She was one of the unlucky ones.

She had an active soul mark, a bright, cheerful blue to signal her soulmate was very much alive, but no one could read the script the name was written in, strange marks almost like scratches across her forearm.

It was short, at least: one word, four letters, twelve scratches on her skin. But that made it unusual, too; Altmer society normally gave multiply names to make differentiation easier. She herself had four names but only one that mattered: "Amlugdaril," "dragon-slayer." Her parents quietly resisted the Thalmor, and hoped that by giving her such a name, this "dragon" would be slain.

Futile? Probably. But hope was tenacious.

Amlugdaril spent most of her time reading, trying to figure out what her soulmate's name was. (She was also avoiding the other children, who mocked her for her single name. Adults looked down on her, too, because her soulmate obviously wasn't an Altmer and that made her lesser than her "true-breeding" peers.) But no matter how many languages she learned, she couldn't find the one that matched.

She could have been a good diplomat. She knew every major dialect from the Summerset Isle to Morrowind, and High Rock to Black Marsh. She had read more books than most Altmer ten times her age. She knew more about etiquette, politics, history, science, and art than all her cousins combined. But her soulmate left her an outcast.

She joined the Thieves Guild instead. Although she could kill, she didn't have a taste for it the same way the Morag Tong and the Dark Brotherhood did, and items stolen could be replaced. Lives could not.

That came in handy when she was forced to barter her way into passage to Cyrodiil after her parents were betrayed, and murdered by the Thalmor. The Imperial City was good for her and the local chapter of the Guild; a lot of trade went through it, a lot of rich people, which led to a rich Guild.

Then the Great War happened. The Imperial army was routed, Cyrodill sacked, and Amlugdaril knew she couldn't stay. She was wanted by the Thalmor for treason, a death sentence even though she'd never actually done anything, and so she fled. She made her way out to the countryside to set up a farm and serve as a fence and safehouse for active members.

And someone sold her out.

Skyrim was supposed to be a new beginning. She's been given a letter of acknowledgement to get her in with the Skyrim chapter and enough gold to reach them even if it took a year (the guildmaster of Cyrodiil owed her a life-debt after she quite literally snatched him from the executioner's block and Thalmor "justice").

But then she got caught up in a fight between Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers, and then it was Helgen and the headsman.

And Alduin. Divines, if he had been even a minute slower…

But he wasn't, and she was alive.

Initially she hadn't wanted anything to do with the "Dragonborn" nonsense – but then on her way to Riften, she stumbled across a farm.

It had been put to the torch, and not by men or mer, the corpses of the family cooked in the act of running away from the shell that had been their home. Fire still flickered within.

Amlugdaril stood there and stared for a long time. Then she said, "Oblivion take it all," and turned around.

Fighting Alduin had been a disaster, even with Dragonrend and all her allies. They had moved together with the ease of a well-oiled Dwemer Centurion; even Paarthurnax had found his place. But it wasn't enough; a vampire, an assassin (in training), two werewolves, and a Dragonborn thief weren't enough to take down the World-Eater.

And then there were the cultists waiting for them in Ivarstead, and Solstheim across the sea, and Miraak.

Fucking Miraak.

As if she didn't have enough problems already.

But she encountered a familiar word (four letters, twelve scratches) on a Word Wall in the depths of his temple. At least it was a real word, even if she still didn't know what it meant.

But then there came the Skaal, and Stalhrim, and Tharstan…

And Vahlok's tomb. Three Word Walls, and the second had what she wanted. She waved the translator over and pointed to the word she wanted, asking him what it said. Tharstan squinted at it and said, "Allegiance-Guide.

"Miraak."

Amlugdaril had stared, then asked him if he was sure, then laughed – hysterically, helplessly – until she cried, crouched in front of a Word Wall in the tomb of a Dragon Priest.

Her allies – her friends – were pissed, ready to storm the realm of the Divines to demand a change, or Apocrypha itself to beat the shit out of Miraak with their own hands.

But in the end, she arrived at the Summit of Apocrypha alone.

Her fight with Miraak was beyond magnificent, and there were times she couldn't help but laugh in delight. Finally, someone who could meet her weapons with their own, who could strike and shoot and shock and Shout with an intensity to match her. Even though the Dragon Priest didn't make any sounds of his own, she could read his fierce joy in the way he moved, struck, spelled.

They were denied a true end to their battle. Hermaeus Mora interceded, and Amlugdaril's fury burned so hot that it circled back around to icy cold as Miraak's soul rushed out of his body and into her own. Her arm felt like it had been sliced open, but no Restoration spell could heal this wound.

She refused the Daedric Prince again even as she claimed her soulmate's remains and gear and packed it all away.

Then she returned to Solstheim and marched straight for Raven Rock, barely stopping long enough to say goodbye to the Skaal. She didn't break down, not there or on the ship back to Skyrim, though she did set the Priest's grinning skull on the pillow next to her and fell asleep looking at it on many a night.

When they docked, she went straight to Ivarstead, High Hrothgar, the Throat of the World, before nearly throwing herself down in front of Paarthurnax and saying, under no uncertain terms, "I need to learn the Shout Alduin uses to revive the other dragons."

It took weeks. Weeks of meditating on her own body and what it was to exist within it, of the flow of time and what it did to said body, on what it would be to undo those things. Weeks of careful, restless journeys slaying dragons before nearly sprinting the whole way back to the monastery where Miraak's bones were carefully kept.

Weeks of tests on bandits and necromancers and even one notable dragon, before Amlugdaril felt she was ready.

She laid every bone out in its place on a stone slab at the Summit of the Throat, careful not to let even one fall or get carried away by the wind. When the skeleton was whole but loose, she stepped back and gathered herself.

"SLEN TIID VO!"

And then fire licked over his bones, leaving living, breathing flesh in its place, even as his soul rushed out of her body and back into his own.

Her arm tingled, then burned.