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solarianradiance · 9 months ago

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“J-J-JAKE!” Shouted Finn.

“FINN!” Shouted Jake.

“DUDE! YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS, BUT YOU G-GOTTA LISTEN!” Finn demanded.

“You fought the Ice King who left you frozen where while he kidnapped Princess Bubblegum?” Jake asked.

“O-o-oh... y-y-you already kn-n-now?” Finn shivered.

“Yeah!” Jake replied in a flat voice as he picked up a large rock, using it to strike with great force against the ice of Finn’s feet. The icy shackles shattered easily, having been cracked by the invisible woman. “Kinda figured that out with all the ice and stuff.”

Finn stumbled over; he was free but still cold. “B-b-but how did you know it wa-...w-w-was Princesss-s-s-s-s-s-s bubblegum?”

“이 사람은 누구입니까?” Asked Lady Rainicorn she floated in.

“W-w-w-what the chuck-wagon is that?!” Finn said, almost panicking.

Jake stretched himself into a cozy sweater and attached himself to his brother to warm him up. “Ease yourself buddy, take it easy! Lady is a friend! She knows the Princess! Found her up the river! She explained everything!”

“음, 바나나가 대부분을 설명했습니다. 우리는 거의 이야기하지 않았습니다.” Said the Rainicorn.

“Yeah, I guess ya did, sorry ‘bout chewin your ear off like that, you were kind of... dazed.”

“그녀가 붙잡힌 것 같습니다.” Said Lady as tears welled up in her eyes. “나는 그녀를 구출해야합니다!” She then flew off, crying and sobbing.

“Wait, WAIT! COMEBACK!!! Aw danggit!” Jake scoffed in frustration.

“What she say? D-do ya know?” Finn asked.

“Never mind that, you doin okay man? Anything broken?” Jake asked, wanting to know if his brother was injured.

“Nah, J-...j-just cold... and down.” Finn asked as she breathed.

“Okay, you fought the Ice King, right? Tell me what happened!”

“What’s it look like happened?!” Finn said with anger peppering his words with a touch of sadness. “I flumped up! He stole the Princess and almost killed me! A-and... I-I... couldn’t keep my promise.”

“Promise? What promise?”

“I... promised I would protect her, l-like a hero would, like Billy!” He said in a glum voice. “But then I broke it cuz I didn’t finish off the Ice King like I think I should have and he got the upper hand and left me here while he carried off the Princess.”

“Wow... that’s a doozy! And a lot to take in!” Jake contemplated. “Hmmm, you said you didn’t finish him off? What do ya mean zactly?”

“Um... basically I knocked the cobs out of him and he was down and knocked out cold, or at least we thought he was. Princess Bubblegum told me to... finish him off. But I didn’t, so he got the upper hand. Now the Princess is kidnapped cuz I didn’t have the strength to do what was right.” Finn hung his head in shame. “All cuz I didn’t wanna finish off a guy who just tried to kill me.”

Jake was concerned for Finn, usually he was energetic, but this defeat was a really blow to his ego. But Jake was also a bit proud of his Brother for sparing a fallen foe. In fact that’s what he’s gonna go with in this peptalk.

“Naw dude.” Jake said as he unsweatered himself from Finn and returned to normal in front of him. “What you did took real inner strength to do!”

“Huh?” Finn asked, confused. “No it didn’t! I shoulda finished him off like the Princess ordered me to! Then this mess wouldn’t have gone down! I don’t have what it take to be a hero!”

“No. What you did is something a lot of peeps forget about. Mercy! You showed mercy to a worthy foe and didn’t forget he was a person.”

“Dude! He tried to FREEZE me to death! After I vouched for him to boot! I shoulda taken him down! Like Billy would have, no probs!” Finn countered, anger souring him.

“No. Finn. You showing mercy is something that sets you apart from Adventurers and keeps you from being an Evil Villain or a Neutral Mercenary. You didn’t lose track of your moral code! That makes you a Good Hero, by the process of elimination ironically!” Jake explained with a modest cheerfulness.

“That... kinda makes sense.” Finn agreed, slightly feeling better about his actions.

“Heck yeah it does! A real jerk woulda killed the dude that tried to kill you while he was down. But you didn’t! That makes you a real Knight in fabric armor AND safe from any legal prosecution to it being well within the parameters of self-defense! I think. Don’t quote me on that.” Jake said with half-hearted certainty.

“Yeah, I guess that really does make sense. Thanks Jake.” Said Finn, with a bit more of his usual pep in his words, a sign the pep-talk worked.

“Ya darn welcome buddy! Now come along with me! We got a Rainicorn and her Princess to save and an Ice Guy’s butt ta kick!” Jake beckoned.

“What?! Heck no! We can’t take him on!” Finn protested.

“Why not? You took him down, like you said! We can take that guy no problem!” Jake scoffed.

“Yeah, but only becuz he was holding back the whole time a goofy weirdo! He’s way stronger than we are!” Finn explained, worried about their mortality. “We’re just a couple of level 2 adventurers going up against a level 13 Dungeon Boss! Psycho is way outta our level range! He’ll destroy us! We’ll be TPK’d before we even reach his hideout! It’s suicide!”

“Well what do you expect us to do then?! Play cards or somethin!?” Jake asked.

“We go home and let the professionals deal with it! This whole adventure sitch is bonked!”

“Dude! We ARE the professionals!”

“No, we’re not! Or at least I’m not! I’m a kid!”

“Finn, where the heck is this coming from?! You were dungeon diving and fighting off monsters just yesterday! I know you’re still new to all of this, but setbacks comes with the territory of this profession.”

“Yeah, but... nobody elses life has been on the line quite like this! I’m worried the Ice King might kill her or something messed up like that if we go to rescue her! He WAS about to 69 me! So won’t he go crazy and 69 her?”

“He...WHAT?! 69?! Where tha heck didjya hear that term from?! Goodness!” Jake asked, going full parent mode.

“From the Ice King! It means killing people! I think ...right?” Finn answered.

“Uh... yeah, except it’s 86. 86 is the term. 69 is... meaningless nonsense. He made a mathematical mistake.” Jake said with relief he didn’t have to explain what 69 actually meant, or as to why people would ever 69. It was that sort of subject Jake would probably never fully explain to Finn if he can help it.

“Look, Finn, that girl needs our help! She needs that help NOW, and you made a promise to protect her! This is EXACTLY what we signed up for!” Said Jake, trying to motive his brother.

Finn remained anxious and fearful. He did not want to face the Ice King again. “But he’s so much more powerful! Like I said! Way too much for either of us to handle! He can 1-hit kill us dude! I love Mom & Dad, but I ain’t ready to see em yet!”

“Maybe, but it’s like ya said! We’re a coupl-a-level-two’s goin up against a level 13 Ice Wizard that you almost defeated by yourself! With our levels combined, we’re a level 4 party duo! Our power just doubled! You know what that means?!”

“That’s Algebraic!” Finn said with an upbeat flatness.

“Yup!” Jake confirmed. “And since we’re a pair, that means we got extra actions on the guy!”

“Which makes it calculicious!” Finn said as he hopped to his feet with growing enthusiasm.

“Yeah! Calculicious!” Jake agreed. “And with our combined creative wits and skills, makes our overall chances of taking him down way higher!”

“Alphanumeric!”

“YEAH! I think, maybe, probably.” Jake being unsure of his brother’s phrases.

“PROBLEMATIC!” Finn shouted.

“Darn right it is! And what this problematic... problem... um... needs is a... coupla do-gooders like us to solve it...”

There was a long awkward pause between the two. Neither was sure of what to say or do.

“Point is Finn, don’t doubt yourself so much! You got this bro! We both do! Together!” Jake then gave Finn a grin. “What time is it?” Jake asked, barely concealing his excitement.

“It’s...” Finn began, inhaling, knowing exactly what Jake meant. “ADVENTURE TIME!!!” He yelled out for all the world to hear. Finn & Jake then bumped their fists together.

“That’s my brother! Now let’s go fulfill that promise you made to the Princess and go rescue her! Come along, Finn!” Jake stretched himself larger, becoming quadrapedal, upon which Finn hopped on top of.

“Wait! Hold up!” Finn said with urgency.

“What is it? Gotta take a leak?” Jake asked.

“Nah, see that rod thing in the ice?” Finn pointed at a particular part of the stream, still frozen.

Jake spotted what he meant and broke through the stream and pulled it out, examining the item. “What is it?” He asked.

“Flamethrower! It’s the Princesses! Might come in handy!” Finn said, as he checked to see if it was still working, which judging by the burst of fire into the air, it was. “WHOA-OH!!”

“Careful with that man! Playin with fire is dangerous!” Jake said mindfully. “But you’re right, this could come in handy!”

The two then rode off into the mid-morning sunrise.

Finn was feeling much better, especially after having sat on that ice for so long. But he still felt sadness and anger towards himself for failing the Princess and a fear of facing the Ice King again. He did not want to die, but he also felt the fear of failing her again. He did not know which was worse.

But he was also curious about the Invisible girl. Who was she and how long was had she been there during the fight? Why did she not do anything? Or WAS she doing something? Or was she really a girl and not just a really girly sounding guy?

Most important question of all in this moment, why were they heading towards the Candy Kingdom?

“Uh Jake!” Finn piped up.

“Yeah buddy, what is it?!” Jake said with excitement.

“We’re supposed to be going to the Ice Mountains!”

“OH!” Jake said with surprise as he course corrected by turning into the right direction. “I knew that!”

“Haha! Silly Dog!” Finn commented, jolly as a rancher.

Adventure Time Presents: The Good, The Fair & The Beautiful. - Chapter 9 - Zalloj - Adventure Time (Cartoon 2010) [Archive of Our Own]

#adventure time #finn #jake the dog #lady rainicorn

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

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sahrotaar, ziil los dii du

Trans: Sahrotaar, your soul is mine (Miraak’s command mid-fight that absorbs his dragons’ souls.) Sahrotaar is freed from Apocrypha, but some things take longer to shake off. (My entry for TES week, prompt: dragons!)

This fic contains memories of and references to past abuse, including Miraak’s under the Dragon Cult and Hermaeus Mora, and that of Miraak’s bound dragons in Apocrypha at the hands of Hermaeus Mora and Miraak, specifically including the use of the Bend Will shout on a sentient creature. It has an instance of self harm, character death (offscreen), traumatic memory loss, and unhealthy thought-patterns and internalised victim-blaming. This fic does not condone this abuse, read at your own risk. Available on A03.

The first time in thousands of years that Sahrotaar woke alone was to a world so raw it was painful. There was a great and terrible roaring, continuous as the cup of Keizaal’s boundless sky, some vast challenger who did not stop for breath or for Words. Sahrotaar snarled itself awake, belly pressed to the sharp, prickly ground like a cowering snake.

It hurt. Its body hurt. The growl hurt, shredding through waterless vocal cords, through a body weakened by some wrathful foe whose Voice slipped ghostlike through the talons of Sahrotaar’s grease-slicked memory. Though Sahrotaar’s growl barely seemed to move its throat, it briefly blotted out the roar.

Sahrotaar’s Voice was the stronger. At that, some agonising pride, some bewildering relief on the heels of abhorrent shock, unclenched behind a deep and foetal terror. It had won the battle. That was impossible.

Sahrotaar lapsed at once back to unconsciousness, overcome.

---

The second time was easier. The roar was muted, but the light broke Sahrotaar’s eyes as if spears thrust into the soft flesh when it tried to blink them open. It howled in surprise, then again at the stab of agony in its ears.

The sound echoed, horribly, as if Thuri was standing over it, man-tongued and dragon-souled, hissing out orders in a Voice that needed not the vast lungs Sahrotaar had, for Bend Will was a noiseless, seductive inhale, fashioned after Mora, insidious in its working. But oh – how it had echoed, deep into Sahrotaar’s skull with each order, bending its mind round itself until the only wind its wings could catch came fluttering from Miraak’s lips with every beat of his mortal heart.

Seized in that unbearable fear, Sahrotaar flung its wings over its head. As if it could hide, as if it had ever been able to hide from those Words, that Will, his Voice. Muscles locked tense, waiting for the order that would come. That would grind itself into Sahrotaar’s eternal soul until the memories of the proud, water-swift dragon it had been seemed so distant that it barely noticed the loss of them as Mora’s oily tentacles supped of the knowledge in the depths of its mind.

In the end, Sahrotaar had held firm on the bedrock of its name, its love of the deep, smooth lakes of Nirn, and let go. Submitted. It was better to wait, than to fight.

Hopeless surrender was a dreadful injury for a dragon to claw into itself. But the alternative, the alternative looked worse.

Krosulhah had loved Miraak, to the point where even Miraak had grown tired of it and sent it away. Relonikiv and Kruziikrel had flamed and fought Thuri for so long, unable to bear it, shredding their souls and minds against the talons of Bend Will. A dragon’s sense of time is immutable, its patience great, but the airless dark of Apocrypha smothered even their flames eventually under the crushing weight of inevitability. They became cowed animals, minds shapeless, Wordless, Voiceless. And Miraak would laugh at their lizardlike hisses, their doglike snarls, from their dragonlike shapes.

No, submission was better.

Sahrotaar waited, but no order came.

The light was lessened by the hunched panels of its wings, and its eyes blinked stickily in the gloom. The ground here was toothy and untooled, sharp beneath its softened claws, oddly dusty. Some terrible part of Apocrypha Thuri had uncovered, Sahrotaar knew, some wild place that held knowledge from the beings before the first mortal fumblings at wood and stone. But there was some sense – some tickling at the place where knowledge had been, once, before Mora’s eager teeth had ravaged Sahrotaar’s brain. Something – had changed.

Sahrotaar didn’t trust that sense. It waited.

No order came.

Sahrotaar’s nostrils flared. Everything – smelled different, richer, unsweated in Mora’s turgid pollution. A rotting smell, like dusty humanflesh, and the rank furs of the pelts they covered their scaleless bodies with. There was a clear, cold scent, as painful as a lance struck into Sahrotaar’s breast, because it smelled like water. Clear, cave-borne water, churned among the rocks of Nirn. Sahrotaar missed water.

Sahrotaar had taken the waters of Nirn for granted, once, had not thought overlong before plunging its snout into a deep crystalline stream to quench its thirst, nor paused to savour its delight at the tender drumming of the current against the softer scales of Sahrotaar’s jaw and nose. The sense-memory hurt.

Time passed, dragging on in that interminable wheel within Sahrotaar’s Aetherial-steeped soul, and still no order came. Nor even Miraak’s loneliness, bitter as knives, his cruelty, foul as poison.

Eventually, Sahrotaar lowered its wings. The light stung and burned, and the world that took shape was hazy, smothered in brightful blurs where Sahrotaar’s eyes had not yet adjusted, and it was impossible.

It was Nirn.

Sahrotaar lay within some cavern beneath the earth, bisected by a wandering stream and framed at either end by abandoned stoneworks of human-make, vaguely childlike in their scribings. The door at the end of the chamber hummed with the magic of familiar old disciples, but twisted, as if it were a bone once-broken that had grown tougher over the break, and set not quite aright. It was Nirn – not Apocrypha, for nowhere in that accursed realm of Oblivion was there water, unspoiled water, coursing unfettered over the rocks.

With a strange sort of jerk, Sahrotaar realised that Miraak had not compelled it there. To Nirn, impossible Nirn, that Sahrotaar had secretly never thought to see again, for Miraak had tried many times to return to Keizaal and had never once slipped from unctuous Mora’s noose. No Bend Will echoed numbly in its mind, the after-throb of that bell-like thunder, no, instead, there was – something else.

Someone else.

The residue was faint, unlike Miraak’s, following scarred paths with gentleness, as if Sahrotaar had been a horse led by the bridle rather than by the whip. But it was there, unmistakeable, and that was impossible too. None other than Miraak and Mora knew the Words of Bend Will.

But what of the Last Dragonborn?

Flashes came to Sahrotaar then: a podium rearing from the heaving seas of Apocrypha, a mortal, stench fresh and unknown, stood upon it, a dreadful Shout familiar and impossible. Flashes of fire and lightning, Voices thundering – Miraak’s, and Thuri’s, the impossibility of those not being one and the same. A dreadful wrenching, as Miraak had turned, oily sword in hand, furious eyes afire, and yanked at Sahrotaar’s soul as if it were his to suck from Sahrotaar’s ancient bones as carelessly as Sahrotaar had once gulped water: Your soul is mine to devour. Thuri, howling an order that sunk chains around Sahrotaar’s soul to tether it into its bones.

Hazier memories then, overwritten by the searing torment in Sahrotaar’s chest, as if its very self had been dislocated from its body. Everything passed by in Sahrotaar’s mind’s eye as if it were underwater.

It saw Miraak fallen, the ripples of dragonsouls flashing and blurring by from his dragon-kinned mortal-flesh, it heard the ominous rumbles of the Dragonborn’s avarice stoppered by defiance against the black-tongued writhe of spoilt Mora. Then Sahrotaar’s own ragged blue shape tumbling through sky too big, too bright, in Keizaal, in agony at the unbearable reality of it all. An order from Thuri, Become Ethereal, and together, Thuri and Sahrotaar had plummeted like a stone, through air and rock and grateful into the darkness of the under-earth. And then nothing.

No one.

Where had Thuri – the Dragonborn – gone? Questions bubbled in Sahrotaar’s mind, but a profound and grave shock had it rooted to its place, tail trembling. Miraak – dead? Relonikiv and Kruziikrel, Sahrotaar’s unknowing companions and underlings in the service of Miraak’s Voice – vanquished? Even the lugubrious, omnipresent breath of hungry Hermaeus Mora – stripped from Sahrotaar’s mind? It could not be, surely, yet Sahrotaar knew it as deeply as it knew its name, the Words that made it itself.

Miraak was gone.

It could not be. It was a trap – surely. The beloved water bubbling merrily through the cavern was a trick, a ploy to wrest the ashes of Sahrotaar’s hope from their resting place, the emptiness of the entrenched scars where Bend Will’s compulsions dug deep open wounds to make sharper the pain of their return. But Miraak’s Voice was silent in the song of Keizaal, and the Dragonborn’s thunder was distant, far distant, barely within the reach of Sahrotaar’s senses. Of greedful Mora, there was nothing but a rancid, mushy scent, like infection, that wafted from Sahrotaar’s scales ridden with foul dirt.

But it could not be. Sahrotaar could not be – Sahrotaar’s mind skated away from the word, unwilling to expose the rawness of that nervy hope to light. Freedom had been conquered from it by Miraak’s Voice in battle, as was the way of their kind. Sahrotaar had hoped for death. But that was not Miraak’s Will, so Sahrotaar had learnt service, and learnt it well. It was upon that that Sahrotaar fell, confused, desperate, and suspicious of that pure deep stream calling to it from across the cave.

So Sahrotaar listened for an order, but none came. Time passed.

Alone, it waited.

---

The Last Dragonborn took their time in coming to see the dragon they had freed and trapped. Sahrotaar smelled them first; the hot, ashy scent of surface air carried faintly through the winding passageways of the mine above the cavern was tinged with redolent mortal-flesh.

Sahrotaar raised its head from where it had been tucked underneath its wing, shielding its still-sensitive eyes from the dusty light filtering through the cracks in the rocky ceiling. The fins on its back pricked up as a shiver worked through Sahrotaar’s spine. Sahrotaar’s body still reeked of Apocrypha, the foul scent of mould-ridden paper and oil, and ink stained its leathery wings and small scales a wretched greenish-grey. The dirt of centuries crusted its claws. Its breath was rank.

Sahrotaar had not trusted the gift of water.

There had been no orders. No Miraak, no Kruziikrel or Relonikiv, not even Krosulhah, joyless devotee that it was.

So Sahrotaar had waited, curling its tail around itself, and wondered what it was that the Last Dragonborn wanted with it. Why rescue it from Apocrypha?

Sahrotaar did not remember much, but it remembered the Last Dragonborn saving its life when Miraak had attempted to rip its soul from its body. It did not recall much about the Dragonborn’s talk with Mora, did not remember how it had come to plummeting through the skies of Nirn. But Sahrotaar knew Mora. Better than any dragon still living. Nothing came from Mora without a steep price.

What had the Dragonborn been willing to pay, to save Sahrotaar? And what would they want in return?

Sahrotaar was no closer to knowing when the Last Dragonborn appeared in the entrance of the cavern. They were dressed in the same armour that they had worn to defeat Miraak, Sahrotaar smelled the reek of Mora seeped into the leathers. The plain mask that covered their face was not dragon-magic, but a simple one worked of wood by an unskilled hand. It looked heavy.

They paused in the doorway, that expressionless mask angled down at Sahrotaar. Their hand rested on the hilt of their weapon, some kind of cudgel that hung wicked from their belt and shimmered with enchantments. It was not the sword they had brought to defeat Miraak. Sahrotaar wondered at the change.

“Drem yol lok.” The Last Dragonborn’s Shout rumbled like the crack of earthbones. Their fire was not the biggest or brightest that Sahrotaar had ever seen, but it was impressive enough, and angled politely away from Sahrotaar.

“Drem,” Sahrotaar replied. Its Voice was hoarse and unused. Sahrotaar’s wings tensed. It sounded weak.

The Last leapt lightly down the rocks towards Sahrotaar, focusing on each jump as if Sahrotaar posed no threat to them at all. The thought was bitter to Sahrotaar. It was not a lie – the Last Dragonborn had written Bend Will into their soul. Sahrotaar was powerless, all fighting would do was waste time and energy. The alternative to submission was always worse.

“You are awake.” The Last Dragonborn signed as they spoke. Some of the shapes were familiar as the signs of the old Atmorans to Sahrotaar, if corrupted by the wheel of time, but some were not. They spoke aloud in Dovahzul somewhat gracelessly with a cracked and uncertain voice, but the cavern shook and throbbed from the power of it. “You did not fare well when we returned to Nirn. I see your injuries have healed.”

Sahrotaar dipped its head to stare levelly at the Last Dragonborn. At that, the Dragonborn reached up to pull off their mask, meeting its gaze with a flint-eyed glare of their own. The mortal’s face was weathered, scarred. The determined set of their expression was as hard as if it had been carved from rock. They had bitten their lips raw, and the small wounds gaped as they spoke in a voice as smooth as rusted metal.

“You do not enjoy conversation, then,” the Last said, in their shaky Dovahzul. “Good.”

The Last Dragonborn ran their hand through their short stubs of hair, huffing out a sigh. Unbidden, a memory reared in Sahrotaar’s mind as it watched, a memory of Miraak.

Miraak had rarely taken time to himself, eschewing mortal needs in his pursuit of power and freedom. But nonetheless sometimes Miraak had gone unmasked, to eat, to drink, or to groom himself. He had long and thick hair, stained over time to the inky green of Apocrypha. It dripped ink onto his robes, and smeared his gloves when he ran his hands through it.

Braiding and twisting his hair in the old Atmoran style, tugging out the matts, Miraak had once, under his breath, almost unconsciously, hummed a song of braiding. The mortals had had songs for all things, then, knowing it pleased their dragon masters, knowing that storied tunes carried further than their short lives would, and that dragons had little patience for mortals to learn anew what their grandfathers had already discovered.

Of them all, Kruziikrel’s mind had started to go first, losing its sense of place and time, occasionally calling Sahrotaar and Relonikiv by different dragons’ names, strutting about as if the blasted tower of Apocrypha that it pleased Mora to allow them to roost upon was its own nest, attended by its own priests. Kruziikrel took refuge in the memory of another time and forgot to be wary of their master, a foolishness that reaped richly the rewards of Miraak’s most vicious punishments. Such as it was on this occasion.

The song of braiding in Miraak’s voice was lovely, and the shine of his thick hair as he combed it out with his fingers pleasing to the eye. Kruziikrel raised its head and sounded off, sleepily, the throaty clicking sound a dragon makes most when pleased, as a dragon might at its favoured servant.

Miraak jumped; the gentle song shattered into nothing.

“No!” Miraak roared, wild-eyed. His punishment had been swift, ordering all three of them to fling themselves into the fetid darkness that seethed about the base of the tower. They had gone, Sahrotaar in terror, felt the sludgy interest of Mora seep into its nose, its eyes, the holes of its ears, chewing on memory thoughtfully, stripping it of all it was.

Mora’s hunger was a ruthless and rancorous mutilation. It had hurt, until all at once the memory was gone, and then it had not hurt at all but felt empty, empty, as if Sahrotaar was nothing but a hollow, dry well where there was once a dragon.

Afterwards, it took time for the sense of profound loss to fade. Even then, Sahrotaar did not think it faded so much as Sahrotaar had simply forgotten what it had been like to be whole.

Sahrotaar did not remember what Mora had taken from it then, but from Kruziikrel and Relonikiv it had clearly been what had just occurred. They had landed back on the tower, lined up like the disobedient servants they were, and Kruziikrel’s ears had dripped black ink, and its eyes were unfocused and unseeing.

Miraak stood there, mask clenched in a white-knuckled hand, sword in the other, still wild-eyed. His hair had been hacked off into short, choppy waves, close to his skull as he could get, sawed off in the uneven manner of the desperate and uncaring. He had stood there, glaring at them, and Kruziikrel and Relonikiv made no sound as if they remembered what Miraak had desperately wanted to hide, that hung rich in Sahrotaar’s memory – a scent, a scent that had rolled from him at Kruziikrel’s hum.

The bitter scent of Miraak’s fear.

After that, Miraak had always taken care to cut off his hair before it had grown past his ears, and Sahrotaar had pretended for all it was worth that it did not remember Miraak’s immediate, visceral panic, for Sahrotaar truly did not want to see what Miraak would do if he realised that it knew that Miraak was afraid of a dragon’s admiration. And Sahrotaar knew of the measures that dragons had to take, sometimes, to bring mortals to heel, for they were spirited creatures, and did not always learn well their place without encouragement from dragon tooth and claw. The picture it made was ironic, for the dragons were now Miraak’s to punish as he pleased, and in the end, the Voice of Miraak’s master had been too weak to subdue him.

Your soul is mine to devour.

The memory faded, and Sahrotaar shook its head, as if to dislodge it. The Last Dragonborn only watched it, speculative, and said nothing of Sahrotaar’s distraction.

“What do you want of me?” Sahrotaar growled roughly. Its throat felt like sandpaper. Its chest was cold, and it ached.

“A few things,” said the Last Dragonborn grimly. “But first, I owe you an apology.”

It took Sahrotaar a moment to parse what the Last Dragonborn meant, the Dovahzul awkward and the concept foreign. Then it snorted, and rose itself tall, looking down on the mortal. Remorse was weak. The Last Dragonborn’s Voice was strong. Why bother with this absurdity?

“What wrong have you done of me?”

“I compelled you. Enslaved you.” The Last Dragonborn did not drop their gaze, dragon-hard. Their expression was twisted, gnarled by the scars, but Sahrotaar thought it saw something. Something strange, that it was not sure it had ever seen in Miraak’s eyes. “It goes against my way. This accursed knowledge – I did not know how to defeat Miraak without it. I am sorry for taking your will from you without permission. I am sorry that it happened to you at all.”

They paused, but Sahrotaar said nothing. Its mind reeled. Unworthy master. The Last’s Voice was the stronger. Service to the strong was the inevitable fate of the weak. Such was their way.

“I regret not being able to save the other dragons,” said the Last. “Their fate was not kind.”

“Relonikiv and Kruziikrel.” Sahrotaar did not recall speaking, but it felt the rumble in its throat, and knew the words must have come from it. But how strange, for Sahrotaar did not care whether the Last Dragonborn knew their names. Your soul is mine to devour. They had not needed names, in the end – they were repositories of Miraak’s power, nothing more.

Because they were weak, all of them, and bent to Miraak’s will.

The Last Dragonborn inclined their head to Sahrotaar. Their brow furrowed and its mountainous ridges cast deep shadows on their face.

“Yes,” they said. “Relonikiv and Kruziikrel.”

There was a brief moment where they both looked at one another, the Last Dragonborn stony-faced, and Sahrotaar with its wings pressed tightly against its back to hide its minute shaking. It did not like this.

Something felt – wrong, unsafe. As if another dragon circled above Sahrotaar’s head, watching it like prey.

The Last Dragonborn hesitated. Their hands moved uncertainly through several quick signs, trying out words. Eventually, they switched to the language of the Cyrods. “I would offer you a boon in recompense, whatever you might want, beyond hurting people without need.” In Dovahzul, they said, “A gift, of my Voice to yours. You do not have to decide now. But you know my name.”

“Yes,” said Sahrotaar.

“I have freed you from Mora’s influence, and Miraak. You will be free to do as you please on Nirn, though I have certain conditions. You are not to harm any mortal except in self-defence, and should you attempt to rule over them, I will come for you. I would recommend that you stay away from their dwellings until you understand the time that you have woken to.”

The Last Dragonborn’s hand returned to their sword hilt when they had finished signing their speech. Sahrotaar found the idea that they even pretended that it was a threat oddly comforting. It felt respectful, even if it was a farce.

After all, if the Last Dragonborn wished, Sahrotaar would be their servant, as it had been Miraak’s. Miraak had not needed to use his Words to compel Sahrotaar to do his bidding, by the end. Bend Will was a painful shout for a dragon to bear, and it was a needless agony to suffer when there was no escape to be found regardless.

The Last Dragonborn’s ability to overrule Sahrotaar’s mind was enough.

“Yes, Thuri.” Sahrotaar dipped its head low. It was torturously aware of its body language: wings tucked tight with their foreclaws barely touching the gritty rock, tail looped around its ankles, looking for all the world like it was shrinking in on itself. Touching as little of the ground as possible was a useful habit for a dragon in Apocrypha, but Sahrotaar knew that it looked afraid.

Sahrotaar knew that it looked weak. Hadn’t Miraak said it, often enough, warm gloved palm square on Sahrotaar’s head as he vaulted onto Sahrotaar’s neck? Like Sahrotaar was a horse, tamed and timid.

But Sahrotaar did not want to encourage the Last to use Bend Will on it. Already, it had enjoyed unprecedented peace within the cave, and if the Last truly meant to allow Sahrotaar to roam where it pleased, Sahrotaar did not wish to risk losing their magnanimity.

Yet the Last looked as if they had swallowed glass. A glower twisted divots into the stony flesh of their forehead, and their lips thinned until the bloody cracks split open, and fresh blood welled anew.

“I don’t want you to serve me in fear of what I will do to you if you do not! I do not want your service,” they snapped. Their Voice was harsh and strong, shaking the earth until the rocks vibrated under Sahrotaar’s claws. Sahrotaar heard a distant crack.

The Last glanced in the direction of the sound and then sighed thinly through their nose. “I apologise,” they said again.

Sahrotaar thought that the Last apologised too much.

“You are free,” the Last said, again. Intently, they met Sahrotaar’s eyes with their own. “This is Bloodskal Barrow, close to the settlement of Raven Rock, on Solstheim. Skyrim is west, across the sea. I will not attack you, or compel you, nor can Miraak. His Words cannot reach you here and Mora does not have your scent. This I swear.”

They stepped forward, pointed up and behind them without breaking eye contact. “That is the highest spot in the cavern, closest to the surface. If you turn ethereal, you will be able to fly straight through, on the honour of my name.”

The Last Dragonborn stared at Sahrotaar for a moment, as if expecting it to reply. The silence dragged. Eventually, the Last jerked their chin, expression stiff and resolute. They jammed the mask back over their face. Then they left, with as little fanfare as they had arrived.

Sahrotaar waited until it could no longer smell the Last Dragonborn’s smoky scent anywhere in the cavern. Then it collapsed, muscles trembling, and hid its head under its wing. Shrouded in that safe blue darkness, Sahrotaar caught its tail tip in its mouth and pressed its teeth into scale and fin.

The pain was sharp and bright, and felt not at all like Apocrypha, or the orders of a Dragonborn Sahrotaar could not escape.

---

In the end, Sahrotaar did not turn itself ethereal and fly straight up through the rock. Instead Sahrotaar explored the cavern, sniffing at the entrances. It investigated the door, inhaling a noseful of sparks from the magicka that sealed the door.

Recognition surfaced, hazy and uncertain. A priest had dwelled nearby, Sahrotaar was sure, but that priest was not Miraak. The inky darkness that surged in Sahrotaar’s mind when it sniffed at the door made it clear that Mora had eaten the memory of which priest, and their dragon patron.

Sometimes Sahrotaar thought it could scent Miraak, but when it roared loud enough that dust shook in the ceiling, there was no answer. Again and again, Sahrotaar trumpeted out challenges, flapping its wings, lashing its tail, scoring the rocks with frost and fire. Sahrotaar held the little victories of silence as its Voice echoed unthreatened like a gasp of buoyant air in its lungs.

Here, with no First or Last Dragonborn to take its will, Sahrotaar’s Voice was the strongest.

And yet, Sahrotaar’s throat failed it, Voiceless as Relonikiv and Kruziikrel, when it thought of Shouting Miraak’s name, the one challenge a dovah could never ignore, even one in the body of a mortal. And the Last Dragonborn’s careful phrasing rang in Sahrotaar’s mind, how they had never quite said that Miraak was dead. Defeated, not dead.

Sahrotaar told itself that it did not want to shout Miraak’s name because Miraak was dead, and Sahrotaar was not so foolish and weak that it Shouted the names of the dead to prove to itself that they were gone. But the muscles in Sahrotaar’s wings quivered like it wanted to fly, as fast as it could, as if it could ever run from that will, that Voice, and made a liar of it.

A perverse sense gripped Sahrotaar that if it left the cavern, Miraak would know. Would sense Sahrotaar, as Sahrotaar would sense him.

The Last had not said that Sahrotaar needed to leave. A single cavern on Nirn was already an incredible improvement on all of boundless Apocrypha.

So Sahrotaar occupied itself with the stream. It drank huge, thirsty gulps of water, the icy chill hurting its gums, glorying in the endlessness of the stream’s bounty, how more water simply came to replace that which Sahrotaar swallowed. It wedged itself down until its body made humps for the water to dance over, forced by the musculature of its shoulders to streak down over its back like the shivery breath of frost.

The water tickled at its nose and reminded it of Miraak’s nimble fingers scratching there, absentminded in one of his lonelier moods, Sahrotaar commanded to lay at his back like a supporting wall for Miraak’s frail mortal body.

The memory was cold and hard in Sahrotaar’s chest. Miraak’s Voice echoed: Your soul is mine to devour. He had not been wrong.

Sahrotaar was weak.

It tried to focus on cleaning itself, grinding its scales painfully against sharp rock. Ballooning clouds of ink sheeted from its stained wings. The waters of Nirn soothed and blued Sahrotaar’s scales, but the dingy grey stain of Apocrypha was stubborn, and it was only a little stream.

It was hard for a dragon to clean itself, for there was a lot of scale, and only one probing snout. Sahrotaar remembered, dimly, as if the memory had happened to some other dragon, its priests crowding round it after Sahrotaar rose from the waters, eager to seek out with their deft hands and brushes the crusts and crumbs of dirt that irritated the tender skin beneath its scales. It was a soothing and vainglorious pleasure, incentivised by dragon-teeth and dragon-Words, and one that few dragons had gone without. To be permitted to bathe a dragon was a marker of mortal service, of respect, and an honour that priests and acolytes had vied for.

And yet sometimes, in the depths of inescapable Apocrypha, Miraak had washed Sahrotaar with rags taken from the corpses of Seekers Sahrotaar had hunted to feed its master. Miraak’s hands were as clever as any servant Sahrotaar had seen, and he had sung the old hymns, Voice so strong and beautiful that Sahrotaar’s restless soul had been melted to quiescence, its body boneless, as if it had never wanted to move in its life.

He hadn’t needed to sing to lull Sahrotaar to stillness. Had Miraak commanded it, Bend Will would have made a statue of Sahrotaar’s muscles. Sahrotaar had cherished that gift, for it knew it was that, of the puzzling sort that took Miraak sometimes, wrapped it around itself, and dwelled on the shrunken sense of pride it inspired. Sahrotaar thought Miraak’s radiant, clear song was a gift for the dragon he liked best, more obedient than Kruziikrel, cleverer than Relonikiv.

For Sahrotaar was his, his to leave to fester in filth, his to polish like an ornament should he desire a clean mount. Sahrotaar was even his favoured of the mounts available to him, for its smooth, water-soft scales, and lack of spines.

Once, Miraak had ordered Relonikiv to gnaw off Kruziikrel’s spines so that Miraak might make himself a seat upon Kruziikrel’s back. The result had been lumpy and unsatisfying, Relonikiv’s mouth dripping with Kruziikrel’s blood and snapped teeth, Kruziikrel’s pained whimpering as Miraak’s weight aggravated the raw stumps.

Dissatisfied, Miraak had returned to Sahrotaar, claiming that Sahrotaar had been made to be ridden, as Kruziikrel and Relonikiv had been made to be mindless. And Sahrotaar had been washed, sometimes, when Miraak was bored, as if it were a dragon Miraak praised.

And not a weak dragon whose soul Miraak would shred without a thought for power.

Sahrotaar did not recall the name of the dragon Miraak had once served – it had been taken by gleeful Mora, another cudgel to torment Mora’s favoured prisoner with. But Sahrotaar had rather thought that that dragon must have prized Miraak, for his magnificent singing and his efficient, thorough attentions. Miraak had clearly learnt well the lessons he was taught, moved with a speed and ease borne only of the dedicated practice of a lifetime.

Sahrotaar wondered, occasionally, if Miraak’s master had seen its death coming, keeping such a rare and pleasing mortal within its claws. If Miraak had killed it, or another dragon had, jealous of Miraak’s care. Somehow, Sahrotaar could only imagine that Miraak had killed his master, and that death had been brutal.

Sahrotaar’s chest ached.

Rubbing its cheek against a spine of rock thrusting out of the water, Sahrotaar tried to loosen a thick fringe of ink that gritted against its jaw. The angle wasn’t quite right. Sahrotaar growled in frustration. It wanted to be clean. It wanted the stink of Apocrypha gone.

It felt, suddenly, the immense emptiness of the cavern, deserted except for Sahrotaar, the door, and the stream. Dragons were solitary creatures by nature, but Sahrotaar had spent centuries in Apocrypha, sharing a small space with Relonikiv and Kruziikrel, tangling tails and wings. Had spent centuries under the will of another, his presence a constant, his will an inevitability.

Sahrotaar’s sigh blew bubbles. It watched the bubbles pop against its snout, then closed its eyes and attempted to find a comfortable position lying down in the stream.

The water rushing over its head was soothing, a lulling background of white noise that urged Sahrotaar to relax. It felt wrong being alone, exposing. The Last had said that Sahrotaar was safe from Miraak and Mora here, and no other dragon would think to plunge through the earth and find it.

Only the Last Dragonborn knew where Sahrotaar hid.

So Sahrotaar, cautious but lonely, wove imagination into a shelter around the chilly ache in its chest. It saw itself, backwinging to land on a great cliff, somewhere raw and sunfilled, as unlike Apocrypha as it was possible to be, touching the edge of the magnificent ocean. The earth would be not Apocryphal green but brown and yellow, like the fields of Keizaal after the thaw. Water would ooze from the ground, fresh and cold, dampening Sahrotaar’s claws. It would be windy and chill, tossing the waves white-capped, plucking at Sahrotaar’s wings to urge it back into the sky to dance among the seaspray. Sahrotaar would be able to hear other dragons, far away, sense their Words, but they would be no threat, and they would not interfere.

Miraak would be there, unmasked, in this dream, standing on the cliff. Sahrotaar imagined that it lashed out at Miraak, and Miraak did not stop it. The whip of Sahrotaar’s tail slammed into Miraak, hurling him away from Sahrotaar. Miraak landed hard, with the audible crunch of bone breaking. Overcome with the pain of his mortal body, he would lie there, defeated, Sahrotaar powerful, victor of its conqueror.

The vengeance was not as satisfying as Sahrotaar wanted it to be. It knew that if Miraak had been thrown, then it was because Miraak had chosen it, and he was not so weak that pain in his mortal-flesh leashed his indomitable will. He was Dovahkiin, Thuri, and Sahrotaar was – well, Sahrotaar. It shifted restlessly, tried anew.

Miraak would lie there a moment, but then he would rise up on his elbows, accustomed, of course, to the consequences a soft mortal risked when living among dragons. He was likely used enough to injury and pain.

He would be there, dressed in the royal purple robes Sahrotaar’s servants had favoured from dyes collected from shells, the edges stained with deep blues that would match Sahrotaar. His hair, poisonous green so dark it nearly looked black after Apocrypha, would be loose and long, the greenish-yellow staining mottling his skin like bruises visible without his tentacle mask. His beauty would be marred by centuries of pollution, but it would be there, and for Sahrotaar only, all other dragons cowed by the might of Sahrotaar’s Voice.

Sahrotaar tried to imagine that Miraak sung for it then, but could not quite imagine Miraak singing wilfully the praise of any dragon. Could not imagine Miraak not using his Voice to enslave them, and prickles of fear began to spoil the dream. Your soul is mine to devour.

So instead, Sahrotaar placed Miraak in one of the ornamental masks of the dragons’ favoured, covering their faces, imagined the metal wound with cloth beneath that would press gently on Miraak’s tongue, forbidding any speech, any Words. The polished buckle would shimmer like a star among all that black-green, Miraak’s eyes snow and malachite through the eyeslits of the mask, beaten-blue in Sahrotaar’s colours. Miraak, leashed as Sahrotaar had been leashed, the Voice so unique and terrible it had broken dragons to animals halted in his throat.

The gagging masks were precious signs of favour, for it was not uncommon for dragons to pick out favoured servants, one that had comely speech, lively service, or quick minds, and indeed frequent for dragons to become jealously fond of their baubles, as they were of their favoured hunting grounds, their preferred roosts. Wars of fang and fury had raged over hoarded mortals slain in another dragon’s anger, and since short-sighted mortals could not be trusted to not induce wars by singing at other dragons, the risk of a jealous opponent stealing a beloved servant was high.

Only for Miraak would it be for a dragon to protect itself, and not the servant.

In the dream, Sahrotaar would walk imperiously close, and drop its heavy jaw to Miraak’s lap, and Miraak would look up at it with cold dragon-eyes and –

The fantasy cracked, here, as Sahrotaar remembered Miraak’s fear at Kruziikrel’s appreciation, his hatred of the dragons that had been his only companions, his cruelty to them, as inventive as it was endless. Sahrotaar could not imagine a soft expression on Miraak’s face, even one of awe and wonder at the might of a dragon. Miraak had never been impressed by Sahrotaar. Had not needed to be, for Sahrotaar had bent to his Voice and his will like a bow to an archer.

Claws digging into the silty streambed, Sahrotaar’s mind searched for something safer. Miraak’s hands, smoothing over the tender scales of Sahrotaar’s nose, digging out the grit with his nails, seeking intuitively the best place to scratch under its jaw... Yes – this.

Warmth would rise where Miraak stroked, followed by oil to brighten and smooth Sahrotaar’s scales until they gleamed like mirrors. Miraak would find the itchy, dry bits that came from years away from the water and soothe them, and Sahrotaar would feel his lungs expand and contract against its nose, the movement of his blood under his skin, would smell his bitter scent of ink, mouldering books, and sweat.

Sahrotaar felt its spine relax and lengthen, wings unfold gently until they rested on the rock, tips trailing in the current. It tilted its nose down so the water beat against it more directly, imagining it was Miraak’s touch, caring for the dragon he surely loved best.

Sahrotaar’s mind quietened to a deep and still lake. It drifted there, lost in a vivid dream as impossible as true freedom.

---

It was a little known fact, even in the days of the Priests, that dragons did sleep. When they slept, they preferred to sleep long, sometimes for years at a time. A dragon’s nose and ear were sharp to disturbances, for one could never be too wary of an enemy dropping down for an ambush. All of this meant dragons slept tucked away in caves, far away from mortals, who above all things were prone to noise.

Sahrotaar was in one such sleep. Its vast grey-blue body lay athwart the stream, damming a small pool that rose chest-height with the circle of its languid tail. Its breathing was deep and steady, unbothered by the water rushing into its nose. Dirty water squeezed through the gaps in the cage of Sahrotaar’s limbs and streaked down the drying streambed in thin strands of diluted ink. In the darkness, the water gleamed blackly like blood.

Unfortunately, Sahrotaar’s cave was not in the isolated heart of a mountain, but right below a mine on the outskirts of Raven Rock. A mine rumoured to be haunted, maybe even containing treasure, but recently cleared out by the Dragonborn.

So it came to be that only a few months after Sahrotaar had gone to sleep in the stream that a team of two intrepid adventurers decided to forage Bloodskal Barrow for gold. The two Dunmer were children, a girl and a boy, ragged, recently orphaned by Miraak’s call, but outfitted in patchwork armour in desperate imitation of their personal hero, the Last Dragonborn.

They snuck down the passageways of the derelict mine, spooking at the large fists of spider corpses, the ratty hangings of cobwebs. A torch that hissed and spat and a dagger in each hand, with thin faces and wide ruby-eyes, they posed little threat to anything but the remnants of unplundered gold. When they came to the passageway where the ground suddenly dropped open, swallowed into the dark maw of the cave where Sahrotaar slept, their little torches did nothing but illuminate their own frightened faces.

For they could hear breathing. Great, whistling breathing, as if from a huge monster.

The girl bravely edged further down the passageway, not seeing the steep drop in the dark. For one second, her searching foot passed heart-stoppingly through empty air. Her arms pinwheeled, and she lost her grip on her torch. It spun like a fiery beacon down in the dark and landed with a hiss in the water.

Sahrotaar jerked awake, aware, suddenly, that it was no longer alone.

It rumbled a complaint blearily, knowing only that it had been woken abruptly from a dream it was rather enjoying. Half a moment later, a prickling coldness slammed in, and it reared its head up, searching for its master. Water sloshed and surged around its claws as it moved.

A memory tickled at it at the sight of the fire in the dark, the shimmer of white steel clenched in mortal hands. Some other sleeping ambush, some terrible outcome. The meat of it was gone, eaten by Mora, but the ragged bones of it caught at Sahrotaar’s fear.

It bellowed in alarm, and the Dunmer children screamed. The sound was jagged and discordant, and Sahrotaar reacted on instinct to restore the calm of before, the solidity of the untouched cave.

Ice seared from its mouth, blocking the passageway. The bright torch blinked out. Crystals drifted like dustmotes in the dim light shining through the cracks in the ceiling, no longer outshone by the torch.

Sahrotaar paused, but there was no sound, no challenger. Only dimly audible from behind the thick ice were the sounds of mortal footsteps, retreating swiftly up the passageway. With a brief jolt of shame, Sahrotaar realised that it had feared the mortals, feared that they were like Miraak, and the Last, and hid a Voice awful and aweing. But Sahrotaar had Shouted, and the mortals – they had run away.

Miraak had never run away.

Miraak had never needed to.

A dumb sense of pride dawned on Sahrotaar, slow and overwhelming. It had won. Its Voice was the stronger. A challenger had approached, and Sahrotaar had defeated it, forced it to flee.

Sahrotaar almost dared not to believe it.

Raising its wings, it shook them out, vainly tugging at a ragged edge that it thought might have a bit of ink left. The ink shifted when it moved its wing, and it grumbled, annoyed – it was hard to tell what was shadow, and what was ink, in this light with its sensitive eyes fireblinded.

Slowly, Sahrotaar lifted itself onto its haunches, and considered the roof of the cavern.

It would be easier to see, outside.

Bolstered by its victory, Sahrotaar padded to stand beneath the high point in the roof. Its tail swished, once, twice, scouring the ground. Sahrotaar raised itself onto its legs, stretching out its wings. They creaked, the bones worn with neglect of a thousand years in hellish circumstances. But they stretched, and felt long, and powerful, and Sahrotaar knew that they could bear its weight.

It had not flown alone, without the touch of another’s will in its mind, for … longer than it could remember.

It wavered there for a moment, instincts warring. Then, all at once, it launched itself into the air, one great flap that punished the muscles in its wings, two – a Shout – then surging through the rock, darkness all around it, feeling the tingle of Bloodskal Barrow’s magic slough away from its scales – then out.

Sahrotaar roared, this time in triumph. It was night, blisteringly cold, painfully real. Ash swirled away from the downdrafts of its wings as it powered up through the sky, leaving behind the threat of low-hanging mushrooms and tree-branches. Lights flickered on below, Sahrotaar smelled mortals, but already, rising, rising, it was beyond the arrow ranges of their pitiful bows and soon that of their spells.

Spinning into a loop for the joy of it, Sahrotaar bellowed out a jubilant Shout that painted the sky in dizzying streaks of fire that seared sight from Sahrotaar’s eyes, because it could, if it wanted, greet Keizaal with fire. Because its Voice was the strongest around, and there was no Miraak, no Last, to tell it what to do. The sound echoed, and echoed, and it heard the rumble of the winds all around it, carrying its challenge to any dragon who would hear it. Sahrotaar was free, free on the winds of Keizaal, and not far from it was the ocean, beautiful, boundless, beckoning, shimmering in the light of the moons like it was smiling, just for Sahrotaar.

Tucking in its wings, Sahrotaar arrowed down towards the churning sea. As it shot into the water like a hunting peregrine, it felt like it was finally waking up from a long and horrible dream. It felt like coming home.

#inkwrites #sahrotaar #skyrim #miraak #tesfest21 #self harm #abuse mention #mind control #memory loss #prompt: dragons #this features laat!#laataazin #relonikiv #kruziikrel #my fic sahrotaar ziil los dii du

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