into his temple to combat his growing headache. He agreed with Dukaan; the arena had once been viewed as a chance for honor and praise, and now it was purely a pit to demonstrate their rebellion's power and eagerness for blood. Of course, the dragons had also used it for executions, giving those sentenced to death a chance to provide some entertainment and extend their life for as long as they could fend off whatever was thrown into the arena with them, but Miraak hadn't taken issue with that. What unsettled him was this former symbol of honor and second chances being used for prisoners of war, weakened mortals who should have died on the battlefield.
"I sometimes find myself missing my days in the arena," Dukaan muttered, just loud enough for Miraak to catch the longing in her voice.
"You had truly been a marvel to observe," Vahlok said. "A shame you no longer partake."
"Oh, what dreams we entertain," she remarked, waving her hand dismissively. "I fear I may have grown inept in my time outside of the arena. It would be foolhardy-I simply could not risk leaving you all devoid of my presence."
Dukaan had been a paragon in the pit, defeating everything and everyone who dared to face her. Her victories and resulting laurels eventually led to her induction into the priesthood. This caused a rift between her and her fellow martialists, many assuming she believed herself to be of a higher standing, the arena no longer worthy of her. They called her Dukaan: "dishonor"; she shed her bestowed priest name in favor of the taunt, claiming it as a badge of pride.
The crowd erupted, and Miraak's attention returned to the pit; clouds of dirt had been kicked up into the air, but it wasn't thick enough to hide the pools of vermillion coating the ground. The man below let out a piercing scream that soon became swallowed into the sabre cat's mouth as its teeth clamped down on his skull. With a jerk, the man was silenced entirely save for the crunch of shattering bones.
Like a ragdoll, his body flopped with every twist of the cat's head, until its teeth tore through the skin and everything suddenly detached. Sprays of blood split through the dust and onto the beast's fur; the body landed and rolled several times before stopping, blood still spilling from the exposed artery.
A few screams sounded from the stadium at the gruesome display, but those sitting around Miraak remained unbothered. Vahlok seemed overtly enthused, nearly at the edge of his seat as the cat feasted on its defeated prey. It perturbed Miraak; had this been a criminal sentenced to death or a martialist voluntarily setting foot in the arena for glory, he would have understood the excitement, but they were at war, the man had been a soldier-he should have died a soldier's death.
Zahkriisos sighed. "For some, such macabre sights never become easier to bear."
With a shrug, Ahzidal replied, "Weak stomachs make for weak soldiers. Perhaps we should be incorporating the most gruesome executions into our battalion's drills. Cull those who would be a liability."
Miraak again rubbed his temple.
"I had specified 'some,'" Zahkriisos retorted. "Surely eliminating those who are unable to suppress their urge to retch after viewing such a thing a single time would leave you dwindling in numbers." He tsked a few times. "Not all have a stomach lined with iron, such as yourself, dear Ahzidal."
As the sabre cat continued devouring its feast, a line of shield-wielding soldiers worked to corner the beast and draw it back into the cage it'd been let out of. After the arena was cleared, another barred gate opened, and a bound man was dragged out to the center.
"Vaazrath," Ahzidal said, the disdain evident in her tone.
Miraak felt Vahlok shift beside him, but his attention remained on the man below: he was Ahzidal's former acolyte, and Miraak had suspected the two were closer than would appear at first glance. Rather than follow Ahzidal, however, Vaazrath turned on her, reporting her treachery and forcing her to flee to Miraak's temple for sanctuary.
His gaze drifted to Ahzidal; he'd wanted to be steadfast in their mission to eradicate any who remained loyal to the dragons, but he questioned the potential mental toll for Ahzidal. A priest executing their acolyte, executing their lover?-but Ahzidal insisted.
Her hands wrapped around the ends of her armrests, knuckles white; given enough time, he was sure she'd have the wood splintering. He moved to reach out to her, but Dufaan placed her hand on Ahzidal's, and after a few moments, the color returned to her fingers.
Knowing the priest was in good hands, he looked back to the acolyte. Now unbound, he'd been given a meager knife to defend himself-he held that bit of metal as if it truly provided him a chance to survive.
Ahzidal stood suddenly and pulled a dagger from her belt.
"Acolyte Vaazrath!" Her voice echoed against the stone of the stadium.
The man looked up at the priests, his gaze bouncing to each of them before settling on Ahzidal.
She clenched her jaw and lifted her empty hand; her palm became alight with purple, and a massive flame atronach appeared behind Vaazrath. A glint caught Miraak's eye a moment before Ahzidal's blade landed in the sand at Vaazrath's feet. The magicka swam between her fingers as the atronach remained still, waiting for its conjurer's command.
"Make your death worthy of applause."
Vaazrath glanced at the weapon for only a moment before returning his stare to the priests. He looked briefly at Ahzidal, but his eyes, full of fear and something else Miraak couldn't place, seemed to settle on Vahlok. Or had he imagined it?
His time to ponder was short-lived; the acolyte grabbed the dagger and rolled in time to avoid a firebolt. On the defensive, his movements were panicked, stumbling as he dodged the atronach's attacks, but he managed to remain unscathed for a time. His luck, or skill despite his apparent floundering, appeared to reach its limit; a blast of fire burst against his shoulder, and amidst the heavy scent of smoke, Miraak caught a whiff of singed fabric and flesh.
He looked to Ahzidal who'd returned to her seat, watching her hands again grip the wood; Dufaan's had returned to Ahzidal's, though it didn't have the calming effect as the first time. He remained focused on her for a time, watching her shoulders rise and fall with her shortened breaths, the anxiety and anger mingling and pulsing from her with each exhale.
The smoke of the atronach's attacks filled the arena, irritating Miraak's eyes and making it difficult to gauge the remaining fortitude of their prisoner, but his movements appeared far slower and more lumbering. Miraak suspected he wouldn't survive much longer.
His eyes drifted to Vahlok, careful not to appear too obvious in his observation. The palpable excitement his partner had shown earlier was now gone, replaced with a wavering grin that stopped short of settling in his crow's feet. Perhaps it was pity, or even sympathy; Vaazrath certainly hadn't been a stranger to any of them, but Miraak found it difficult to feel remorse over a traitor's death-even if it was in a manner with which he didn't agree.
A cough interrupted his ruminations.
"This smoke," Zahkriisos sputtered, his body involuntarily doubling over as he waved his hand in front of his face.
Miraak gave his friend a few pats on his back. "Had you only abandoned your love of the pipe earlier in life," Miraak taunted.
The older priest coughed a few more times, rattling and disconcerting but unfortunately common, before settling back upright in his seat. "Do not doubt my efforts," he replied. "But it offered me brief moments of tranquility in an otherwise onerous life. Rather difficult to deprive oneself of such bliss."
After wiping away the tears brought on by his fit, Zahkriisos eyed Ahzidal a moment before leaning toward Miraak.
"Her stomach may be of iron," he whispered, "but I do not believe her heart to be of the same."
With a shake of his head, Miraak patted the priest's arm, acknowledging him without indulging in Zahkriisos's love of prattling and gossip.
Ahzidal jumped up, and the rest of the priests flinched, instinctively anticipating danger, but the only danger was Ahzidal's potential heartache and temper.
Vaazrath lay on the ground; the atronach hovered at his feet but made no move to attack.
Her hand was raised slightly, the purple aura swimming in her palm; Vaazrath didn't take his eyes off the atronach, and Ahzidal didn't take hers from him. The stadium fell into a sort of stasis: Vaazrath awaiting the attack, the conjured being waiting for the command, the crowd holding its breath for whatever was to happen next, and those in podium unsure what their fellow priest, their friend, would do.
"Ahzidal?" Vahlok's voice was a surprise to Miraak, but he remained watching the woman.
It seemed to take a moment for her to register that her name had been spoken. Her head twitched toward Vahlok, and her hand began to lift just as a familiar sensation settled in his chest.
Before he could react, a roar reverberated against the stone, and a shadow fell upon the arena. Miraak looked up, already knowing what he'd see.
Telyra stirred, her eyelids feeling like sandpaper as they blinked, the blurred silhouette of a dragon blocking some of the dreary, bilious light. Her palms pressed against her eyes, erasing the beast from her vision, the pressure making her aware of the headache throbbing against her temples; the pain sent her stomach rolling, and her mouth watered with the threat of vomit. As she swallowed, her mind sought to orient itself: where was she? why did her body ache? why did her throat burn?
"How do you feel?"
Her frantic thoughts slowed at the sound of his voice. Telyra's vision remained blurred as she reached toward him, seeking an anchor, and he immediately provided it, taking her hand in his.
His form came into focus as he knelt beside her, the shadows of his face seeming deeper than usual.
"How do you feel, Telyra?" he asked again.
Pushing herself up with his welcomed help, she sat upright, the sudden shift sending a wave of pain through her head. Her hands shot up to her temples, pressing and rotating against the flesh, providing the barest sense of relief.
"My head is killing me," she finally replied.
She looked past him, expecting to see the gray stone of the stadium and the other priests sitting nearby or become overwhelmed with the scent of iron and fire or hear the horrific sound of tearing flesh and crackling bones. Instead, she heard the whisper of Miraak's breathing, smelled the mold one would expect to infect an abandoned library, and saw only walls made of bookshelves.
Focusing back on Miraak, a knot formed in her stomach, threads of loneliness, regret, and a longing for those lost pulling tighter as the faces of each of the priests passed in her mind. It was a heartache similar to that which plagued her whenever she thought of her father.
"Speak to me, Telyra," Miraak said. He grasped her hands, encompassing them almost entirely. "What do you feel?"
"I… Strange," she mumbled, glancing to the side. "I feel like I've just battled a dragon bare-handed."
"And what of your mental state?"
Her gaze returned to his. "I feel this… this profound sadness and…"
Her words drifted off as she watched him, his eyes glassy and brimming with concern as they jumped back and forth between hers. His voice whispered through her head, kast. The visions shared between them as he provided her his understanding of the word resurfaced, bringing with them a renewed anguish.
"I saw you, from before." Tears pricked at her eyes. "I felt-"
"I know." Pain flitted across his face.
"I'm sorry-"
He squeezed her hands but remained silent as his eyes fell to their point of contact.
"How have you dealt with it for so long?" she asked.
"It has not been without difficulty," he replied, meeting her gaze. "Sahrotaar's company had helped a great deal, though I suffered the guilt of having led to his imprisonment alongside my own." He looked down again. "And I have yours as well," he said.
Despite the icy grip still holding her heart, she slipped a hand from his and placing it against his cheek and drawing his attention back to her.
"I swear," she began, "whatever it takes, I will get you out of here." She hoped he felt the conviction in her words. "If the Shout doesn't work, if the Tree Stone doesn't work, we'll figure out something else."
His hand covered hers, and his eyes took on a new layer of shine as he gaped at her.
She smiled. "I'll fight Hermaeous Mora with a rusty dagger if I have to."
A throaty chuckle passed between them, and his tearful grin sent her heart soaring. Stronger than ever was her determination, this bond of theirs, whatever it was, tighter with this shared vulnerability, this intimate insight to the trauma Miraak had endured. A part of her feared what she had accepted into her soul, but it was greatly outweighed by her desire to save him. So much had been taken from him; she would not allow this chance at freedom to be stolen away as well.
The warmth of his hand fell away. "What if this plan fails?" he asked. "How long are you willing to remain from Skyrim while Alduin wreaks havoc?"
"However long it takes," she answered without hesitation, her own words startling her, yet she knew they held nothing but truth. Despite it being her argument in pursuing this course of action, there was no denying the conviction keeping her there. "You need me more," she said. "Skyrim has people to defend her in the meantime."
He seemed at a loss for words, silently blinking at her as though struggling to take in her promise.
"I need you," she said, a blush immediately painting her cheeks and ears. "If I'm going to have a chance at saving Skyrim, I'll need your help."
"And I will fulfill my pledge to you," he said, finding his voice as his own face colored.
A quiet fell between them, the weight of their words too heavy for their still-raw hearts to bear, until Telyra could take the silence no longer.
"I dreamt of them," she said, "the other priests."
"Oh?" Miraak stood and sat down beside her.
She nodded. "It was like I was seeing a memory directly through your eyes," she explained. "I could understand them, though they spoke dovahzul. It was different than when you… you know." She waved her arms between them, trying to imitate the knowledge that had been shared. " I saw glimpses of your past, but it was as if I was a fly on the wall. I was watching you, rather than through you."
"What occurred in your dream?" he asked, twisting his body to face her.
"You were at this stadium," she said. "The other priests were sitting in the podium with you watching the executions."
He hummed. "We had treated that arena as though it were an executioner's chopping block," he remarked. "I cared little for its desecration."
"I noticed that," Telyra said. "I could feel and hear every thought and emotion. It was so bizarre."
"Do you know who we had sentenced that day?" His curiosity was evidently piqued.
"I didn't catch who the first man was," she replied. "But the second was a man named Vaazrath. He was Ahzidal's partner?"
"Ah." Miraak nodded slowly. "He had betrayed her, reported her treachery and forced her to flee her temple prior to her successfully turning it to our cause." His head shook. "His death, while she never accepted this truth, remained with her long after."
"I didn't see him actually die."
"No?"
She shook her head. "A dragon attacked before the atronach finished him off."
Miraak leaned back, looking up as if trying to conjure an image of the past. "I had forgotten." He thought a few moments before continuing. "More dragons had followed, coupled with ground battalions. The resulting battle had nearly left the arena in naught but dust. Vaazrath died in the chaos-it was more akin to a soldier's death than would have been achieved in the arena."
"Was Ahzidal going to kill him? Was she going to order the atronach to attack?"
"She never did tell us," he said. "We had asked on numerous occasions, but she insisted it did not matter. His death was inevitable-whether by her hand or another's."
"You were close to her, to all of them." It was something between a question and a statement; she'd seen for herself, but it seemed to bring him some semblance of… not quite joy, but something to speak of them.
"They had sacrificed the entirety of their livelihood," he replied. "There was little hope for the rebellion, but the prospect had been enough to persuade them to risk their lives to escape the dragons' oppression." He smiled, though it was small. "You cannot have those who bestow such a great deal of trust in you without forming a bond deeper than friendship."