Dream and reality came together over a period of rest in which Miraak could scarcely mark the passage of time. Once he found himself in his bed, while a woman in priestess robes shifted him forward to unwrap the bandages around his head. The adhesive tore little hairs from the base of his scalp.
Sofie sat on her bed watching them.
"Lucia?" He addressed the priestess.
"No," the woman replied, and set about rebinding his wounds.
Miraak looked at Sofie. His healer firmly adjusted his head forward and he offered no resistance.
"No," Sofie said softly. "Not Lucia."
When he woke again, the whelps' quarters were empty save for a high elf in Imperial armor looming over his bed like one of Mora's Seekers. Miraak stared up at the elf for some time while he searched his memory for instances of particular strife against a soldier of Summerset. Was this some irate nemesis of yore, come to exact revenge at last?
"I'm Legate Fasendil. We met a day ago. I expect you don't remember."
"No," Miraak said. "What have I done?"
"Nothing." Fasendil glanced around the quarters for a seat, but all the chairs looked to have been pulled to the far end of the room for a game of cards. He sighed and perched awkwardly on the end of Sofie's bed. "As far as I know, at least. According to the Empire, Miraak, you don't exist."
"If only it were so." Miraak pushed himself up in bed. "Feels like I swallowed an urn full of gravedust. Need some water."
He'd hoped to distract this peon of the Empire long enough to collect his thoughts, but Fasendil returned within a minute with a cold cup of water and a chair for himself.
"That was quick."
"Your maid is waiting in the passageway. I nearly had to take a second oath of allegiance just to get in here."
While Miraak drank, his questioner took a closer seat and studied him.
May as well get on with it. "So I do not exist, you say. Have you come to verify the record? From the pounding in my skull, I would say someone dearly wished to make it true." Even the simple act of speech made his face ache.
"That Redguard gave you quite a pounding. Don't worry, he and his son are prohibited from re-entering the city. You shouldn't be concerned they'll try to finish the job, so long as you remain in Whiterun. Out in the wilds, well, might be a different story." Fasendil scratched his cheek and leaned forward slightly. "That's where your friends tell me you came from. The wilds. This true?"
"True enough. If you seek to tax me, you will leave disappointed. I have no properties or livestock to my name. All I own is in that satchel at the foot of the bed."
"Don't rush to open your coin purse. I'm no census officer. Just like to know where all the pieces are, on the board. I've been away on assignment since Morning Star. First thing I saw when I walked through the gates was a new guildhall, spitting out townsfolk in armor shinier than mine. Always knew Hrongar was an oaf, but I never suspected he had the stones to pull something like this. His poor steward must have had a conniption."
Miraak sipped his water. "You will stand against Montrose and his followers, then?"
"Not unless they've broken any laws. From what I've witnessed so far, they seem to be sticking to the straight and narrow. Though make no mistake: their timing was no coincidence. They dug in deep while the Legion was looking the other way. You spend long enough fighting, you start to get a sense for these things. High Rock has many adventuring companies that are little more than expensive displays of pageantry and power. Dumping grounds for washed up mercenaries and spare heirs. Not the Silver Dawn, though. Something in my gut tells me that Montrose has plans for those fresh swords. Troubling thing is, I've never seen a werewolf in my life. They certainly aren't a recognized threat in the province."
"Your Empire seems less impressive every day I spend here. Surely your army has nothing to fear from a nascent band of Daedra-slayers."
Fasendil let out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair. "The Stormcloaks began as a militia. The Thalmor were a handful of student dissidents. Never trust anyone who asks you to blindly hate or love anything, son. Our Empire has its flaws, certainly, but the alternatives are always bloody."
"That dance takes two, legate. The rebels would hardly have bloodied themselves." Miraak wondered what it was about his face that prompted people to offer unsolicited advice. He surrendered to the pull of exhaustion before Fasendil asked him to join the Legion or some other such madness.
His lasting return to the world, which seemed to him to mark the final turn in this journey from one phase of being to the next, came on the sixteenth of Sun's Dawn; Benajah Al-Bergama informed Miraak of the importance of the date while they sipped steaming mugs of some chocolatey liquid confection.
"Heart's Day?" Miraak finally felt clear-headed enough to leave his bed, which had come to feel like a cage. He sat in the chair left by Fasendil while Ben sat half-reclined on his own cot. "I suppose the spirit of the occasion must be as cloying as this beverage."
Ben shrugged. "Something about an innkeeper giving a free room to these young lovers. I'm not too invested. W-we didn't celebrate anything but traditional Yokudan holidays in my family." The bruises and burns on his face had faded. If today was the sixteenth, then a week had passed since an old Redguard had beaten Miraak to a pulp outside the doors of Jorrvaskr. His own face still stung when he made certain expressions, and he grew dizzy if he moved too quickly.
"Yes," Miraak mused. "I cannot imagine your father celebrating a holiday that recommends kindness towards strangers, be they lovers or not."
"He didn't used to be like this, y'know. My grandfather told me everything changed when Hammerfell signed the Dominion's treaty. My father saw it as a surrender. I'm just happy w-we made peace."
"That sentiment is not such a weakness as I once thought." Miraak could not meet Ben's eyes. The weight in his chest had not entirely abated. "There's something I must tell you, if we are truly to be, um, shield-brothers." The intimate designation still tasted strange in the saying.
"I understand." Ben drummed his fingers against the side of his mug. Miraak watched the steam rise in the cool air. "I'm sorry you were drawn into my family affairs, Miraak. I came here for the fellowship of w-warriors, but I can't even fight my own battles. Should my father and brother ever return, it w-will be me alone who faces their wrath."
"No, no." He squeezed the handle of his own mug in agitation. "Ben, I betrayed you. It was I who led your pursuers to Jorrvaskr. My confrontation was no act of altruism, but a self-correction of desperation."
"I know."
Miraak blinked dumbly. "You know?"
"Yup. Sofie figured it out the day you were beaten, and she told me and Hugs."
"So you know I threw your life into peril for my own selfish aims. And yet you come to me with sweet treats and speak to me like a friend. I do not understand. You very well might have been slain."
Bedsprings creaked when Ben rose to take the seat opposite Miraak. His stomach turned unpleasantly at the sight of Ben's limp. I was ready to throw this wounded man to the wolves when he looked at me with nothing but kindness.
"I w-wasn't slain." Ben clasped his hands together on the table. "Thanks to you. You paid your penance in blood and gold. Njada took everything in your coin purse w-when she returned to find your job unfinished. The one with Nazeem, yeah?"
Another stone on the mound of failure. "Well, then. It seems I have paid a price. Though I wonder if it even approaches what is owed. How are we meant to trust each other as shield-siblings when you must always fear my knife in your back?"
"It w-will probably be difficult. Worthy ends often are. Maybe w-we can start with the lore apprentice position. A fair contest. No more tricks."
"Fair." Miraak tested out the word. "No, nothing could make it fair, Benajah. The advantage will always be mine."
Ben frowned. "I've been studying Nordic texts since I w-was a child."
And I was there when they were written. "I mean no offense. In truth, I feel the spirit of competition has soured. Perhaps we could share the role? I meet with Vilkas some evenings, you meet with him on the others. If I am not mistaken, the whole premise of this charade was that the Harbinger wished to spread the knowledge lest it dies with him. Two apprentices means double the assurance."
A voice spoke, "Aye, that could work."
They both looked up at Vilkas leaning against the doorway. He looked no less tired than he had on the night of the feast, but something in Miraak was gladdened by the sight of him nonetheless.
Ben bowed his head. "Harbinger."
Vilkas waved off his courtesy, but there was a small smile on his face when he said, "None of that, now. Equals in honor, remember? Even if we do like to give you new bloods a tough time of it."
Miraak asked, "We shall both become your lore apprentices, then?"
"Not so fast. Nothing is given, here. I'll still expect you both to study your arses off so I can gauge your potential. Any warrior here could read a book and spit out the words at me. If I wanted that, I'd just send the volumes of lore to Solitude to be copied."
Chair-legs squeaked as Ben stood. "I think I understand. You're looking for free-minded scholars, not simple reciters."
A lot to ask, from the companions of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas evidently agreed, because he replied dryly, "When you put it like that, it's a wonder I have even two of you. Most of us are souls of action, but it's just as important that we remember why we're fighting. Otherwise we're no better than those new recruits of the Silver Dawn. Weak-willed men and women looking for someone important to tell them what to do. Bah."
Ben shifted from foot to foot. "About the Dawn...Harbinger. Uh, Vilkas. I thought you w-would come see me, but you never did. It was one of their knights that burned down Ruthnasi Thirilas' house and killed that dark elf."
"We guessed as much, lad." Vilkas ran a hand down his face and sighed. "Did you kill them?"
Miraak looked from Vilkas to Ben, blinking rapidly. "Wait a moment. When did all this transpire?"
"The world does continue turning amidst your personal dramas, you know. Might be a good idea to pay attention to what's happening in this city."
"I didn't kill her," Ben said, tapping his fingers together slowly under the table. "Or at least, not directly. She used a scroll. I reflected the fireball. You can probably picture the rest."
"Doesn't matter, anyway. Their woman died, and a whelp of the Companions survived. Whether they claim her body or not, we know what happened in that house. And they know we know."
"Should I keep a low profile? I figure they might w-want revenge."
"Seems to me there's more than one reason you shouldn't stray outside the walls, Ben. At least for a few weeks. I don't think they're bold enough to move against us in the city. Not yet, anyway."
Ben took a deep breath. "That knight - she hated me, Harbinger. Just because I was a Companion. I've only been with you all for a few months. Is there some history I should know about?"
Miraak glanced pointedly at Vilkas. "A superb question."
But the Harbinger's face closed like a forbidden Elder Scroll. "The only history you need worry about is in our books of lore. Leave the Silver Dawn to the Circle. And next time you decide to launch a daring rescue mission, make sure to bring another shield-sibling along."
Ben must have looked chastened, because Vilkas added, "Your intentions were honorable, don't mistake me. Just don't think you need to stand alone in any fight. Who will sing of your glory if none are there to witness it?"
"I understand. Thank you."
How deftly Vilkas deflected Ben's attention from the growing animosity between the Companions and the Dawn. The Scryer would have delighted in this one.
After Vilkas left them, Miraak leaned back in his chair. He looked around these increasingly familiar quarters he had somehow found himself in. "Eight days as an initiate, and I have been insulted, threatened, beaten, and drenched. I am far poorer than I began. No one will sing of my meager deeds."
"And yet," Ben said, a knowing glint in his eyes, "you feel good, don't you?" He pressed a fist against his own chest. "Hugs told me no amount of w-wealth or power can fill the place of a heart that knows itself. Said he's seen people spend years and fortunes in vain attempts."
"An interesting theory." Miraak wondered if the heart that killed Farkas had known itself. Surely all of the Silver Dawn were not unknowing puppets of Montrose, as Vilkas suggested. There are few mortals more dangerous than a true believer. "Where is the Argonian, incidentally? I remember glimpsing Sofie some time ago, but no one else since the evening I was beaten."
"Hugs left two days ago. Job in Rorikstead, I think. You only missed Sofie by a few hours. I saw her and Aela off at the stables. They're heading south for Sofie's trial." He grinned. "Long overdue, yeah? She's the best fighter out of all of us."
"Shame. I had been hoping to speak with her."
They spoke of matters of no particular importance for a while, and every now and then another whelp would trickle in from the hallway and collapse on their cot. When a burly Nord covered in a copious amount of hair glared at them while unfastening his armor, Benajah suggested they find somewhere else to talk. Miraak readily deferred to his knowledge of social etiquette.
"Hungry?" Ben asked. They wandered down the long passageways of Jorrvaskr without any particular destination in mind. "Don't w-want to wake Tilma up, but I know my w-way around a cooking pot."
"By all means." Miraak stretched his arms and legs as they walked. "I could devour a horker after that much time at rest."
How odd it was, to spend time with someone who could do nothing now to help or hinder his progress; whose sole aim seemed to be fellowship, for this strange character who had broken into his life in a matter of mere days. Miraak could not recall the last time someone had chosen to spend time in his company without an ulterior goal in mind.
They found themselves in a room that most closely resembled a study, which according to Ben mainly meant that it contained all the bookshelves Vilkas could not fit into his own quarters. It also contained a table and a fireplace, which meant it met all of Miraak's qualifications.
"Better get started," Ben said, his arms full of books. He dropped them on the table in front of Miraak. "You can go on and begin. I'll head to the kitchens to get a stew going."
"Acceptable." As Miraak watched the Redguard — no, his shield-brother — leave the room, a strange warmth blossomed in his stomach to match the merry hearthfire heating the chambers. Of course, it seemed only natural to indulge Benajah's whims, after the grievous betrayal he'd dealt the man. If it pleased Ben to waste the night away reading old tomes of lore with an even older Nord, then Miraak was in no position to stop him.
He was halfway through the first book when Ben returned with two steaming bowls in his hands.
"Hot hot hot!" he exclaimed and rushed to the table, nearly spilling the bowls in his hurry to set them down. He hissed and pressed his palms to his cloth tunic like a priest preparing a solemn pledge.
"Smells divine," Miraak commented. He glanced up from his page.
"Potatoes and meat...some kinda milk in it, too. Don't tell the others. I had to bribe Tilma just so she'd let me hide some in the larder."
"That seems extreme. What kind of milk necessitates such deception?"
"Any kind but the sort your mother gives you, I suppose."
He set down his book. "What in Kyne's name are you talking about?
"C'mon, you know. Even in Hammerfell, we hear about Skyrim's scorn for the creamy stuff. It's what they call the w-weak around here, yeah? Milk-drinkers."
"Pure absurdity." Miraak glanced around the room to check for giggling whelps hiding behind furniture. "Is this some kind of joke? You cannot truly expect me to believe the Nords of this era abhor milk out of some lunatic notion of warriorhood. I have never even read of such a thing."
Ben shrugged. "All I know is that if you w-walked into the Bannered Mare and ordered a glass of it, they'd still be laughing at you come Loredas."
Miraak stared into his bowl of steaming stew, without really looking at it. "I enjoy milk."
"I can get you some," Ben offered, frozen in the motion of rising.
"No. I am finished being nursed like some infirm elder. Besides, you need to catch up. Do not lose my page." He slid the book across the table and stood.
Ben whistled as he held the volume up to the firelight. "Take your time with that milk. How can you read so fast?"
"Practice," Miraak said, "And far too much time."
The mead hall's lack of windows did not help avail his lingering sense of dislocation as he searched for Jorrvaskr's kitchen. It occurred to Miraak that he had not seen the sun in some time, and he was reminded of a long-ago home of ancient stone and winding passageways and no light except that made by fire. Therein had dwelled another band of Nords bound together by a sense of duty, though not to each other. Many here in the Companions were not born to Skyrim. What would the cult have made of Benajah Al-Bergama? An unusual sacrifice, at best. More likely to end up the temporary plaything of a curious dragon.
Remembering those years did not hurt so much anymore. He feared even to direct attention to the dragon, after last week's episode, but his consciousness endured not so much as a threatening prod in response to these ancient musings. Perhaps it was marshalling its power in preparation for some final assault. Miraak could have told it he was in no position to resist even its weakest attacks. Some part of him still wondered if he had died on the steps of Jorrvaskr, and this was all some illusion of Apocrypha.
That at least would explain why these Companions still tolerated his presence, after what he'd done. Hermaeous Mora could not concoct a believable facsimile of human nature if he read every book in Oblivion and Mundus combined. Does he still stalk my movements, even now? It had never occured to Miraak before, but a terrifying thought stopped him in the middle of a hallway. All along he had assumed the Last Dragonborn was responsible for sparing him...but perhaps he had been mistaken, as he had been mistaken about so much else. Was it Mora's decision? Did he hope I might one day rebuild myself into a worthy prize?
The sense of being cultivated hit him like a blow to the gut. The Prince of Apocrypha was not called the "Gardener of Men" without reason, and Miraak had felt the unyielding rope of this particular trap before. Even before discovering he was Dragonborn, subtle shifts of fate had directed Miraak towards forming a bond with the Golden Eye. Where other Daedra employed brute force or bloody violence, Mora crept in with his insidious whispers and suggestions. After all, how had it come to be that the Last Dragonborn arrived in Solstheim in the first place? The cultists had claimed to be acting in Miraak's interests, in executing a minor rival before he reached the peak of his power, but in their shallow explanations Miraak had seen writhing tentacles setting wheels in motion. Now the Last Dragonborn is dead. Beyond Mora's grasp. Certainly the Thalmor would have mentioned if a Daedric Prince materialized to pluck Jaxius Amaton from their clutches; spreading knowledge of his dark affiliations would have immeasurably served their cause, and either way he would have ceased to be a problem.
For ten years Miraak had been as good as dead. Now he was less so...and soon he might present a tempting target indeed. All the more reason to stay the course. The beast blood will not protect me from Hermaeus Mora, but surely Hircine will not suffer one of his servants being stolen. I will not meekly return to servitude. They will have to rip Oblivion apart to bend my knees.
He followed the faded scent of Ben's stew down a small set of stairs not far from the whelp's dormitories. The jar of milk hidden in a chilled cask did not prove difficult to locate. Ben seemed as suited to subterfuge as the warriors of the Circle he so admired. None of them would have lasted longer than a week under the cult. To a dragon, brute strength without the cunning to back it up was akin to a sword without a handle. Even Dragonborn learned this lesson eventually.
Something kept Miraak from rejoining Ben immediately, and he was drawn through Jorrvaskr and up the stairs into the feasting hall. With the chandeliers unlit and even the central hearth dim and cool, the room nearly resembled a funerary chamber. The backs of ironwood chairs stared at him as if holding the spirits of those many dead Companions who must have laughed and sung in a far older air than that he breathed. He stifled a shudder and made for the front doors.
The auroras were out in full, as if anticipating an attentive audience. Verdant brilliance ran down the shingled roofs of Whiterun and reduced the formerly triumphant blankets of snow to mere sheets of canvas for a grander design. Those shimmering rebels to night's dominion danced in the sky like ignorant children, or perhaps just indifferent ones. Miraak stood under the night-light of distant gods and shivered. This was not a nurturing beauty.
He sipped his milk and crunched down the terrace steps where seven days before a stranger's fist had made close acquaintance with his skull. Some generous soul had washed away the blood, it seemed.
By fate or chance, Miraak found himself before the young Gildergreen again. Despite the cold, it remained tall and proud: green light made strange colors off of the little tree's pink leaves.
"Miraak?"
He nearly dropped his cup when he turned to see the hooded figure approaching. Miraak cursed and groped for the spear that was sitting next to his cot back in Jorrvaskr, but the figure stepped closer and he recognized the face beneath the hood.
"Lucia," he breathed out, and let his muscles relax."You startled me."
"Oh." Lucia brushed past and slid onto one of the benches. "Sorry."
Miraak's brow raised. "Are...are you feeling well?"
"Are you? Heard ya took a real walloping from that Hammerfell fella. Meant to come see ya, but I couldn't find the time. Sorry, again. Lights are beautiful, ain't they?" Lucia rested her chin in her hands and gazed up at the sky as if she wished to sprout wings and seek out the borealis' heavenly source. "S'pose it must seem all old and usual to you, havin' lived out in the wilds so long."
"I would not say that. Did you bid Sofie farewell? I heard she left the city earlier today."
Lucia turned to the Gildergreen. When she looked at him again, wetness glistened on her face like morning dew on blades of grass. "I'm happy, y'know. I don't care what any of ya have to say about it."
"What?"
"She's pleased as a crab in mud to help ya join the city's most famous killin' guild, but when I want to do something more than temple tasks…" Her voice cracked. "You can tell Sofie I got no use for her condencision. I'm doin' important work."
He sat down beside her. "What you speak of is beyond me."
She crossed her arms. "I'm helpin' the Silver Dawn. Since we got back from your little tree quest. Guess you've been too busy to notice."
"The Silver Dawn?" It was as if all his worst fears were being realized. Stenvar's dire warnings flashed through his head, and Miraak pictured the streets of Whiterun running red. "Why would you do such a foolish thing?"
"I was hopin' you of all people would understand." Lucia's face became stone-like, though she did not move to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "For the first time in my life I feel like I'm doin' more than just keepin' my head above water. There's a man who'd been beggin' near the front gates for near a decade. He fought for the Legion. But his legs got hurt, so they didn't want him anymore. Temple kept him alive, but only just. There's never been enough to go around. Yesterday I gave him a lookout job with the Dawn. So long as he sits in a chair at Fort Greymoor for a few hours a day, he'll never be hungry again, and he'll go to sleep with a solid roof over his head."
Miraak sipped his milk and studied the faded stonework of the throughway. "Burn down one home, build another. I will not deny the equal measure of their justice."
"Ruth's house was an accident."
"In my younger years I saw many such accidents. They have a way of happening when one's life becomes an inconvenient obstacle."
"Kynareth's breath, you're just like Sofie." She stood and turned away. "Don't know why I even try."
He was moving to rise when a flurry of footsteps sounded in the square. A small fierce shape materialized beside Lucia and glared down at Miraak as if he had desecrated the gods themselves.
"Stay away from her," the Wood Elf hissed. Her right hand was wrapped in fresh bandages. "You people have done quite enough harm."
Lucia sniffed. "It's okay, Cylfina."
"No, my dear, it certainly is not." She loomed over Miraak with surprising effect for her size, though curiously he felt not a twinge of fear. Perhaps Ben's father had beaten it out of him. "Awful enough to have that cold-hearted little psychotic harrowing her steps. Lucia has virtuous souls around her now. She told us what you all made her do to those bandits. We're helping her find redemption."
"I was not aware she required such a thing." He frowned and glanced at Lucia's back. Her shoulders were as tense as a loaded crossbow. "I should like to hear this from Lucia herself."
Cylfina replied coldly, "You shall hear it from me, and listen. In the Silver Dawn, we protect our own."
"So be it."
When they were a few steps away, Miraak called out: "Lucia! Rul jol, lok."
Lucia twisted and cried, "What does that mean?"
Cylfina answered for him: "When uncertain, look to the sky." She regarded Miraak with a strange new light in her eyes. "The commander told us about you. The old man who knows the dragon tongue. You were foolish to refuse his offers."
"That is the translation, yes. That is not what it means. The translation suggests you ought to seek help from above, but true salvation comes from within. Rul jol, lok. When unsteady, rise." Miraak finished off his milk and toasted the two women. "I enjoyed seeing you again, Lucia."
He walked to Jorrvaskr with the stars at his back and did not look to see if Lucia watched him go.