#i simply like characters sinking under the weight of their masks and loyalties to the point they lose themselves a tad too much

[rui-nova]

Empty Page, The Crane Wives

Screenshots from https://kissthemgoodbye.net

[vr2]

i think kaeya’s suffocating one-way loyalty to others, especially diluc, is one of my favourite parts of his character. an inhumanly knightly ideal stretched transparent, gauze-thin to try and obscure the deficit of your own personhood. like clawing shut a black hole with bloodied fingers but still finding it weeping uncontrollably, hysterically. it’s not exactly self-sacrifice but more like some ill-fated way of seeking validation, plunging yourself into the dark to reaffirm that there is something light, barely alive, faintly flickering within. something worth saving, something human after all. its knowingly asking a question that cannot be answered or taken back. an irreversible change of state is the culmination of rubedo, the metamoprhic stage preceding it symbolized by the peacocks tail, cauda pavonis. understanding the true weight of flesh without blood is to kill the creature beforehand, but this is the only way a true value can be known. childhood dreams denature into scar tissue, charred memories leave a bitter taste in your mouth no matter what you wash it down with. twisting the knife to feel agony once more, confirmation there was some soft underbelly to to the beast, still made of blood and bone, steel carapace and blood-dark claws nothing more than bygone idles. this body can catch alight, can burn brilliantly. this maddening fragility can only be human.

an enduring but deceptively frail nature. i think most of his potential as a character is just waiting for him to shatter and reveal what exactly is left underneath it all like a kinder surprise! but the surprise is abject misery compounded upon whatever fucking awful events would have to cause him to break cleanly in two. i think, naturally, if left to his own devices with little change other than his tentative limbo with diluc, the niggling fear of his truth being exposed and his true utter loneliess, rather than breaking, kaeya would slowly be eroded with time. already well entrenched in the safety of his masks in the city he all but rules, slowly the glaciers hes built turn into the sea and without realising it one day he’d be stranded in an ocean of his own making completely and utterly desolate. eventually kaeya will find himself swalloed by the abyss and he will not struggle as the water comes to claim him.

as fun as that is i think there are much more interesting avenues to go down. for all kaeya is mond’s glacial cavalry captain he’s paradoxically also characterised by his emotional vulnerability. and i just think it’s delicious to prey on that and have some extreme emotional distress that tears him apart. although it’s never alluded to ingame outside of jean’s story quest it seems that kaeya orchestrates a lot of things and is relatively deeply involved with the personal lives of many characters who could not particularly offer him anything in return. specifically jean, klee, lisa and amber. somehow slowly he has scraped together some semblance of friendship and camraderie if not outright family. with him being abandoned twice over, one more final abandonment making kaeya compeltely lose all sense of reality would utterly break him for the last time. like realising all this time, all this change, everything yous aid and did was not only pointless but it was a distraction. the ice beneath your feet is is cracking even if you screamed for help you’d simply be damning another person to die with you, selfishly, thoughtlessly, cruelly. realising your purpose was nothing so grand, but with lies and misdirection they sent you to die in the snow convincing yourself a martyr. there is nothing to catch you, nothing to hold onto but whatever is lurking beneath. you can at least trust a beast to be beast, you were denied to live amongst the land of men but in the depths of the abyss you monsters you call your kin reach out to you, knowing. its only a matter of control now, to either fall off of the edge of the world or dive into it.

like a bird trying to swim beneath the water and finally succumbing to the waves. abandon yourself to your fate. revel in it, drink it down in huge gulps, fall into the spiral and dont look up, don’t acknowledge any other ending than this. there is no use making wishes, the stars are not listening.

i think the event that makes kaeya lose his tenuous grip on reality will actually be completely unnoticeable to anyone who doesnt particularly know him ie other than maybe jean, rosaria and diluc. kaeya will not endanger mond directly, but he is aware, that when he falls, so does a pillar of mond’s defence. he will not raise his sword against the place that gave him a wonderful illusion of belonging but he will not save it either, there was no way for him to understand this land of wind, as someone who was born not knowing the sky.

kaeya would mostly act as usual but there’s something distinctly off-kilter. his usual teasing more strange and obtuse, his usual silvertongue tempered into something more humble, cut with a strange truthfulness, a quiet gentleness of a youth from long ago. as if the captain had suddenly turned back time, as if slowly opening up and blooming like a flower. jean is happy to see kaeya smile again, even if she knows it if an affectation of a memory of a memory. she feels like the anemo archon had gifted him wings, this lightness a blessing she should be thankful for rather than weighed down with niggling worry for her oldest friend. rosaria finds it rather liberating, feeling as if kaeya has finally had the strength to shake off the great weight he carried, that burdensome melancholy has finally thawed. if it was not for the face master diluc is making at him however, she might have missed how wide and unseeing that smile seems.

diluc would be torn. there is something wrong with kaeya. but at the same time isn’t this what he wanted? perhaps in another life if kaeya ragnivindr had the chance to grow up, to bloom into adulthood, this is what he’d be. there is a childish softness he had thought he had burned away, the specter of a boy from another life warm and real before you. that makes something in his throat catch, the back of his eyes ache. diluc would feel tormented, kaeya surely had found some peace but here diluc has convinced himsef its ill-gotten. theres a warring inside him of wanting to reach out and hold this person you’ve never seen before, lest the disappear like snow come dawn and at the same time dig your fingers into it, sift through it until its in pieces before you and find what must exist in the heart of this illusion, even if it means tearing it to pieces. its often, often, he curses demanding the truth. honor and code and chivalry mean nothing any more but he has chosen the path and he can no longer go back. because now it means he cannot leave this kaeya, who can at least pretend to smile like he used to, intact. even this short reprieve must be burnt away.

questioning kaeya is painful, he uses his truthful emotions to disarm and its impossible to get anywhere. kaeya knows what hes doing. if he must be a liar to the end, he will give them the grandest, most beautiful illusion he can create. he pulls on his own strings until he feels them dig into skin, closing around his throat. choking down all his childish wishes to be saved, and turning once more to the audience. smothering it is the kinder alternative than to let the small voice in his heart live, take pitiful struggling steps and have to watch it fizzle and die out with a whimper under the weight of the world. the show must go on, such a mundane performance is not worthy of the king of khaenriah.

kaeya has always known that no matter how he comes to the finale, he has his part to play. in the end his choices dont matter, nobody has ever let kaeya have anything but (a photograph set alight by the fireplace. black satin ribbons tied in neat loopy bows, order in unruly heads of hair, scratchy facial hair against your cheek, the smell of cologne and grapes, not yet wine, three bodies curled on an armchair, a book of fairy tale held in two sets of hands. there is hole is in the center). his body has always belonged to khaenriah, his sword to the knights of favonius, his life to mond. there a quiet vindictive selfishness still, of owning and having complete control of your heart. one ill retaliation that gurgles out of your throat and takes the form of half-aborted laughter spilling out like tar, like sickness. turning the world upside down and righting your positions. kaeya sets the board to its rightful place.

is it still falling if you jump? no need to fear of someone letting go, if you had no intention of holding on. one final indulgence, one last rebellion. the childish vindictiveness of taking something from someone and not giving it back, getting the last laugh even if you laugh alone.

the peacock stage in alchemy, is the stage of transcendence, to destroy the original form and purify it to its final rubedo. the peacock must be swallowed by the phoenix. burning through its brilliant colours to achieve the transmutation between the mundane and divine. this is the the purpose of the cauda pavonis. it is to represent a form that is to be destroyed to achieve completion. a sacrifice.

to kaeya, knowing his purpose yet still foolishly living beyond it is the thing that truly truly sinks its teeth in. knowing that everything he built will be destroyed and he must allow it for being foolish enough to build it in the first place. he knows his impermanence and yet still he is beside himself with a festering rage called humanity creeping into his bones. having no way to process this as anything other than some inherent malignant evil that must be intrinsic to himself, i think kaeya takes ‘pleasure’ in not only burning that bridge but proving to everyone that he was an awful person who deserved this and he really is getting the last laugh. and truly there is something about it, for once, destroying something for your own pleasure. even if it is taking your own chance of redemption, that weak-hearted hopefulness and crushing it between your teeth, finding your saviour just to spite their naivety. the onyl thing left ot destroy is yourself so kaeya will make it absolute and spectacular! a performance seen this night and never again.

but the just straight up sacrifice for the sake of devotion, feeling as if he truly has nothing left but himself and he is his own person to destroy, his only act he can take, the only move on the board is sexy too. in another world, those deeper desires never breaking the ice, layers of permafrost scarred over and scratched raw - idle fantasies of love and forgiveness and belonging, mundane dreams reserved for better people - that could not be burnt out of you that night, like your hair, like your hands, like your flesh, like your heart. an ashen taste that lingers, a bitter aftertaste ever present no matter what you try and wash it down with. you can at least appreciate that the ache of your lungs filling with water, with wine, with the heavy weight of lies -- you can imagine you will sink, heavy with this grief. no one can change this punishment you have decided for yourself, they cannot save you without your consent. you see an invitation to be smothered, for your death to have a purpose, just as your life and birth had predetermined value, how could you deny such a privilege?

what is this if not a final act of devotion? to who, it’s undecided. but the fact you have burnt through this life for others, that you have bled for them, have been their hope, perhaps with this you can finally earn the title of a good man in their eyes. but your own dull gaze is the only one that looks back at you.

to think of their faces, their names, their warmth would sully this divine duty with pointless sorrow so you would close your eyes and clutch at the chest, where an abyssal heart would beat fast and scared, a betrayer and coward til the end. in the cold water, the outline of a dream, the gauzy silhouettes of people you loved, the light of the sun cast shadows across lands both alien and comforting, and, and - anything at all would be worth it. anyone but you.

perhaps this is simply the end. the final act lay unwritten for there is no point writing words that will never be read. perhaps the mask has slipped and you never noticed, insisting the show must go on when there is no one to play to. a performer perpetually stuck on the stage, turning about the head of a pin, boring into you with every revolution. 

the depths of the abyss, pale in comparison to a gaping maw of this despair so wide, that this ocean is nothing but shallow waters to you. walking into the sea, with sword in hand, a sickness in the form of a love that is incomprehensible and cold. to finally rest free, a sojourn with no hope of return a voyage to far away from here. kaeya alberich falls to the end of the world and you will not save him.

as well and good all this rambling is, i think my favourite rendition of kaeya alberich shattering into tiny little pieces is to the tune of ‘kelly clarkson - since u been gone’

[lundiivith]

paperback dreams in their deep doze

this is a comedy. it’s also on ao3!

Miraak closed his eyes.

He sat inside a nest of papers, scrolls, and odd ends he’d organized into a circle. Runes were loose all around, traces of magic overwriting recipes and journals. The lack of major currents of wind was an advantage, kept everything still and eternal. Just like Apocrypha’s lord wanted things to be.

Miraak's breathing was stable. He’d only managed to create this spell through years of failure after failure, and the passive version still left... afterimages. It was messy, but it would have to do. He kept as still as he could — until he felt it, the warm weight on his entire person that spoke plenty for the spell’s success. He was being watched.

Perfect.

A single paper crinkled, but it didn’t matter. He had brought them to him once more — his lead cultist.

They saw him and bent a knee. “My lord Miraak,” they said, reverential. “I bring great news.”

Miraak resisted the temptation to open his eyes and see them. The spell required lack of sight on his part, an oversight he hoped to not have to fix.

“Tell me.”

“A few days ago, we heard a thunderous sound from the mainland. Words. We couldn’t quite make out what they said, but they sounded like dragon language. And then, the gossip came — the dragons had returned.”

Miraak tilted his head. “So it is time for the prophecy. Was the sound, perhaps, something like ‘Dovahkiin’? I did feel a dragon soul pull, a few days ago.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then Alduin is already as good as defeated, if this Dragonborn doesn’t die first.” He smiled under his mask. “It would not be wise,” he continued — but something was... off. He started again. “It would not be wise to confront this Dragonborn,” but there still was something wrong with the spell. He could feel the projection stuttering. He furrowed his brow, tried again to say, “You should not confront them. They’re the biggest danger to our goal right now — antagonizing them could bring our whole plot down.”

“A—are you sure, my lord?” the cultist questioned, nervous.

“Of course I’m sure.” There it was back again.

“But antagonizing the Dragonborn would be…”

“A bad idea.” And there went the spell again. Had a new book landed on his precious circle? He couldn’t afford to see it. “Is this all?”

“Yes, my lord. The rebuilding process continues as always.”

“Then I thank you, my cultist. Sleep now.”

Miraak opened his eyes. The spell’s weight lifted off him, and he was on his feet in less than a second, inspecting the circle. There was nothing wrong with it. What had happened?

He huffed and walked away, stalking on long legs towards a desk. He consulted with the papers he kept open there. Miraak reread everything, angrily flipping through loose bits and disheveled tomes. He opened the biggest one. The Black Book he would need to power his spell still didn’t work for him. Its pages were clammy to the touch. The text made his head swim, sure, and the bindings twitched with unreleased power... but he was — and here it came — dizzied enough by them to see glimpses of the room where he’d left it, millennia ago.

...Before being spat back out onto pure greenness, that is.

Miraak was tired of the dizzying, sickly tint. Soon, he thought, trying to soothe his bristled spirits; soon he would see red again, and golden. He was weary. It felt as if these years had all been a single ancient day with no sunset to mark its end.

Miraak closed the Black Book and picked up his notes. Then, he glanced back towards the circle. As he did so, a tentacle lashed out of the sea of ink and brought back with it one piece of the circle. He sighed; he’d have to rewrite it. Miraak walked back to the platform and knelt. He started carefully plucking the loose sheafs of paper, then slid them in a pocket between the folds of his robes, near his chest. Then, he began moving again, research in hand, scurrying out of his little meeting-room.

He knew the route by heart, now. A turn here, and a scrye there. Miraak’s footsteps echoed through a shifty bridge and then, suddenly, came to a stop.

A lurker, skulking through the hallway in front of him. One of Mora’s. Miraak crouched, hidden from view, and raised two fingers; an ice spike formed an inch or so away from them. His left hand’s palm crackled with electricity. The lurker barely had time to react. Before it knew it, there was an ice spike through its head, and its dead body was twitching with electricity. Miraak continued his way, careful that his footsteps weren’t too loud.

After a few minutes, he reached it. His corner of Apocrypha.

Hidden under a pair of hollow staircases, protected by a veritable wall of books, was his tiny cave. Miraak walked in, bending his neck to get under the entrance. He summoned some magelight, then looked around. He glanced the entirety of his worldly belongings: a few dozens of books he’d managed to salvage, a miscellany of scribbles, and his little nest. It'd been built out of crinkling notes and loose leaves of paper. The nest had then been covered in clothes taken from dead adventurers, fashioned into bizarre patchworks of comfort. Ancient enchantments were carved and scribbled all over it. They glittered brokenly, faltering from age.

Miraak flopped onto it and slid his mask off his face. Oblivion knew when Hermaeus Mora would next challenge him. To, say, find a specific book as his champion and feed it to the sea. Or maybe find a specific mortal who’d stumbled in, and duel them to the death. He sighed and flicked open a book. Today’s new findings included: a Nord’s scribblings insisting Alduin and Akatosh weren’t the same creature, some horribly-misspelled letter that stunk of romance to high heaven, and a manual on how to defend oneself from some creature Miraak had heard about when he was a boy.

He closed the manual shut and decided to start with the love note. At least it had characters you could get invested in.

He scanned its contents, then flipped it. Each misspelled word was carefully printed, yet still clumsy, delineating some kind of awful guilt-ridden loyalty. He'd found love letters weren’t as sweet and charming as they were said to be. When previous to fulfillment, the longing was usually quite well hidden behind the deadpan of pen and paper. When posterior, they were disgustingly lovey-dovey. But they were entertaining, and that was what mattered; what he’d learnt would help him not be driven to utter, raving lunacy. He’d tiptoed into those territories once or twice, as a particular skull he still kept mostly out of nostalgia could attest to. Keeping busy was the ideal, and routine kept one busy, as much as he disliked it.

Miraak finished the love letter and considered it for a moment.

He got up and walked over to a different part of the little cavern, then picked up a sliver of coal. He sat back down, then took his dismantled circle from its improvised pocked. Miraak flicked through it briefly, flick flick flick flick, rhythmic, and consulted briefly his notes. So that one was missing, then. He grabbed the love letter, turned it around, and cleanly traced a few lines onto the paper. It glowed blue. Miraak flipped through the papers and put it in place. There — now to hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

“Have you news, my follower?”

It’d been a week since he’d been informed of the prophecy’s beginning. He sat, as still as possible, the weight of the spell on his arms. The letter had worked without need of modification, which was excellent. Sometimes, the magic was randomly fickle, and those were the worst days; the ones where he had to rewrite a single rune a thousand times until it worked.

“I’m afraid so, my lord Miraak. The men we sent after the Dragonborn, as you ordered us to do, were killed.”

“What?!” Miraak nearly jumped to his feet in surprise. He opened one eye. “I dictated the opposite of that order,” he thundered — and then felt the spell’s weight lifting off him. Oh, was this it? “Follower of mine, I believe our communications have been compromised. Give me but a moment.”

“Re— really, my lord?”

“Yes. Now give me a moment.” The spell dissipated. Miraak stood up in the blink of an eye, then began pacing around his circle. Nothing was wrong. He made a strangled, frustrated noise and grumbled on his way to the desk.

He flicked through the Black Book’s pages. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nothing was wrong. Miraak walked over to the edge of the platform and knelt, then dipped his finger in the greasy ink that surrounded the infinite library. A tentacle or two swirled around his finger, but he paid them no mind. He got up, walked over to the desk and ripped a page from one of the regular books around, then drew some protective sigils onto it with the ink.

He shook off the thick, ugly liquid, but it was already eating through his glove — he’d need new ones, and soon. He went back to the circle, protective sigils in hand, and placed the paper somewhere. Anywhere would do — in theory.

Anti-daedric sigils, he’d found, worked far better this way.

Miraak sat down once again. He let the projection sink into him, and soon felt the reassuring weight of its magic. A single footstep before him betrayed his cultist’s presence.

“Rest easy, my follower,” Miraak intoned, no doubt interrupting them before they could even start their worried little sentences. “The Library’s master will annoy us no more.”

“Oh, I… My lord. I apologize, I— if there was anything I could’ve done, to endanger this communication, I beg of you to forgive me.”

“Worry not, for it was simply… an easy-to-make oversight. You've done no wrong."

“My lord, what was it that was lost in communication?”

Miraak sighed — more than sighed, groaned. “I did not order for the Last Dragonborn to be contacted.”

“Oh, my Lord…” They were so annoying. My lord this, my lord that — hadn’t they felt anything wrong with the dream? Miraak had half a mind to throttle them.

“It’s no matter. We will have to deal with this issue as it comes. Hopefully, they will be understanding of our situation — or even better, weak enough that it won’t matter. It is of no consequence.” It had to be.

“T—thank you, my Lord!” Miraak could almost see them bending a knee. Of course, of course. Ugh.

“In other news, how is the construction of my Temple going?”

“Fine as rain, my lord. The pillars are as strong as can be. They will last for a thousand years!”

“Has the roof been placed yet?”

“...No, my lord, not completely. But the stairs! Oh, the stairs!”

“I am… glad to know the stairs are good.” Miraak liked architecture well enough, but he wasn’t about to rain praise on stairs. There was something about fighting tooth and nail for your own freedom, something that made the parts that weren’t terrifying... oddly mundane. Boring, even. “If there is no more news, then… I bid you goodbye, my follower.”

“And so do I, my lord.”

“Any news from the Last Dragonborn?”

It had been a month.

“No, my lord.”

“...Perhaps they didn’t notice the note.”

Six months.

“...And as always, there is no news from the Last Dragonborn.”

At the Windhelm docks, there was a stranger.

A young woman wearing a furry cloak walked backwards. She was waving goodbye to a few argonians she’d been talking to. They went back to their work, chattering a little between each other. She turned around and kept walking forward towards some door that led out of the docks. Before she was able to, she walked right into a nordic man, currently pacing around the docks.

“Oh! Excuse me,” she said. The man turned around to look at her and found all-black eyes, unblinking. He looked elsewhere, pushed her aside. Continued pacing.

“I said excuse me,” the woman repeated. The man didn’t reply. “Hello?”

“...speaking of some madness, someone named Miraak…” the man muttered.

The woman caught up to him in a couple short strides and firmly grabbed his shoulder, before pulling him towards her. “Hellooooo? Are you alright?”

“...if you’re looking for passage to Solstheim,” the man replied, automatic, “too bad. I'm not going back there anymore.”

“Solstheim?” The woman frowned, a bit confused. “Why wouldn’t you go back?”

The man rambled on, about losing entire days to people with masks. A light turned on her eyes, like a lightbulb flashing off.

“Well, I guess you’re going to Solstheim again,” the woman said.

“Have you been listening to me? I'm not—”

“Yes you are. I’m coming with you, and I’m fixing this.” There was a gleam in her eyes, like a little fire. “It’s as you said: it’s not right, losing whole days like that, no?” At his skepticism, she huffed. “I’ll give you twice the usual rate, you big baby.”

The man sighed. “Well,” he said. “ ...a man's got to make a living, after all. Fine. We'll cast off—”

“Tomorrow,” the woman said. “I need to pick some things up.”

“Tomorrow,” the man nodded, dumbfounded, and he went back to his ship.

Satisfied, the Last Dragonborn of legend left the docks, onwards to go back to her home.

Miraak knelt, picking through the woman’s possessions. Adventurers were rare; he’d gone decades without seeing new ones. Or, without them being singled out to him by the prince that dared to call itself his master, in a bizarre parody of a death sentence — which had been the case of this last one.

Hermaeus Mora liked to pretend he made use of his Champion in these ways, complaining of people misusing or dirtying his library. Tricking him. As if someone as simple as these people could, were Miraak’s thoughts on the subject. If it were up to him, Miraak would’ve left them alone; it was every man for himself in this place, and really, it wasn’t worth it. But it was dangerous to outright deny a Prince, much less you knew was the only reason you hadn’t already turned into a Seeker.

In any case, Miraak was uneasy at the task. This woman had been the first person he’d been directed towards since the little Dragonborn-related stumble. Knowing Mora, it was certainly no coincidence.

He shook his head and continued to rummage through the woman’s bag. Some potions, food… a sketchbook. Nothing out of the ordinary. Miraak hadn’t been hungry in millennia, but potions were always useful. He hesitated, then opened the sketchbook.

On the first page, drawings of a small child, sitting under what looked like a tree. A few faces in the margins. An old-looking orc, grumbling. He flicked through a few more papers and suddenly stopped: a dragon. The sketch was scribbly, fast; unreadable scrawls noted things around. Unlikely to be up close. Then, one the next page, a detailed draconic skull, the rest of the skeleton off-page.

Miraak closed the book. ...He’d keep it.

He got up, ready to leave; before he did so, he looked at the horizon. The sleeping dragons near Apocrypha’s summit stayed where they were, waiting out their sentences, curled tail to tail in an inhuman parody of intimacy. His so-called fellows, the only who had recognized him. The only who had recognized his soul, millennia ago.

He left.

“My lord,” was the cultist’s greeting, as always. “There is urgent news.”

“Tell me.”

“The Dragonborn has been sighted in Solstheim.”

Miraak stood still, frozen.

Then, he straightened his back fully. The spell crackled on his shoulders, then settled; the cultist yelped at the intermission.

“What?”

“I— My lord, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I must’ve been weak, in some way, or—”

“Of course you’re weak. You’re all weak. This was not your fault, however.” Oh, no, it wasn't. “We will deal with the Dragonborn. They—”

“She, my lord.”

“—She decided to come here, and for that, she will pay dearly.” A woman, then. Fine. “What has she done so far?”

“Not much, my lord. She has appeared in the town of Raven Rock, on Solstheim’s south, alongside a companion. They arrived today, at sunset; one of my own, young Tensyne saw them arrive, and then saw one of them walk into the town’s inn. We are… still not sure which one is which, but!” they added, possibly sensing his disdain, “We will soon learn!”

“Do you know of their names?”

“I’m… afraid not. The lad, he’s the youngest recruit, he says he talked with the innkeeper and learnt the name of the taller one.”

“...And if you don't know which is which,” Miraak asked them, every syllable dripping with ugh, “how can you possibly tell that one of them is the Dragonborn?”

“W—well…” The cultist shrunk shamefully. “...To be truthful, our cultists were… A bit rough. With the captain of the regular supplies boat from the mainland. So no one new has come since then. And the shorter one did have…” They shrunk further. “...armor that looked like dragons’ scales.”

“So the shorter one is the Dragonborn, then.”

“It may be a gift?”

“And we’re back to square one.” Miraak sighed. “We will talk tomorrow, though. You should have told me earlier about no one coming to the island, though.”

“I— I apologize, my lord, I didn’t think it was important!”

“Everything is important. It is fine, I will work around it. Goodnight, my follower.”

“G...goodnight, my lord.”

Miraak dismissed his cultist with a wave of his hand and dispelled the incantation. He opened his eyes and let out the world’s longest, most tired groan.

His cultists. They worshipped the ground he trod on, and yet, they were unable to do the simplest of tasks without his immediate guidance. It was useless trying to talk sense into them, Miraak knew; they stumbled around like children.

In any case: a pesky problem had resurfaced. While Miraak was willing — and able — to fix it, it was ridiculous that he even had to deal with it in the first place. Which led to the likely cause of this all… Hermaeus Mora.

Of course. Of course he’d do this. Mora was bizarre, unknowable. Miraak’s time dealing with him had yielded little information, and it was — frustrating; he would go as far as to describe the entity as jealous, childish (which was, really, truly hypocritical on his part; what is a dragon, but a spoiled brat?).

In any case, of course Hermaeus Mora would refuse him leave of this ink-infested domain, then wreck any plans he may develop to abandon it. Of course he’d be territorial about someone he employed in the manner of a trophy librarian. Of course.

It made his blood boil.

He sighed and watched today’s anti-daedric sigil burn to ash. One use only, they were. He’d started to run out of old pieces of armor, and would hate to start giving away his beddings to the cause. When you’ve been living in Oblivion for millennia, it was painful to let go of any comforts.

Miraak paused for a moment, then went back to work. Curses of unsleep did not cast themselves.

A few days earlier, it was late at night, in the stranger’s home.

She laid in bed, curled up, about to sleep. Surrounding her, in an inhuman parody of an embrace, were all her worldly possessions. By her bed, a chest filled with various wonderful things she’d picked up during her travels; between the bed and the floorboards, large sacks filled with septims. A dragon, sleeping on her hoard. She shook her head, as if to focus on the question of the evening.

“Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ,” she whispered. “Where have I heard it before…?”

She fell asleep before connecting it to the first cultists’ war cry.