In the depths of Dragonsreach, Miraak struggled to build a man out of himself in the lonely darkness. All that was left was what Hermaeus Mora and the Last Dragonborn had chosen to spare - which was to say, not much. He would never rule again. Not even over an island as worthless and ruined as Solstheim. Never again would his name be spoken in reverence by loyal servants kneeling in awe.
But maybe - just maybe, if everything I plan comes to fruition, I will not have to face death by starvation or cold when they cast me from this cell. Meager aspirations, little better than the small hopes of animals living through winter, but it was a start. In all of his favorite stories, the heroes began with nothing. And Miraak was certain of one thing: he could not return to his former state. The scavenger that had kept him alive was dead now, sacrificed in favor of his reclaimed humanity. Every door I pass through is barred behind me. Forward, always - forward or death.
The guards came to his cell every evening with their letters, contracts, and other miscellaneous documents. Sometimes alone, as if afraid of being seen, but sometimes in twos or threes. He didn't pay much attention and scarcely glanced at their faces. Miraak's mind, so long deprived of intellectual stimulation, hungered at the sight of written words - even if they came from the work of his own ink-stained hand.
"And, err, tell him the leeks are coming in just fine and that blight we were worried about turned out to be nothing." The young Nord sat cross-legged on the ground in front of Miraak's cell and watched the prisoner's quill work. "And ask him if he misses the snow. And-"
"Slow down, Vivec," Miraak interrupted dryly. "I require another piece of parchment. And do not let it slip your mind that you owe me another apple."
"Oh, yes sir." Engar rummaged around in his satchel for another piece of fruit. He reached past the bars to set it down beside its counterpart at the end of Miraak's bedroll. "Ready for the rest now?"
"Quite."
A page of parchment that belonged to Miraak alone was tucked underneath his pillow: a page bearing twenty-seven tally marks. Very soon he'd be leaving the dungeon, but the thought inspired a strange unease in his gut. As Engar dictated the rest of his letter and Miraak scribbled, he almost found himself wishing that Jarl Hrongar had been harsher in his sentencing.
"That should do." Miraak straightened the pages and squinted at the words, checking for legibility. His first letter, written for the guard Hlormar weeks ago, had been nearly unreadable in hindsight. If only the rest of my power was as easily restored. He handed the pages to Engar through the bars and leaned back to dig into one of the apples. The sweet crunch of the its flesh in his mouth was divine, after years of persisting on scraps.
When he glanced up from eating, he saw that Engar remained.
"What keeps you here?" Miraak wiped juice from his chin. His face still felt strangely cold and naked without his scraggly beard; the priestess girl Lucia had chopped it off for him on one of her weekly visits to the dungeon. "I can write more letters, if you have something to offer."
"Err, no - nothing else. It's just that I know it's your last day, and…" Engar scratched his right ear. "Well, I just wanted you to know how grateful we are. Us guards, I mean. Some of us, at least. For what you've done for us in regards to all them letters and other such documents."
Miraak shrugged. "Merely a bit of writing. Gave me something to do, kept my mind occupied. Not as if I did it out of charity."
"S'pose that's true, sir. But the things you asked for weren't worth much - just some extra food, a bucket of water here and there. Stuff that probably woulda been thrown away otherwise. Before you came along...well, Farengar is a real pain, and for what he charged you coulda got a better deal from Clavicus Vile. Used to be a man had to save up a week's salary to get all his business made out proper."
"Madness. Thousands of souls roam this city. You cannot find anyone else willing to dictate simple correspondence?"
Engar blushed. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it's no easy thing for a man to admit he needs help. One thing about Farengar is you know he doesn't give a second thought about you after you've left his chambers. I couldn't imagine just walking up to fellows on the street and asking them to write out my affairs for me."
"I...see," Miraak lied, rolling the uneaten apple around in his hand. The powers of shame and pride that had once guided his every action were now mysteries, banished to the dragon that still lurked in the peripheries of his mind watching for signs of weakness. The loss of the scavenger, its longtime companion, had stunned it only temporarily. "Do not waste your breath on meaningless niceties. We had a bargain, and I fulfilled my end of the arrangement. You guards would be wise to learn to expand your knowledge before a less desperate soul comes along to take advantage."
"We're trying, Miraak sir. Some of us, at least. Commander Caius and the sergeants know their marks, o' course, but the elders like Hlormar - well, it's tough to start learning new things once your hair has gone white. Swinging swords and chasing robbers is all they ever needed to do to get by. We're all third or fourth sons, y'know. My pa died fighting Ulfric, and my older brother fell at Labyrinthian...they knew their letters, for all the good it did them."
"Let your mind linger not on the dead; they have no use for your pity. Know that bones break and muscles tear, Engar, but the tools of the mind can serve you long after your body has begun to waste away."
"I'll remember that, sir."
Miraak tossed the apple core through the bars. It skidded through the dust to rest against Engar's left foot. "Do as you will. But leave me in peace."
Once Engar had gone, Miraak stood and walked into the torchlight, and gripped the frigid iron bars. Hours. Mere hours...until what? Salvation? Freedom? A kick into a snowdrift? His future spread before him like a field of fire runes - one wrong step, and it would mean a quick end to this new life. Time in the dungeon had made death a less attractive prospect. He had begun the process of reclaiming his mind and form; now that it was free from the threat of immediate starvation, his body was turning food into useful muscle and fat. Firing an arrow from Aela's bow might still be beyond him, but no longer did simple physical activities prove so exhausting.
What was it Vilkas had said? Eyes on the prey, not the horizon. A crude but apt metaphor. Miraak would never reach his ultimate goals of joining the Companions and obtaining the powers of the werewolf if he did not first account for how he was going to feed himself and survive Skyrim's harsh winter outside the walls of Dragonsreach. The guards had never given him a single septim.
He took a bite of succulent apple and put the back of his hand against his cold cheek. After Lucia sheared his hair, and he'd put some water and rags to good use, Miraak had gasped at the face that stared back at him from the mirror. Where was the Dragonborn who had taken the children of Akatosh to heel? Where was the gifted mage who had supposedly split Skyrim asunder in his legendary duel with Vahlok? Miraak saw only a frightened Nord of perhaps five decades. A bruised and weary face etched with wrinkled lines and old scars. Who are you, old man? What use are you to me?
Miraak spent the rest of his sentence in silence, savoring every minute of relative warmth. When gaelor Markum came trudging down the passageway with a ring of keys jangling at his side, Miraak was nearly at peace with what was about to happen. It is scarcely midday. The sun will be high in the sky, and I need not fear freezing to death for hours yet.
"Free to go," rumbled Markum as he pulled open the cell door with a harsh scream of steel. "No possessions in chest. Can't bring the bedroll."
"This is acceptable." Miraak stood and let the discarded apple core slip from his hand. "I am taking my quill and parchment. I trust there will not be any trouble?"
Markum shook his head. "No trouble. Would just throw in hearth anyway. You go now, Miraak. Jarl's not in court now. Think he forgot he put you down here, so probably don't want to remind him."
"I will heed your words." Miraak brushed past Markum, and took his first breath of freedom. So far, it tasted a lot like his cell. He lingered for a moment. "Ah, but another matter, Markum. I have a need to speak with your resident wizard. Where might he be found?"
The guard scratched his head and slowly, in his muttering voice, provided a mess of tumbling directions that seemed as likely to lead Miraak back to Apocrypha as to Hrongar's court mage. Despite all his doubts, Miraak's limbs thrummed with anticipation for the hours to come, so he thanked Markum and left the dungeon behind. As he passed by the guards' common area, he could not help but covet the thick woolen coats draped over the backs of their chairs. Remnants of breakfast still littered the central table: glazed apple fritters shining with fresh honey, platters of salt pork burnt to perfection, tankards of sweet apple cider still faintly steaming...
"It'll be the headsman for you, the next time." Caius, the commander of the Whiterun guards, sat with his feet up on the table. His hard eyes bore into Miraak like the hooks that had once pierced Numinex. "Costs a lot of gold to keep a prisoner fed for so long. Best not cause any more trouble in that beautiful city out there."
Miraak ignored this and continued up the stairs into the main hall. Here more pleasant scents lingered, though the servants had long since cleared away breakfast. A few of them scurried around attending to braziers or dusting banners, paying no mind to the slender Nord in rags watching from the shadows near the door to the dungeon. He peered around the corner to confirm that Hrongar and his court were indeed absent. After what Caius had said, another encounter with the brutish Jarl of Whiterun did not sound conducive to his health.
Fortunately Miraak did not run into anyone else as unpleasant as Caius as he searched Dragonsreach for the mage's quarters. Likely Hrongar and his pets are off on one of those hunts that these manner of folk seem to enjoy. Aela had said that hunting beasts could help sharpen his martial skills, so Miraak entertained the idea that he might soon go on a hunt himself. I will need to grow accustomed to the skin of the predator once more, if I am to properly shed that of the prey.
After following the directions of a couple of sympathetic guards, Miraak found himself at the end of a long hallway in an isolated section of the palace. This area seldom saw the attention of servants: a thin layer of dust covered the floor, and cobwebs nestled in the ceiling's distant corners. The doorknob to the only room in this passage was relatively clean, however, which suggested recent use. Miraak turned it and pushed before forgetting that one was typically meant to knock at such moments.
"Ow." The door stopped before it could open fully. "You know this closet is taken, you old hag. Go on, find another place to store your brooms and buckets."
Miraak peered around the door to see a robed Nord rubbing his shoulder. The room was so small that the door had struck the man as he was sitting in his chair. Cluttered magical supplies covered the small desk before him, and a blue candle cast a dim light over the soul gems and scattered pages.
Farengar stared. "Oh, so it's you. Yes, I had wondered when the Jarl would release you. The prisoner who has been helping the riff-raff write their letters. I would not normally take notice of such trifles, but as you can see I am not exactly rolling in septims at the moment."
"Ah...I did not intend on obstructing your means of income." Miraak squeezed awkwardly into the closet and closed the door behind him. He was forced to sit on the edge of Farengar's bed. Staves of various lengths poked out from underneath the frame, so his feet hovered in the air so as not to step on them. "If it is any consolation, I will be leaving today, and I have no intention of continuing the arrangement."
Farengar scooted his chair closer to the desk as he appeared to lose interest in the discussion. "Hmm. I will say that you have given me more time to spend on my research. I believe I'm on the brink of a breakthrough that will send shockwaves through magickal academia from Winterhold to Cyrodiil. Oh yes, once I'm published, I might even attract the attention of a more open-minded patron. Jarl Ravencrone, perhaps. The swamps of Morthal are ripe with potential now that the village has been rebuilt."
"I see." Miraak dared to ask: "What precisely do your studies comprise?"
"Ha - you must take me for a fool, ghost of Helgen." Farengar glanced at him slyly, as if Miraak had been up to some great mischief. "You are not one of the usual unwashed commoners that the Jarl sweeps into his cells. How else could you have frightened the Imperials away from that miserable little ruin, if not with a display of fire and frost? And your little operation in the dungeons...am I to believe you are a mere scribe? No, I know a rival mage when I see one. You'll just have to wait to read about my research, like everyone else. Do not fear; I'm sure you won't have trouble finding a copy."
Miraak sighed. He'd not yet stepped foot outside Dragonsreach, and he already felt exhausted. "Fate has decreed that a tired man sits before you, and nothing more. Your intuition falters. Once I was an adept student of the arcane, but my connection to Aetherius was severed almost ten years ago. I was hoping you could tell me how I might restore it."
All of a sudden he had Farengar's undivided attention, and Miraak leaned back as the tall mage loomed over him.
"Severed, you say?" Farengar studied Miraak intensely, as if the secrets of his magical downfall had been scribbled on to his forehead. "Fascinating. I have heard of cases of magicka burn in extraordinary cases, but someone else did this to you? On purpose, I presume? Please, continue. I must know more."
"It was a Daedric Prince. I will say no more than that unless you agree to help."
Farengar's eyes widened. "The Daedra? You must have made some powerful enemies, you poor fool. My own knowledge of them is sadly limited. Even Jarl Balgruuf took a dim view of my research into the Princes, and I suspect his small-minded brother would have my head if he even suspected I was investigating matters of Oblivion."
"Is there anyone else in Whiterun with Daedric knowledge?"
"Even asking that question betrays your ignorance. Sadly, I am one of the few scholars in the city with even passing knowledge of the cursed realms. You will have to travel to the College of Winterhold if you want to learn anything more. There are also, ah, other mages in less savory regions of Skyrim who might be able to assist. But finding them is up to you. I have no time for such endeavors these days."
Miraak stood. "Thank you...I suppose."
"Yes, yes. Feel free to return if you wish to divulge more information about your encounter with the Daedra. Whiterun has become such a dull place ever since the dragon attacks tapered off."
"I plan to spend a great deal of time in the city. There is little doubt we will speak again." But Farengar had already returned to his seat and was intensely studying a half-scorched piece of parchment. Miraak took that as dismissal, and was all too happy to leave the cramped closet and the half-mad mage that dwelled within. See what comes of vilifying the arcane, Nords of Skyrim: this wretch is the best Whiterun has to offer?
He'd long suspected that only someone from Winterhold's college would be able to properly diagnose his affliction, but it was useful to have some confirmation. Though it will be a long while before I can take such a long journey north. First I need to survive the trials of winter, and take my rightful place in the ranks of the Companions. Surmounting such obstacles without his arcane powers would only doubly prove his worth.
No one accosted Miraak as he made his way back through the palace towards the entryway, though he did earn a few sour glances from the maids and servants scurrying around in their haste to tidy Dragonsreach in Hrongar's absence. Just as he was approaching the doors, a throaty growl sounded behind him.
He halted ten steps from the palace doors, which were flanked by two guardsmen. Surely there is no beast in Dragonsreach that could run me down before I reach their protection. It was likely one of Balgruuf's hunting dogs, left behind by mistake. A few well-aimed kicks will show it its proper place. He turned and found himself looking up at a pair of eyes as vast and crimson as Hircine's bloodmoons. They sat above a pair of jaws cavernous enough to fit around an Orc's head.
"Helgen's ghost," the dark-furred beast spoke. "This one was wondering when you would come crawling out of that cell."
Miraak swallowed with some difficulty, and summoned a useful memory. "Senche-rahts: not just mounts. By Saharrzag of Elsweyr. I have read of your kind."
"S'argo is at a disadvantage, then." The Senche-raht took a step back. Plates of silver armor covered his four thick legs and interrupted the blood-red lines crossing his hide. "No one knows anything of you, ghost, save that you were brought here by the Companions."
"My name is Miraak, and I intend to join the aforementioned company. There is naught else to know, Khajiit."
S'argo laughed, and the rumbling sound echoed off the wide walls of the palace like a giant's heartbeat. The guards at the doors startled, and Miraak resisted the urge to cower.
"You tie your cart to a lame horse." S'argo ran his large tongue over many sharp teeth; Miraak imagined such an organ could strip muscle from bone. "The Silver Dawn is the new power in Whiterun. Even now, S'argo's commander Montrose rides with the Jarl himself. The Companions spit on the weak...and this one has smelled your weakness for weeks now, ghost. But S'argo's order will take all: yes, there is a place for every sort among our ranks."
"Every sort, you say? You must not truly expect me to believe you would accept any beggar off the street into your knightly order."
"What you believe matters little. When Commander Montrose found S'argo, this one was as insignificant as you; now he stands on the side of righteousness, and the servants of darkness tremble at his approach." He bowed his head closer, and Miraak had to stop himself from ducking. S'argo's breath smelled of meat and sweetness. "The warriors of Jorrvaskr will cast you back into the cold to die alone. Join the Silver Dawn, and you will find a warm place to rest your head. Three meals a day, for your empty stomach."
"The Companions can give me something your beggar's guild could never dream of." It was difficult to turn around, but Miraak managed. "Do not accost me again with your pitiful offers."
He imagined S'argo's stare like a dagger in his back as he walked stiffly to the palace doors and slipped through them. Miraak made it five steps before the doors shut behind him and he fell to his knees, panting in the midday shadows. Every muscle in his body flared with pain as he untensed them, but an ugly laugh escaped past his lips.
"What a fool I am," he gasped out, the wood of the walkway cool against his palms. Much has changed already. The scavenger would never have allowed him to even meet S'argo's gaze, let alone insult the powerful Khajiit. It was this brazenness that might earn him a place in the Companions...if it did not kill him first.
"No lollygaggin'," said one of the guards leaning on the wall beside the palace doors. It wasn't a voice Miraak recognized. "Go on with ya, now. This isn't the place to be havin' a fit."
For once, the sunlight glaring down on Skyrim seemed almost a match for the biting frost. The day was unseasonably warm. Miraak resolved to take the weather as a good omen as he staggered down the steps of Dragonsreach with a manic stubbornness gleaming in his eyes, ready to seize destiny by the reins.