A/N: aaaaaaand we're back
TW for gore and makeshift surgery, along with vomiting/ being sick. Just a heads up if you're sensitive to that kind of thing.
On a lighter note, I just realized that I can probably classify this fic as a slowburn. Cuz these guys are... definitely not fucking anything soon
alright that's pretty much it, favs/follows & comments (even if they're like "ur work sucks lmao") are much appreciated.
Before she could even lament the wind being knocked out of her, the grounds of Solstheim appeared under Squall's boots. Curled over and wheezing, she could suddenly feel every inch of her body burning- the scrapes and bruises that only served as minor inconveniences to her in Apocrypha now stung in the cold. There was a sizable gash on her right leg, and the skin on her left arm was considerably burned: luckily, not enough to incapacitate her, but enough that she could still feel the heat rising from the wound. Squall looked down to see that a portion of her tawny fur had been completely singed off, leaving a patch of flaking, red skin exposed to the elements.
She muttered a string of curses under her breath. Everything hurt.
She had not been transported to the Skaal village she first opened Waking Dreams in. Instead, she was now alone, sent to a desolate corner of the chilly Northern Solstheim wilds, with only the permafrost and mammoth conifers to keep her company.
Squall glanced at the unconscious man next to her. Well, she was almost alone.
Miraak lay profusely bleeding. The deep gash in his middle was now slick with crimson, the substance draining with frightening speed into the snow below.
Squall bit her lip as the heart in her battered body sped up and her thoughts began to race. What to do? They were at least a few miles from the Skaal village, and even if she could muster up the strength to drag the First Dragonborn all the way there, it was very likely that the people there would refuse to treat him. Squall grimaced. Not like she could blame them.
The thought came to her there: a cruel and ruthless one, but one nonetheless. She could leave now, and let Miraak rot in the wilds. Her duty had been done, her destiny fulfilled. She had no ties to this man, no reason to do anything except simply walk away and tell Frea that the job had been done. But still…
Squall shook her head, and knelt down next to Miraak, hands beginning to flush with the warmth of restoration magic.
Peeling back his dark robes, Squall pressed the pads of her fingers into the edges of the wound. She held her breath, waiting for the sinews of flesh to knit back together, feeling her energy drain with each ragged breath. Nothing happened.
She pulled away, and, frantic and desperate, unsheathed a single claw and pulled back a single layer of bloodied skin. Mixed in with the deep russet of his blood, thick black slime clung in chunks to the wound, no doubt sick reminders of the demon that dealt the blow. Squall let a steady flow of magic flow through her again, but to no avail. The slick, inky substance shielded any part of the wound from healing.
She drew a deep breath, her trembling hands fumbling for her belt. She drew her ebony dagger and lit a small flame in her palm, dipping the hilt of the blade into the fire. Squall glanced back at Miraak. At least there was the queasy fact that she couldn't really make his fragile state any less unwell.
Trying to stop her sword hand from shaking, Squall carefully nudged the first clot of the tentacle slime with the point, working the blade back and forth until the lump came free. She brought the fingers from her left hand back to the now uncovered hunk of flesh, magic now seeping into the tissue, patching up torn organs and stitching new tendons into the battered muscle. She didn't even check for a pulse, hoping that it was true that restoration magic didn't work on the dead, that this work was for naught. Squall had little training for healing: she had, however, enough knowledge on butchering animals to know the difference between a clean cut and one that would trespass upon a major artery. Squall felt bile well up in her mouth and forced herself to swallow it back. Her job was not done.
Nostrils flared as she took in frigid air in rapid, speedy breaths, Squall tediously began the process of slicing each bulbous heap of sludge- all reminders of Hermaeus Mora's cruelty- and slowly applying more and more restoration magic, until pallid skin finally came into view.
It took a few moments for Squall to realize that her hands had gone cold. The once steady flow of restoration magic had dried up, leaving her surrounded by shreds of otherworldly carnage, shaking like a leaf.
Stirring like a prophet rising from dreams of catastrophe, Squall rose to her knees, mind possessed by a much more primal spirit than her usual self. She scanned her desolate surroundings, finding little besides dense conifers and icy boulders. Luckily, the divines had blessed her with a small stream, running only a little more than a hundred feet away from her. There was no way Squall would get herself to any sort of civilization at this point, even if she decided to abandon Miraak there. She would have to gather herself and make camp. Shambling towards the water, Squall nearly collapsed halfway through the trek, dry heaving as if her body was urging her to vomit. She could only spit up bile: how long had she gone without food? Squall vaguely remembered eating a sorts of breakfast, but no lunch: the Black Book had distracted her. She shook her head. Just how long was I in Apocrypha?
Tears began to well up in Squall's eyes as she trudged the rest of the way to the water. There was something so sickeningly laughable about the whole situation: one Dragonborn knocked out, robes still slick with blood that only recently stopped flowing. The other, crouched over a creek, gagging on her own tears. The First and the Last, humbled in their own misery.
Squall tried not to think too much about that.
She slowly began shedding herself of her weapons and armor. Squall had packed light for Apocrypha, expecting an easy return back to the Skaal village. The only weapons she had brought were her warhammer, its head now rusted with blood and inky goo, and her ebony dagger, which still sat next to Miraak's body. She quietly peeled off the hefty ebony armor she had journeyed into the Daedric realm armor was badly damaged: spattered with blood and dented in a few places. Squall shivered in the simple tunic and breeches, only adorned now with the amulet of Kynareth (or Khenarthi, as Squall had always known her as) she often wore under her armor. Her clothes were soaked through with sweat, now only just drying from the dampness of Apocrypha. She had fortunately packed a thick cloak, which she now slung over her shoulders, rejoicing in the warmth it brought her.
The water was icy to the touch, but Squall still sunk her hands in, scrubbing away all the blood and dirt until she could finally see the small spots that dotted her fingers, growing larger as they trailed up her arm, kissing her chest and back, creating constellations of her very own. When she was younger, Squall would trace the distances between her spots with her forefinger, making up stories for each pattern she could make out on her own body. It was like a game: here is the Spriggan, the Senche, the dragon. All beings of her very own, imprinted onto her by the Divines.
Despite the cold, Squall cupped some river water in her hands and splashed it onto her face. Her mind was wandering, deluded by the fragile state she had put herself in. She had brought along a few potions and a hunk of bread, all settled in a simple bundle she kept strapped to her armor. Crawling back to where it lay, Squall dug for one of the healing tonics she had bought in Raven Rock, uncorking the potion with a swift tug. She had to stop herself from draining the entire thing in one gulp like how one would chug a bottle of mead- instead opting to take shallow sips, just in case her stomach refused to agree with the foreign substance. Her body hummed with delight, her chest rumbling as the gashes she sustained began to close up, scars forming then disappearing in a heartbeat.
As she drank, she glanced at the body she had so haphazardly abandoned for the waters. Miraak still seemed unconscious. Squall hoped that her healing was enough to keep the man from leaving Nirn forever.
But why save him at all? A part of her thought. Squall looked down at her drink. For that question, she had no answer. Squall had never considered herself to be the kind of fool who tried to swindle the universe out of making sacrifices. She knew that acts of heroism often called for hard choices: whether she could make them or not was up for another debate. However, she could at least realize that such acts were necessary.
Still, Squall was not cruel. When the Blades told her she must kill Paarthurnax, she laughed in their faces. She knew the difference between the will of the gods and the wrath of man, at least to an extent.
Her gaze steadied on Miraak, a familiar chant beginning to reverberate in the back of her mind: 'Here is his shrine... That they have forgotten... Here do we toil... That we might remember…' she shook it away, but the chill it gave her still remained. Is he worth saving? The thought was unavoidable. It seeped into the crevices of her skull, weighing her down more than any chestplate or shield ever could.
Is he worth saving? No, probably not. Her saving Miraak was a smear on all the good promises she had made: to the people of Solstheim, to her own rules of conduct as a Dragonborn, even to the Daedric prince of knowledge himself. It was an impulsive act on her part, one born from the part of her heart that still twisted when she stabbed, that wept at every killing Squall bore witness to.
Was it right, to save a monster? Squall stirred from her spot, placing the now empty bottle back into her satchel. She began to gather her armor and walk back towards Miraak's body.
No, it wasn't right. However- It's not like I haven't made the wrong choice before, Squall thought. She wasn't exactly a perfect Dragonborn.
Miraak hadn't stirred since the pair had been teleported to these wilds. Squall cleared away debris from a patch of land in front of the body, then searched for wood and kindling for the fire. She might as well make camp: although, she doubted that she would get any sleep, despite her aching body begging to differ. Lighting the twigs and dried leaves with a swift bolt of flame delivered from her hand, Squall forced herself to relax and sit down in front of the fire, letting its warmth sink deep into her fur, wrapping around her better than any blanket and cloak ever could. She dug around in her knapsack for the loaf of bread she had packed, tugging off a sizable chunk. Nibbling on the softest innards of the roll, she stared into the flames, letting the mundanity of their movement lull her into a state of rest. She glanced anxiously at the body in front of her, which still refused to stir. Was there more she could do? She couldn't administer any healing potions while he was still knocked out, and her restoration magic could only go so far in healing the wound. She tiptoed closer to Miraak, finally draping her own fur cloak over the body. Peering into the slits of his garish gold mask, Squall tried to discern any sign of life, but the only thing she could see was a chilling darkness.
Growing impatient, Squall reached out and grazed the hard metal surface with her fingers, catching one of her fingers on the underside of one of its sculpted pincers. She began to lift the mask up slowly, then drew a harsh breath, dropping her hand, the touch still lingering like embers to a flame.
Miraak shifted ever-so-slightly.
Squall's ears fell flat against her hair as her senses quickened. A hiss began stirring in her throat.
Miraak stirred slowly, in what felt like ages to Squall, frozen in her crouched position over the First Dragonborn.
"Where-" Miraak took in his surroundings. "Skyrim?"
"Not quite," Squall whispered. She could feel his gaze stiffen as he acknowledged her.
"You-" Miraak paused, one hand quickly grasping his stomach, fingers grazing the fresh skin. For a few seconds, the pair were silent, with only the faint rustling of the Solstheim wilds providing symphony to their staredown.
"You have made a grave mistake, Dovahkiin," Miraak finally rasped.