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lockewrites · 2 years

Text

I Thought I Lost You

F!LDB x Miraak || SFT || 946 words

AO3 & FF.net

Prompt: Miraak and Telyra, "I thought I lost you" hugs, course whats not to love about hurt/comfort fics

“Search for survivors,” Telyra ordered. “Gather those well enough to transport to the healers.”

“And the enemy?”

“Bind any of higher ranking,” she replied. “Kill the rest.”

With a nod, the lieutenant rushed off, gathering her unit to carry out Telyra’s orders.

“General.”

Another soldier approached, his voice went unheard as Telyra looked over the battlefield. Iron and ozone weighing down the air, too heavy even for any bit of breeze; the scene stagnant, silent other than the calls of those looking for fallen loved ones and fellow soldiers.

“Telyra,” he said, speaking louder.

She turned this time, looking up despite every move causing her body to protest in pain. Erik, looking a little worse for wear but otherwise uninjured.

“There’s been no word from Miraak.”

Any relief she felt at seeing her closest friend alive vanished. Her stomach dropped, nausea welling inside her as a lump formed in the back of her throat, threatening her breath.

“Find Miraak!” she cried across the fields, blood painting her tongue as her Voice sent a ripple through the grasses. “He takes priority!”

Telyra pushed past Erik and hurried through the bodies in the direction she’d last seen Miraak. Eyes darting over each fallen soldier, praying he wasn’t one of them yet desperate to see his face.

“Miraak!” she Shouted. Again and again, she called out, her Voice piercing the air as her throat burned.

Her treatment of the dead was unsanctimonious, but she cared little; she flipped bodies, tore off helmets, pushed the dead aside with her bloodied boots. With each unfamiliar face, the bile in her throat grew. If anyone spoke to her, it was lost to the deafening pounding of her heart in her ears and her panicked focus. This frantic pattern continued, her trembling body pushing beyond the boundaries of exhaustion and her voice becoming nothing more than a rasp with each order barked at every passing soldier. Find him. Find him. Find him. Find Miraak!

It all felt in vain; with each minute past, his chances of surviving dwindled. If he was hurt, if he was on the brink of death…

Telyra broke into a run, willing her spent muscles to continue through the exhaustion and pain. She fell to her knees beside a large, face-down body clad in familiar armor. Turning him over with what little strength she had left, Telyra was filled with an anxiety-provoking mix of relief and dread. His front was covered in blood, originating from multiple impacts in the armor.

“Miraak.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes fluttered and opened, barely enough to see the blues of his irises. He placed a shaky hand on her arm a moment before it slid off.

“Miraak!” She cradled his face as tears rolled down her own.

With his lips barely parting, he muttered, “Dii mal ruvaak.”

“Don’t you dare leave me!” she cried.

His body grew limp.

“I need a healer!” she Shouted, her mouth filling with blood once more. “Get me a fucking healer!”

______

“You need to sleep.”

Telyra ignored Erik and continued her pacing outside the infirmary. It’d been a struggle to get her out of the room, but Erik managed to talk her down; a feat that impressed even the seasoned healer.

“You passing out from exhaustion isn’t going to help Miraak,” he lectured.

She threw her hands up. “How am I supposed to rest knowing he could–”

“Telyra.” Erik pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on and placed a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll make it. He’s always made it.” His voice wavered, so subtle anyone other than Telyra would’ve missed it.

Stepping away from Erik, she leaned against the wall and slid onto the floor, digging her fingers into her battle-greased hair and letting her head rest on her palms.

Tears pricked her already-raw eyes. They’d come so far, were so close to seeing the end of this war; stability and peace a near-reality on the verge of crashing. Their life together had been constantly plagued with the promise of another fight, another enemy, another world-ending threat. To see a life of quiet and love teetering on the edge, a breath away from falling into Oblivion; it tore at her soul.

The door opened, and Healer Arimon stepped out, his wrinkles looking even deeper, his eyes noticeably exhausted.

“General.”

Telyra looked up at him, her lips parted but unable to ask the question that caught in her throat and threatened to strangle her.

“He’s unconscious,” he began, “but stable.”

Erik held a hand out to Telyra, pulling her to her feet.

“It will take time for General Miraak to recover,” the healer explained. “We’ll need to keep an eye on him, but for now, you may go to him.”

He stepped aside before Telyra could run through him.

“Thank you, Arimon,” she heard Erik say behind her.

“The gods truly must watch over him,” Arimon replied in a hushed tone. “Were he not Dragonborn, I don’t think he would’ve survived.”

Telyra was too elated to see the rise and fall of his chest to pay much mind to the implications of Arimon’s words. A basin stood in the corner of the room, bloodied rags fueled the fire, the light bouncing across Miraak’s face. She hovered over him, her fingers grazing over the raised, sutchered skin on his cheek. Her hand moved to rest against his other, thumb trembling across his cheekbone.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, fresh tears rolling down her face.

His head turned, his hand covered hers, and he placed a soft kiss on her palm.

His voice was little more than breath. “Hi fen neh saan zey.”

#miraak #skyrim #miraak x last dragonborn #miraak x ldb #tes #the elder scrolls #telyra ravencast #ship: it's only been a lifetime #fic: tmdrabble #alxxiis actually wrote something

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lockewrites · 3 years

Text

Constricting Convictions

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 15

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 3635 words AO3 and FF(.)Net

Following the transferal of Miraak’s knowledge, Telyra experiences a closer look at his past.

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.”

#miraak #skyrim #miraak x ldb #miraak x last dragonborn #tes #the elder scrolls #skyrim fanfiction #tes fanfiction #ldb #last dragonborn #ship: it's only been a lifetime #telyra ravencast #fic: the perfect storm #thank you to everyone who patiently waited for me to update this!#alxxiis actually wrote something

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lockewrites · 2 years

Note

Miraak and Telyra, "I thought I lost you" hugs, course whats not to love about hurt/comfort fics

This is queued up for tomorrow!!! I hope it's good xD I wrote this very much not sober

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lockewrites · 3 years

Text

This Single Word

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 14

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 3635 words AO3 and FF(.)Net

Erik and Telyra agree on a possible way of breaking Miraak out of Apocrypha, but the First has some concerns.

“How does it feel?”

The three of them sat around a fire where they’d sparred previously, not particularly concerned about anyone seeing the smoke now that Miraak didn’t look like he’d just walked out of Apocrypha; he simply appeared a very tall and slightly unkempt man.

Miraak looked up in response to Erik’s question. “It feels… odd. As though I am naked, yet I cannot deny the relief in being free from the constriction.” He touched his cheek as if to ensure the mask was still gone. “I do not regret it.”

“That’s good. I’m not sure I’d be able to put it back together.” Telyra smiled. “Don’t think my magic works well the other way around.”

“You’ve proven that with every bit of healing you’ve tried,” Erik teased.

“I usually manage to stop the bleeding,” she retorted. “That’s the important thing.”

Miraak chuckled but otherwise remained quiet.

“So,” Telyra began, “this grand plan of yours, Erik. Care to explain it to him?” She motioned to Miraak next to her.

Erik nodded and took a breath before launching into the details. “Telyra mentioned the possibility of using an Oblivion Gate,” he said. “The biggest obstacle being that you can’t get a sigil stone.”

“Correct,” Miraak replied.

“But,” Erik continued, “a sigil stone might not need to come from Oblivion. I did my own reading while you two were off in Apocrypha. There was another book that said it could be nearly anything with enough power, or something along those lines.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Why not use the Tree Stone as a makeshift sigil stone?”

“The sigil stones have always been activated while inside Oblivion,” Miraak explained. “I am unsure whether doing so on Nirn would have the same result.” He pressed his lips together while in thought for a few moments before speaking again. “I had retained control over the stone believing it would assist in my escape, but I do not believe it alone carries enough power to act as a sigil stone.”

“Maybe not right now,” Erik said, “but what if you or Telyra added your own power to it?”

Miraak shook his head. “I cannot imbue enough while the bulk of my being remains in Apocrypha.”

“But what about me?” Telyra asked.

READ THE REST ON AO3/FF(.)NET

#miraak #skyrim #miraak x ldb #miraak x dragonborn #miraak x last dragonborn #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim fanfiction #tes fanfiction #fic: the perfect storm #ship: it's only been a lifetime #alxxiis actually wrote something

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lockewrites · 4 years

Text

Hesitation

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 11

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 4289 words AO3 and FF links on the master page (/psmaster)

Erik agrees to meet with Telyra and Miraak for quality bonding, and Miraak gifts them the full story of his rebellion.

“Dammit!” Erik spat blood onto the ashen shore.

With an overjoyed laugh, Telyra wriggled her fingers at him, taunting him with threats of more weaponized icicles.

“You must anticipate the attack,” Miraak chided. “She harbors a great deal of power.”

Telyra couldn’t help but beam.

“But her attacks have been rather predictable.”

She shot a scowl at Miraak. “You ass.” Her ire disappeared as soon as she turned back to Erik; his hand wiped the back of his mouth, leaving a red streak across his face, and she took a great deal more satisfaction in it than she cared to admit. As children, he’d always been better with the sticks they swung at each other, his larger size giving him the advantage over her as they ungracefully flailed about. Now adults, now properly trained, she was the better fighter--and magic, she reminded him, still counted as a weapon.

“How is this supposed to help me?” Erik asked as he jumped out of the way of a rogue icicle. “I mean--I suppose dodging is useful, but I figured we’d be actually fighting, not playing target practice.”

Telyra laughed again.

“Dodging is a greatly undervalued skill among Nords,” Miraak commented. “Or so shows in what I have read. I have not had the privilege to watch those of this era, but I will not allow my teachings to be wasted on one who simply rushes in as though he were a wild boar.”

Erik huffed. “It’s a little hard to imagine this being useful training when she’s laughing like that.”

“I’m just making up for our childhood,” she remarked, flicking her wrist and sending a small mass of solidified sand toward him.

His sword caught the center and split the sand in half, the now-loose grains whipping past him. “I agreed to do this thinking I’d get something out of it,” Erik muttered. “All I’m getting is beat up with nothing to show for it.”

Miraak stepped behind Telyra and placed a hand on her shoulder, ignoring Erik's gaze flicking to the point of contact with a raised brow. “I think you have had your fun,” he said.

There was a smile evident in his voice; she wished she could see it. “Fine,” she said. “I’m about spent anyway.” She turned and walked toward the boulder Miraak had been observing them from; settling on the still-warm surface, she leaned back against her hands and let her feet dangle over the edge.

“You should pay apt attention,” Miraak said. “Learning the ways of a weapon you do not use is beneficial in defending against it.”

She waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sure to enjoy the show.”

As he shook his head, Miraak held out his right arm; in a moment, his strange sword materialized in his hand.

Telyra’s gaze jumped to Erik; she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. Sparring lacked the same adrenaline rush received when in an actual fight; this was not a life or death situation, but the threat of a great deal of pain was still present, as was the opportunity to overthink and expect such pain. Telyra’s attacks were not unrelenting, she held back as one would for a friend… but Miraak was no friend, not to Erik at least, and he’d left even Telyra bloodied and bruised after their spar. She suddenly doubted whether this was a good idea.

“Leave him breathing, at least,” she called out to Miraak, only half-joking.

A slight dip of his head told her he heard.

Erik’s knuckles were white, and Telyra could practically hear the cracks in his joints as they choked his hilt, tightening with each step Miraak took toward him. She didn’t blame him; she’d faced Miraak before in actual battle, and even in their spar he was intimidating to stand against. And now, as he strode across the gray sands, his confidence and experience cast a long shadow toward Erik.

“No magic,” Erik said through gritted teeth.

“No magic,” Miraak agreed, positioning his sword forward.

The clash of metal echoed in time with the waves, though the water wasn’t quite loud enough to mask the sound, Telyra didn’t worry much. This had been where she and Miraak sparred, and no one had bothered them then, and her fireballs were far louder. Not that she had the capacity to worry at the moment, completely enthralled by the scene before her.

It was vastly different, watching from the side rather than facing his attacks directly. And while she doubted he would admit it, his certainty with his blade far surpassed that of his magic. With magic, his movements were rigid, not with a lack of grace, rather military-like precision. Forced to mimic his masters rather than be given a basic technique to conform to his own. But with his sword, he moved like a dancer--Telyra could think of no other way to describe it. Legs, arms, body in perfect tandem as his robes billowed around him; she expected such an abundance of cloth to be a hindrance, but he was either used to battling in the outfit, or he was so utterly aware of himself, he knew how to avoid entangling himself.

Erik didn’t stand a chance in beating him, that had been known before their spar began, and it seemed like he wouldn’t last long, but with each move, the young Nord caught and dodged more of Miraak’s blows. Telyra assumed Miraak was holding back, but even still, his attacks were quick and powerful, and Erik was holding his own. Between clashes, she thought she caught the faintest whisper of Miraak’s words.

She continued to watch, tempted between cheering Erik on and goading Miraak into his full ability, but she held her tongue. Erik didn’t deserve to wind up on the healer’s table simply because of her interest--or curiosity, as she mentally corrected herself; it was natural to wonder about an ally’s full potential, obviously.

With one final attack, Miraak dislodged Erik’s sword and stopped his own just short of Erik’s neck.

“You are a quick study,” Miraak remarked, returning his blade to his side.

“It wasn’t like he came into this with nothing,” Telyra said, now able to hear without the tinging of metal grating against her ears. “We’ve been in plenty of fights.”

“And you have likely survived them thus far due to your ability,” he said, turning to Telyra. “You have had formal training, and you are dovahkiin, natural strength boosting a trained mind and body.” He returned his focus to a frowning Erik. “But you, if given proper training, could be quite formidable. And if you choose to remain at Telyra’s side, you will need to be. She will need you to be.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing Miraak before settling into a look Telyra couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she said, waving her arms for emphasis.

Miraak glanced at her. “I simply meant you will need a companion able to protect you should you be unable to do so yourself,” he explained, his voice a tad too fast.

“Aw,” she teased. “Look at you, caring.”

He let out a sigh but otherwise ignored her. “Shall we duel again?”

“Yes!” Erik replied enthusiastically, wiping his brow with the back of his hand as he smiled. “I mean--” His lips fell straight and he nodded. “Yes.”

Again, they faced off, and Telyra was content to simply sit and watch as Miraak’s words rolled around in her mind. She pulled her feet onto the stone and rested her arms and chin on her knees. It put a smile on her face, knowing some small part of him cared. And it grew as she watched, a feeling of completeness in the three of them being here together; even if their time as a group was temporary, she felt confident this was meant to be. Her efforts were rewarded when Erik agreed to join them in their sparring, further still when Miraak agreed to offer Erik some pointers.

“Why would I want to let him smack me around with his sword?” Erik said.

“It wouldn’t be just smacking you around,” Telyra replied, rolling her eyes. “He was a dragon priest, he probably has more training than anyone you’d find in Skyrim. You’d be getting as close to formal training as you’ve ever gotten.”

He eyed her. “And why would he even agree to help me out?”

“Because I asked him.”

“And he just listens to you?”

“I… I mean, we haven’t really…” She pursed her lips. “Please. This is important to me.”

Erik crossed his arms. “Why? Why do you want us to get along so bad? I barely even see him.”

“Because I don’t know how long it’ll take to get him out,” she explained. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here, and the longer we’re here, the more often you two are going to interact, and I’d rather it not be just silence and dirty looks.”

With a sigh, he let his arms fall to his hips. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “But don’t expect buddy-buddy. I still don’t trust him.”

Her thoughts drifted to wonderings of the future, what would happen after Miraak was freed. Where would he go? What would he do? Would he still try to conquer Solstheim? She didn’t think he truly wanted that, but if he had no other direction, no other ideas as to what to do with himself… He should travel, she thought, travel the world and experience the era; though, that seemed lonely and boring for someone like him. Would acting as the hero suit him? Traveling with her and Erik, saving people, stopping Alduin? Telyra found the idea appealing; the thought of not seeing him, not listening to him speak in his strange way, it left a dull ache in her chest.

“You all right?”

She jolted and looked up at Erik and Miraak standing in front of her, swords sheathed--or gone entirely, in Miraak’s case.

“You look…” Erik pursed his lips in thought. “You look like you’re thinking too hard about something unpleasant.”

Telyra smiled and shrugged. “It’s nothing,” she replied, straightening her legs. “You two have fun? I sort of zoned out, but it looks like you still have all of your limbs.”

Erik rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, and each one of them is going to hurt like a son of bitch tomorrow.”

She glanced at Miraak who bore no wounds, but his breathing was haggard with exertion. “Why don’t you take a breather,” she said. She pointed at her pack on the ground. “I packed extra food and water. You both look like you could use it.”

Erik plopped onto the ground and grabbed her bag and pulled out a canteen; after helping himself to a long chug, he offered it up to Miraak. He accepted it tentatively, and simply looked at it.

“If you’re concerned about the mask,” Telyra teased, “you can just lift the bottom. We can look away if you’re worried we’ll see your chin.”

“No, it is not that,” he replied. “I… I have not needed food or drink since my imprisonment.”

Telyra furrowed her brow. “At all? Even after our fight or our sparring?”

He shook his head slowly, still looking at the canteen. “I do not remain outside Apocrypha long enough for the need to take hold. After our battle, I immediately returned and began to heal. The same for our sparring sessions.” Miraak’s head lifted. “This is the longest I have lingered on Tamriel. It is a strange sensation.”

“Being thirsty?” Erik asked.

“After having not experienced it for so long…”

“Well,” Telyra said, the jest leaving her voice. “Take a drink.”

He lifted the very edge of his mask and brought the canteen beneath; he tilted back and drank… and continued drinking.

With mirrored looks of raised brows, Erik and Telyra watched and waited until he finished.

A satisfied sigh quickly turned into a surprised gasp as Miraak set his mask back in place and held the canteen down to Erik. “I, er… apologize,” he said.

Erik shook it and returned it to the bag when it became obvious it was empty.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Telyra suggested. “Or do you need to go back?”

Miraak looked down a moment before shaking his head. “I do not need to return,” he said. “Not yet.” He walked toward her and sat cross-legged on the ground against her boulder, just a few inches from her dangling legs.

“How long are you able to stay outside Apocrypha?” she asked.

“I do not know of an exact time constraint,” he explained. “Rather, I feel as though there is a tether keeping me connected to Apocrypha. Regardless of the amount of time spent on Tamriel, the tether always beckons me to return. It simply grows tighter the longer I remain.”

“Can you just… ignore it?” Erik asked.

“No,” Miraak replied. “I am not in my full power here. That leash is tied to the portion of my being that remains confined to Mora’s realm. Sitting here at this moment, I can feel that void.”

Telyra gestured for Erik to give her the other canteen as she spoke. “Does it--I don’t know--hurt? Or is it just an empty feeling?”

“It is a feeling similar to the recent learning of a loved one’s passing,” he said. “There are times it manifests as physical pain, but most often, it is a constant hollow feeling.”

As she tilted her head back and drank, Telyra couldn’t help but think this was good for Erik to hear; maybe after this, the training and the insight into what Miraak dealt with, Erik could have a better grasp on why she wanted to help. Why she sympathized.

“Was that how it felt with Vahlok?” Erik asked.

Telyra sputtered on the water, surprised at the question.

“I did not kill him,” Miraak replied, his voice in monotone.

“No, but,” Erik said as he gnawed on some jerky he pulled from the pack, “a betrayal is like a death. Your friendship with him died.”

She narrowed her eyes at Erik, wondering why he was curious; she shot a glance at Miraak who had his head tilted toward her. A blush crept up her face, feeling as though she’d been caught sharing secrets that weren’t her own.

“I read that book,” Erik explained, “that one about your battle with him. Telyra told me some of what you shared in an attempt to get me to sympathize with you.”

Her look of confusion turned into a glare.

He held up his hands. “I’m not looking to start anything,” he insisted. “I just want to hear it firsthand.”

“Why?” Miraak asked, the single syllable laced with suspicion.

Telyra groaned; any progress made in their relationship potentially disappearing in the next few moments.

“Nords love stories,” Erik said. “I want to hear yours.”

Looking between the two of them, she felt the tension building, the challenge in Erik’s eyes. Just as she opened her mouth to attempt to diffuse the situation, Miraak sighed.

“Shall I start at the beginning?” Miraak asked.

Erik grinned. “Of course.”

“I will not bore you with the ongoings before the start of my rebellion,” Miraak said.

Telyra suspected it was more likely he didn’t remember.

“But I will preface the story with my dissatisfaction with the treatment from our dragon masters,” he continued. “Even before learning of my nature, I longed for freedom. But it had been merely a fantasy until I slayed my first dragon. I admit, I cannot recall the exact reason for doing so--I imagine it drove me to anger, and I drew my blade. Once it fell, the body began to disintegrate, and I absorbed its soul. I had not known, at the time, what happened to me, and I had no one I could ask.” He unfolded his legs and placed his feet against the ground, his forearms rested on his knees. “It was shortly after Mora reached out to me. He provided me answers. He provided me an opportunity to escape the dragons’ grasp.”

“I can’t imagine he gave it willingly,” Telyra remarked.

With a shake of his head, Miraak replied, “Mora does nothing without cost. I provided him the secrets of the dragons, secrets privy only to me due to my status as a dragon priest. And I provided him my Voice, my identity.” His fingers grazed his mask. “My face.” He sighed. “I became his champion, and I amassed a following the likes of which exceeded even his expectations.”

“He had to have given you more than just an answer,” Erik said. “A quick, ‘Hey, that thing that happened to you, that means you’re Dragonborn,’ doesn’t seem worth devoting yourself to him.”

“Mora is not only a master at gathering knowledge,” Miraak said. “He knows how to dissect it, analyze it, twist it for his purposes. With the knowledge of the dragons I provided, he, in turn, taught me how to use the dragons’ power against them. He taught me how to apply the power of the souls I gathered, and he taught me how best to gather that power. He created for me a Shout to bring the dragons themselves to their knees.” He paused, his head dipping a bit.

“When did you actually rebel?” Erik asked, his eyes wide with interest, or perhaps attempting to see better in the dimming light. “I mean, when did you make it public?”

Miraak looked back up. “In the colosseum.”

“What colosseum?” Telyra pursed her lips. “I haven’t noticed any arena on the island.”

“It was near Forelhost, in southeast Skyrim,” he replied. “Suleykgenun, it had once been known. Dragons are fond of displays of power, even among mortals. Only priests or those chosen by the priests could participate, excluding the dragons themselves, of course.”

“So, you wanted to show off,” Telyra teased, nudging him with her boot.

“I had always been competitive,” he explained, a smile in his voice. “And a touch dramatic. Whispers of my treachery had spread, of course, but nothing had yet been confirmed. With Mora’s Shout, I used the very dragons Alduin sent to watch over me to spread word that I had not, in fact, defected. No dragon had had a mortal’s will thrust upon them. They had no reason to disbelieve them.” His head fell back against the stone. “But once in that colosseum, once that dragon lay bloodied at my feet and I devoured its soul, nii lost mindok. No longer was the absolute death of a dragon only possible by another. Chaos ensued.”

Telyra, having had enough of her bottom going numb on such a hard surface, pushed herself forward and settled onto the ground beside Miraak. “I would’ve loved to have seen that,” she said. “I’ve never seen a startled dragon. I bet it’s hilarious.”

“And terrifying,” Miraak remarked, sparing her a glance. “I fled to my temple. The colosseum was naught but dirt and ash that very day.”

“So,” Erik said, “when did Vahlok come in?”

“Ah.” Miraak tilted his head. “I apologize. I fear nostalgia took hold, though I had promised to start at the beginning. Vahlok came to me shortly after. He begged that I return and plead for mercy, but I knew such a thing was impossible. I would not have been permitted to exist after such a display. Even if I had not given myself over to treachery, I would have been killed for my power alone.”

In her peripheral, Telyra saw Miraak’s shoulders slump forward slightly, and the urge to reach out and provide comfort gripped her; an arm around his shoulders, or his waist, a hand atop his, a gentle squeeze that said nothing but “It’s all right.” But she refrained, Erik’s gaze stilling her limbs. Instead, she leaned just enough to brush her arm against his.

“Vahlok eventually understood to return would mean my death,” he continued.

“Why would he care so much?” Erik asked, leaning forward, giving Miraak his rapt attention.

“He loved me,” Miraak said, his shoulders falling even further. “As I did him. He was my best friend, my partner.”

Telyra’s eyes shot to Miraak’s defeated form. He hadn’t shared that detail with her, but she understood his withholding. Betrayed not only by your closest friend, but your lover as well--worse still when both were embodied by the same person--it was an agony better left unspoken.

“He joined me in my quest,” he went on. “Together, we led my following through battle and hardship and sought to end Alduin’s reign. I had believed us near-invincible.” His legs folded again, and his arms fell into his lap, the movement pulling him away from her touch a moment before he leaned back against her. “And, one day, he vanished. I feared he had been slain or captured, but reports claimed otherwise. I refused to believe at first, but I could deny it no longer when Sahrotaar told me. He simply walked away.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, the threat of it cracking ever-present as he spoke the last words. Telyra’s chest ached for him. She glanced at Erik whose eager face had grown placid, save for the barest wrinkle in his brow.

“I could not confirm his return to the dragons,” he continued, “nor could I believe it. But I accepted his leaving. I thought, perhaps, it had become too overwhelming for him, and he could no longer handle the weight bearing down on us. Still, I could not ignore the possibility of his capture and subsequent torture to reveal my plans. I attempted to make changes as though his knowledge had been handed to Alduin, but Vahlok had always been the better strategist. He anticipated my reaction.”

Silence settled among them, even the waves seemed to still as both Erik and Telyra waited for Miraak to continue. She knew what came next, as did Erik, but they were eager to hear the remainder from Miraak himself.

“The original plan had been to strike Bromjunaar,” he finally said. “We were to ride together with the might of the rebellion and strike at the heart of Alduin’s power. But I decided to send only a portion of my force, instead, to Forelhost. Led by Sahnos, we sought to destroy one temple at a time while I gathered my bearings. I did not want to appear idle or weak after the loss of Vahlok.” His head straightened, and he looked forward at the barely-visible ocean. Night had fallen.

“He knew me so well,” Miraak muttered. “With my army split, my temple was vulnerable, and a force even larger than the one I had gathered for Bromjunaar invaded my lands. At the head of the battalion stood Vahlok. No chains. No use of force holding him there.” His hands clenched in his lap. “He Shouted my name. I could not help but answer. He offered no chance at the question I longed to ask. The moment I stepped foot outside, he ordered the attack.

“The ensuing battle left both armies and my temple in ruin,” he said. “But my focus had narrowed to a pinhole filled only with Vahlok. Ours was a barrage of magic and Shouts and raw emotion. I cannot recount the exact details, but one of the few accuracies of that book had been the resulting separation of Solstheim and Skyrim.”

“You actually split the land?” Erik asked, sitting up straight.

Miraak nodded. “I called upon every drop of my power, and he did the same. The land around us roared and quaked, and still we fought as though nothing existed but us and our battle. I was stronger, both physically and in the Voice. I managed to disarm him, and he could no longer use his Voice as it had torn through his throat. I held him pinned beneath me.”

Her eyes drifted down to his hands and found them shaking. Without a glance at Erik, Telyra reached over and wrapped hers around one of his; his fingers intertwined with hers, but his head remained forward as though he didn’t notice. She kept her gaze on their hands, running her thumb along the back of his glove in an attempt to soothe his trembling.

“My blade aimed for his heart,” Miraak said, his voice far quieter. “I held it there. I had the opportunity to end it, to end him. But I faltered. My mind conjured images of our time together, and I felt as though I were drowning in the viscosity of our past. He whispered to me, ‘Hi fend ni lost sarein,’ before pulling his dagger from my neck. I had not noticed him reach for a hidden weapon, nor did I feel the pain of his attack.” He squeezed Telyra’s hand. “Before death could take me, Mora tore me from Tamriel and trapped me in his realm. The wound immediately began to heal, but it was then the pain settled in.”

Again, the three of them fell into silence. Miraak’s head lowered, his hand tensing a moment as though he only just realized it was laced with Telyra’s; he looked over to her, meeting her gaze.

“Did you ever find out why?” Erik asked. His posture was relaxed now with Miraak’s story at an end.

He turned forward once more. “No,” he replied. “In my readings, I learned I had sent Sahnos and her forces to their grave. I learned of the destruction of my temple and enslavement of my people--those they did not kill outright. I learned my name was tarnished and eventually lost to time. But I never learned the reason for Vahlok’s betrayal.”

#miraak #skyrim #miraak x ldb #miraak x dragonborn #miraak x last dragonborn #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim fanfiction #tes fanfiction #//the dovahzul is a bad translation of 'you should not have hesitated'#ship: it's only been a lifetime #alxxiis actually wrote something

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lockewrites · 4 years

Text

Ending a Chapter

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 12

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 3697 words AO3 and FF links on the master page (/psmaster)

Telyra and Erik hear a disturbance in the Jailor’s tomb and find the aftermath of a violent clash.

*This may seem familiar to those who have read my other stuff, but please, keep reading! I promise it’s different!*

“Weird how just a few days ago, Miraak told us about Vahlok, and now someone’s gone and pissed him off.” Erik ran a hand through his copper locks as they approached the ruin’s entrance.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Telyra replied. “People don’t just let these ruins lie. You get enough people poking around, eventually the priest will throw a fit.”

Sounds of battle echoed through the halls, bouncing off the stone walls and carrying through every opening. The smell of iron and burnt flesh, and the petrichor-like scent of violent magic permeated through the halls and wrapped around Telyra and Erik as they wandered through the ruin.

“Seems like your typical treasure hunter,” Erik remarked, jumping out of the way of falling debris. “Unless Vahlok is trying to destroy his own temple.”

They trekked further into the ruin, closer to the source of the noise and tremors. As they carried on, the attacks seemed to slow, and Erik and Telyra quickened their pace, passing through the multiple puzzles that had already been solved, avoiding the bits of stone falling from the impacts of spells. They were close.

A fluttering tingle passed through the Dragonborn’s mind, the sensation that a single person spawned in her, a pull toward something familiar. And it filled her with dread. She heard shouting among the spells’ impacts, and Telyra was able to make out a few words: vax, firok, zu’u ov hi. The words were split between two voices, one raspy and gargle-like, the other deep, almost melodic.

“Oh no,” she mumbled. Anxiety shot through her.

“You don’t think--”

Another rumble, another crack of thundering magic... and then nothing. After a few moments, a harsh cough echoed down the stairs, and she broke into a run.

“Telyra!” Erik called, following behind.

She reached the landing before an opened gate that led to a large, circular room. It dipped down into a lower level with a pool of water in the center, surrounded by bits of the wall and ground and ceiling, a sarcophagus lying in ruin at the end, offering just enough remaining stone to hold up a green-robed, cough-wracked man.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Erik muttered. “Why would he…?”

Ignoring him, Telyra rushed forward and knelt beside the tomb. She instinctively reached out but paused, unsure how he would react.

“Miraak,” she whispered.

His head was slumped forward, his robes charred and blood-soaked; he sat motionless except for the cough that shuddered through his body.

“Miraak,” she said, louder this time despite the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. “Please…” The blood pooling around him seeped into the knees of her trousers, the warmth settling like ice beneath her skin. Her breath caught in her chest as she reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face, sliding them back until they pressed into his cheeks and jaw behind the edge of the mask.

He let out a startled noise and lifted his head; a movement borne of instinct, his right arm shot backward, and an orange glow emanated from his palm.

“Miraak, stop!” Her hand grabbed his wrist. “I won’t hurt you!”

Through the slits in his mask, she saw the glint in his eyes disappear as he blinked at her, recognition seeming to come to him as his magic faded and his hand moved to rest on her cheek. The scent of his magic lingered, as did the sharp metallic smell of blood.

“Telyra,” he breathed.

She heard Erik step toward them, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him bend to grab Miraak’s sword. The movement drew Miraak’s attention, and his hand slipped from her face, leaving a wet, sticky streak. She watched him turn toward the pile of cloth wraps and ash topped with a wooden mask near Erik’s feet.

“Nii los drehlaan,” he mumbled. “Vahlok.”

His head fell forward again, and Telyra scrambled to find the pulse under her jaw. “Don’t you fucking dare.” A pulse beat against her fingertips, barely there, but enough. She let out a breath of relief.

Erik stepped closer. “He’s still--?”

“Yeah.” With a tentative hand, she peeled back the torn bits of his robes, looking for the sources of his bleeding; the other held him upright.

Erik knelt beside her and replaced her anchoring hand. “What do you need me to do?”

“We’ve got to stop the bleeding,” she said. Her hands pressed against the slick skin of his abdomen and glowed a warm white light; she felt the wound pull itself close, but it was keloiding. And she couldn’t risk draining what little life he had life forcing his body to heal. “I’m shit at restoration magic,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “We need to get him back to Apocrypha or to an actual healer or--”

“The book is still at Tel Mithryn,” Erik reminded her. “But I don’t know how you’d use it to get Miraak through. Or how you’d get him past Neloth.”

She closed another laceration in his chest, not perfectly, but enough to stop its bleeding. Her fingers pressed beneath his jaw again; his pulse was even fainter.

“Dammit.” Her heart pounded in her ears and tears pricked her eyes. Panic was setting in, her breaths growing rapid and shallow. “Dammit! I don’t--Erik, what do I do?” She looked at him, eyes wide, pleading for an answer. “I can’t let him die.”

“He’s not going to die,” he said, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder. Hard. “We’re going to take him to the Skaal.”

“What? They’re expecting me to kill him. We can’t--”

“How would they know it’s him?” he asked. “They don’t know what he looks like. We’ll say he’s a friend and he got hurt helping us.” He shook her for emphasis. “He’s not going to die.”

Her eyes fell to Miraak’s near-lifeless body as she pondered the idea, or attempted to. Few thoughts penetrated the drum-like beating in her ears. “Okay,” she agreed.

They tied what wounds they could around his limbs before Erik hoisted him across his shoulder; despite Miraak’s size, Erik managed to refrain from dropping them as they returned to the tomb’s entrance.

After mounting her horse, Telyra instructed Erik to place the body in front of hers; careful not to press on his wounds, she wrapped her arms around his torso and held him against her. Though she knew it would be taxing, she surrounded them with a telekinetic spell to keep from falling. She just needed to last long enough to reach the village.

Erik took the reins of her horse and ponied it alongside his own at a pace that threatened to break Telyra’s spell, but they didn’t have time to slow.

By the time they entered the Skaal’s land, sweat had gathered in her hairline and dripped down the back of her neck; her limbs felt as though they were filled with molten metal, and her back muscles cramped. Despite them having stopped, her vision swam.

“Let go,” Erik said, giving her wrist a gentle squeeze before prying it from Miraak’s chest.

“What is going on?” Frea asked, hurrying to their side. “Who is this?”

“Our friend,” Erik replied through a grunt. He hauled Miraak over his body again, this time with Frea’s help. “Please. We need a healer.”

Storn approached them, and after taking a brief moment to appraise the situation, he turned to Frea. “Gather Risja. I will take them to the guest house.”

Telyra dragged her leg over the horse and slid down, her knees nearly buckling as her feet hit ground. A body appeared beneath her arm, steadying her. “Thank you,” she said, looking over at the shaman.

He led them to one of the houses and helped Telyra settle against the wall before assisting Erik in unloading Miraak onto the bed. “Frea and Risja should be here any moment,” he said. “I have matters to attend to, but your friend will be in good hands.” He patted Erik’s shoulder.

“We can’t thank you enough,” Erik replied, following Storn toward the door.

Telyra stepped to stand beside Miraak and began removing his layers of robes, enough for the healer to examine his injuries. With each bit of red and olive skin revealed, she saw more and more scars, a mix of origins: magic, blades, and teeth and claws. Her shaky finger brushed across one beneath his ribs, pink and puckered, it ran down near his navel.

A hand reached out and wrapped around her wrist, despite the near-complete lack of strength in the grip, it startled her. It was followed by a soft, pained groan sounding from her left.

“Miraak?” She slid closer to his head and leaned forward, ignoring the vertigo at the sudden dip.

He turned toward her. “Telyra,” he mumbled, still holding her.

She couldn’t help the smile at hearing him speak her name. “They’re bringing you a healer,” she explained. Her smile faltered. “But… don’t tell them who you are.”

His hand slipped from her arm and fell to the bed. “Who?” he asked. “Where am I?”

“The Skaal village,” Erik said from near the entrance.

He let out what could only be described as a painful chuckle. “I cannot imagine anyone seeking my death more.”

“To be fair,” she said, offering a small smile, “you did enslave their people.”

“To be fair,” he countered, a smirk in his weak voice, “I only sought freedom.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile remained. “We weren’t sure how to get you back to Apocrypha,” she explained, “but this might be better anyway. We can get you stitched back together first, and maybe the healing process will be easier when you get back.”

“I am conscious,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can use Mora’s reins to wrest my body from Nirn.”

With a shake of her head, she replied, “Let them heal you first. You can’t go back a bloodied mess.”

“I have in the past.”

“But you don’t have to this time,” she argued. “I exhausted myself getting you here. At least, let them look you over.”

After a moment, he conceded. “Fine.”

“We’ll say your name is Ragnar,” Erik said. He opened the door enough to look through. “Frea’s heading here.”

Telyra’s eyes darted to the slits in Miraak’s mask before she sighed. “You’re going to need to let them take off your mask.”

He stilled, even in his breathing. “No,” he finally said.

“Why--Don’t fight me on this.”

“I… I cannot…” His head sunk further into the pillow.

“You want them to just ignore it?” she asked, exasperation carrying her words. “You’re more concerned about this damned thing than possible head trauma?” She poked the area between the mask’s eyes.

“Please.”

The single syllable held more pleading than she’d ever expected him capable of.

Again, she rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. “What am I supposed to tell the healer?” she said. “‘Just ignore the creepy mask. He’s hiding a nasty burn scar, and he’s very sensitive about it’?”

“You jest, but I see that as a perfectly valid reason,” he retorted, his voice still straining.

“Settle on your lie,” Erik warned. “They’re coming in.”

As Erik promised, Frea and a woman Telyra had seen a few times but never spoke to entered the house. The healer carried a basket of medical supplies: herbs, potions, medical instruments; she placed it on the nightstand beside the bed.

“I see our patient is awake,” Risja said, her accent as thick as Frea’s.

Telyra stepped out of the healer’s way, but Miraak’s hand caught hers; it trembled. She glanced at him, her brow furrowed. He squeezed it, as much as he could with his lack of strength.

“My dear, I will need room,” Risja remarked, her head tilting toward their hands.

She hesitated, a sense of fear flickering in her mind, though she was unsure of the cause. Holding Miraak’s gaze, she didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to leave him in the hands of this stranger, though they had little choice. In a move bolder than she expected from herself, she lifted their hands and placed a whisper of a kiss against his gloved fingers, a promise she would remain close by.

The healer cleared her throat, a clear sign Telyra’s presence was unneeded. With a lingering glance, she returned his hand to the bed and moved to one of the seats near the fireplace. With her body finally settling down, the weight of her exertion pressed into her muscles, the wind suddenly escaping her lungs. She breathed in deep, attempting to regain a steady heartbeat.

“Are you all right?” Frea asked, standing beside her.

Erik knelt in front of her. “You look pale.”

She ignored the concerns, instead focusing on Miraak and the healer. She watched her lean over his body, observing the various lacerations, bruises, and breaks, tutting softly.

“I see you’d had some healing already performed,” she mentioned as her hands traveled over his skin, ignoring his grunts of pained protests. “Rudimentary, but enough to prevent him bleeding out.”

“Healing’s not my strong suit,” Telyra muttered.

Miraak turned his head toward her.

“What is your name, dear?” Risja asked him.

“Ragnar,” Erik replied for him. “And before you ask, the mask stays on.” Risja shot a confused look at Erik who merely shrugged. “He’s got a nasty scar, and he’s very vain.”

“That’s hardly a reason--”

“Please,” Telyra said.

With a sigh, Risja turned back around and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, Ragnar,” she began, “your mask looks intact, so I’m assuming you aren’t suffering from any open wounds. I will attempt to examine any possible hidden injuries, such as a concussion, through the mask. But it will not be as effective.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Now, the level of healing required for such extensive injuries will need to be done while you’re unconscious,” she explained. “I do not want to risk sending you into shock.”

Moments passed as the healer waited for Miraak’s response. Perhaps it was distrust or fear holding his tongue, but Telyra had no way of knowing with that damned mask hiding any expression on his face.

“I understand,” he finally said.

Relief filled the sigh Telyra released as her body sunk into the cushions of her seat.

“I think you need some rest,” Erik said, still squatting at her feet.

“I’m fine,” she replied, still watching the healer. “I’m just tired. I’ve never held that spell for so long.”

A blue light left the healer with a dull silhouette, but Miraak was alight as her hands hovered above his face. His head was still turned to look at Telyra, and she gave him an encouraging smile before his body grew entirely limp.

“Would you like to come with me to my home?” Frea asked. “You are welcome to rest in my bed.”

Telyra shook her head too fast, a wave of dizziness rolling through her. “No,” she said. “I need to be here. But thank you.” Her eyes fell to Erik, and she smiled. “Really. I’m okay.”

He pressed his lips together before shrugging and standing. He settled into the chair beside her and watched the flames dance in the fireplace, casting glances at her every few moments.

She ignored his curious looks and let her head fall back against her seat; her eyes drifted shut, and sometime between the strange herbal aromas and random bursts of magical light, she fell asleep.

___

Risja’s words to Erik woke her; she heard her say something about letting ‘Ragnar’ awaken naturally and being unsure of how long he would remain unconscious. With a promise to check in on him in about an hour, Risja and Frea left the three of them alone.

Rubbing away the last of her sleep from her eyes, Telyra watched Erik return to his seat.

“Feel better?” he asked.

She shrugged. She looked over at Miraak; his robes had been removed entirely, replaced by a great many bandages and simple trousers. His mask remained.

“He’ll be fine,” Erik said. “Risja took care of him. Said he’ll be in a lot of pain for a while, but I’m guessing Apocrypha will fix that faster than expected.”

Rather than reply, Telyra simply continued watching Miraak; watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling her own synchronize with his.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on between you two?”

The question forced her head to whip to Erik. “What do you mean?”

He scratched the back of his head. “I was right there. I saw you kiss his hand.”

Her cheeks burned. “He was shaking. I just… I tried to calm him down.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other night?” he asked. “When he was telling us that story. He leaned into you. You held his hand. Something’s obviously going on.”

“It’s the same comfort I’d offer you,” she retorted. “Obviously, I care about him in some capacity.” The heat spread to her ears as she continued. “You spend that much time with someone, you’re going to care. I felt bad that he was hurting. Then and now.”

He held his hands up. “I’m not accusing. You’ve just never kept anything from me. And the way you look at him…” He pursed his lips, considering his next words. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Nothing’s going on,” she insisted.

“All right, all right,” he said, leaning back. “You’re my family, and I’m just trying to look out for you.”

She forced a smile. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she replied. Her smile fell. “You still don’t trust him.”

“It’s not going to magically appear after a day of sparring,” he said. His arms crossed over his chest. “But, I’ll admit, his willingness to share that story earned him some points.”

“Why’d you even ask?”

“I wanted to see if he’d actually tell me,” he answered. “Trust has to go both ways. If he can’t trust me enough to share some of his history, then I can’t really trust him.”

She scoffed. “You didn’t exactly ask an easy question. He didn’t even tell me half of that when he told me the story weeks ago.”

Erik smirked. “Maybe he trusts me more than you.”

“Maybe.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Helping me lie for him.”

He waved his hand. “It was nothing. Kind of felt like I owed it to him anyway,” he explained. “He gave me some useful pointers the other day.”

Her smile grew. “We can do it again,” she offered. “I think he enjoys getting out. And it’d be great to watch you actually manage to kick something’s ass with enough practice.”

“I can kick ass now,” he huffed.

She chuckled and settled back against her seat, her eyelids feeling heavy once more. “I think I need to nap a bit longer.”

“Have at it,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Head heavy, eyes closed, she drifted off again.

___

“I hope you appreciate all she’s doing,” she heard Erik say. “The time and effort and risk.”

“I am not one to take such things for granted,” a deep, strained and curt voice replied.

Telyra kept her eyes shut and attempted to breathe deep and steady as if still asleep.

“If anyone found out what she’s doing…” Erik said. “If the Skaal found out, her relationship with them would be destroyed. She already feels guilty for lying to them. If things ended poorly between her and the village, she’d feel awful.”

He spoke in a hushed tone, careful not to be eavesdropped on, and probably to avoid waking her.

“It wouldn’t take long for word to spread to Raven Rock,” he continued. “And then to Windhelm and the rest of Skyrim. She’d be discredited. She’d probably be accused of plotting to take over with your help.

“Not to mention,” Erik added, “the longer she’s here, the more likely Alduin is to resurrect another dragon. We know there’s a long recovery time whenever he uses that Shout--a few weeks at least--but, if she’s not there to help, more guards and civilians will die. I’ve been keeping an ear to things, and I haven’t heard anything yet, but…”

A knot formed in her gut, and she fought to keep her brows from furrowing. She hadn’t considered this, but Erik clearly had.

“And there’s the risk of being around you in general.” Erik took a moment to let his words sink in. “At any time, you could decide this is taking too long and that it’d be easier to just kill her and steal her soul. Escape that way.”

“There was a time such a thought occurred to me,” Miraak replied. “When she had first approached me with the offer to help.”

Her eyes squeezed tighter.

“But, I could not do so now,” he continued. “Nor do I think I could have done so then.”

He didn’t elaborate, though Telyra wished he would have. Perhaps Erik did as well, since he didn’t offer a reply.

Miraak added, “She is in no danger from me.”

She heard Erik sigh. “I just really hope you appreciate her.”

There was a long pause, and her breath hitched.

“I do,” Miraak finally said. “More than I have expressed to her.”

The knot tightened.

Another pause.

“You care for her a great deal,” Miraak said. “Have you expressed this to her?”

“She knows,” Erik replied. “We’re family. Family cares.”

“Does it not go beyond the familial?”

“That’s sick,” Erik said, sounding more amused than offended. “When I say ‘family,’ I mean it. She’s like my sister. She is my sister.”

“Ah.”

“I think you’ve been alone for too long,” Erik teased. “You need to work on reading relationships.”

Miraak chuckled, though it sounded pained. “It would appear so.”

More silence.

“You should tell her,” Erik said. “She doesn’t get told by people that they’re grateful for what she does often enough.” His armor clanked gently as he moved.

Miraak muttered, “Acting as the hero is often a thankless job.”

#miraak #skyrim #miraak x ldb #miraak x dragonborn #miraak x last dragonborn #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim fanfiction #tes fanfiction #//I decided a long time ago I wanted to rework the 'I Won't Hurt You' one shot I did and properly incorporate it into the multi-chapter fic #//it's leading to something I'm really excited about! I can't wait to share it!#ship: it's only been a lifetime #alxxiis actually wrote something

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lockewrites · 4 years

Text

Did some more “Get a sentence and write the next five” prompts in the Nirnwrote server; though this one we tweaked a little: gave two sentences and had ten more to write to make them work together (I cheated).

They were left with little more than candlelight and a half-empty bottle.

Telyra smiled as her tingling fingers wrapped around the neck and brought it to her off-kilter lips, watching Miraak as he licked his thumb and forefinger before pinching the wick of the only candle that hadn't yet burned itself out.

His head lulled to the side, the smoke billowing around them and disappearing into night air, a smile matching her own; he took the emptied bottle from her and chucked it as far as his heavy limbs would allow. "It has been so long," he slurred, "so, so long since I have indulged in such frivolities." His shoulder jostled hers as his body swayed in his attempt to roll his neck and release eons of built-up tension that clung like static in the bowels of Oblivion. "I have missed this, this feeling of... I am unsure what to call it."

"Don't think about it too hard," Telyra said, tapping Miraak's forehead with her knuckle. "You'll kill that feeling of whatever."

He wrapped an arm around her and chuckled as he lean backward, bringing them both to a lying position on the roof of his temple. "I cannot imagine losing it, not with you here."

With the alcohol deep in her bloodstream, her cheeks could not have reddened further, but he still sent a flutter in her gut and she smiled; nestled into the crook of his arms, she watched the stars swim in her vision, until they vanished behind eyelids too leaden to keep open. The punch of sunlight sent an ache pulsing behind her eyes as she woke up and realized something was very, very off.

#miraak #miraak x last dragonborn #miraak x ldb #skyrim #miraak x dragonborn #the elder scrolls #tes #telyra ravencast #ship: it's only been a lifetime

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lockewrites · 4 years

Text

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @curiousartemis - I honestly don’t know if I already filled it out, but it was relatively recent in my likes, so I feel like I may have missed it.

But anyways, here’s some Telyra, Miraak, and Erik :)))))