Chapter Text
It was official. He despised the sea.
Jerrik rested his head on his knees, arms wrapped around his shins as if that alone could hold him together. His stomach churned with each wave that battered up against the Northern Maiden. The sailors’ voices echoed distantly in his ears. He even heard their laughter, but that wasn’t enough to rouse him from his stupor.
It was only two days ago he was in the snowy wilderness of Solstheim. Then the ashlands. And now the sea.
Jerrik swallowed the bile rising in his throat and reminded himself why he was here. His home, his people, his family. They were in danger. The moment he saw Morwen at that godsforsaken shrine muttering about a Miraak, he had rushed back to Skaal village. An eerie silence had settled over the entire town with only three people outside their homes. They sat on their knees with palms to the sky as their combined magic protected the few that were left. Storn opened one eye to look at him, his expression weary.
“You do not belong here,” he had said.
No matter how many years passed it still hurt, and he felt a fire burn in his chest. He had an idea.
“If I stop this, if I save our people, will you let me back in?”
Storn sighed, “Honor lies in intention as much as it does action.”
Jeriik only scowled until he wheedled the answer he wanted. Finally, Storn agreed.
Should Jerrik release the village from this curse, he would be welcome back home. Back to his mother, his family. It was an easy decision really.
He learned Frea had gone to the temple at the center of the island, but Jerrik doubted she would find anything there. No, the first thing they needed to do was learn what was happening. Only then could they stop it.
Jerrik had spent his exile wandering Solstheim, so finding his way to Tel Mithryn was a breeze. Neloth was as amicable as usual - which is to say, he wasn’t. But he told him what he needed to know.
Miraak was a dragon priest, but his story was unknown. His goals were even murkier.
Jerrik’s gaze then turned to Skyrim. There were no scholars on the dragon priests on the island, but the main land? It was easy enough to gain enough coin to take passage on the Northern Maiden. And that is how he found himself on the sea.
Windhelm had come into view a short while ago, and Jerrik clung to that knowledge. He was almost there. They just had to dock…
He could have cried when he finally stepped foot in Windhelm. The weather was freezing, a driving wind that bit straight through his coat, but he barely noticed as he gazed up at the looming stone walls.
They were massive, towering over him like mountains. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
People bustled passed him, more people than he had ever seen in his life. And they weren’t just people. There were elves and argonians, beings in shapes and colors he had only ever read about.
This wasn’t Skaal Village. It wasn’t even Raven Rock. This was a real city.
Under any other circumstance, Jerrik would have been thrilled. Unfortunately, his excitement was quickly dampened when he remembered why he was here.
He tucked his chin into his coat and trudged into the city. It was a maze of stairs and inclines and snow, but he finally made it to the palace. He shivered at the warmth that blasted him as the mighty doors swung open.
The Palace of Kings.
Jerrik once again faltered on his mission as he eyed the long table lined with delicacies he’d never seen before. HIs mouth watered as his eyes roamed the table only to get distracted by the lush carpeting and banners hanging over smooth stone walls. He ached to burn this magnificence into his memory, but he was yanked from his observations by a stern looking nord man.
“Can I help you, boy?”
Jerrik could only pay attention to him in short bursts as his eyes continued to roam the cavernous throne room.
“Yes, I, uh, need to find out about the dragon priests. I was told to talk to the court wizard?”
The words were foreign on his tongue, and the nord before him just scoffed.
“Through that door, up the stairs, to the left. Last room.”
He walked away, leaving Jerrik blinking dumbly after him.
“Thanks…?”
The upstairs of the palace was infinitely less grand than the throne room. The ceiling was low and the walls cramped. It felt like walking through an ancient tomb, and Jerrik shivered at the thought. He pushed past any discomfort, though, and followed the directions. He peered into the room to see an old man hunched over an enchanting table.
Jerrik cleared his throat.
The man didn’t move.
“Are you the court wizard?”
Still nothing.
Jerrik scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Hello? I’m talking to you.”
The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping as he turned around. His face was wrinkled and ancient, his eyes holding stories of decades.
“Unfortunately.”
“Are you the court wizard?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
Satisfied, Jerrik invited himself in. He knew better than to touch things that didn’t belong to him, but that didn’t stop him from inspecting every bottle and every tome he could see.
“I need to know about the dragon priests.”
“The dragon priests?” the mage sounded genuinely surprised. “Why would you want to know about them?”
“My business is my own,” Jerrik snapped.
“What’s your name, boy?” he continued when Jerrik didn’t reply. “I don’t know where you’re from, but here we introduce ourselves when we want something.”
“Jerrik. My name is Jerrik.”
“Well, Jerrik, I am Wuunferth the Unliving, Court mage of Eastmarch,” he took a seat on his bed. “I’m afraid I know little about the dragon cult. They ruled Tamriel in the Merethic Era - a land lorded over by the dragons. There were men who worshipped these dragons as gods, and they were granted great power. These were the dragon priests. They were vicious tyrants who murdered and starved their people. Eventually the people rose up and retaliated. Thus began the Dragon Wars.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. But what about the priests specifically? What about Miraak?
”
“Miraak?” Wuunferth frowned. “I’m not familiar with that name.”
“What about the other dragon priests?”
“They were killed off and buried deep in crypts.”
“Where?”
Wuunferth studied him with a pinched frown.
“Don’t go poking around Nordic crypts, boy. Especially not around dragon priests.”
“Just tell me where!”
“The nearest one is in the Rift. Forelhost, I believe. But I’m warning you. Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. If you must know more, speak to Farengar Secretfire in Dragonsreach. He can likely tell you more.”
But Jerrik wasn’t listening. His eyes lit up, committing that strange name to memory. Forelhost, then. He left without saying goodbye.
He would stay the night in Windhelm and then take a carriage to Riften in the morning. From there, he would head to Forelhost. Maybe something there would give him a clue to who Miraak was.
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Jerrik sat in Candlehearth hall with his back to the wall and a map spread over his legs. He studied it, memorizing various landmarks. In the background, a dunmer woman sang and people laughed over their ale. Every once in a while he would glance up at them in envy before refocusing. This wasn’t his Wedding Journey. This was his mission to be accepted back by the Skaal. To go home. He didn’t have time for sightseeing.
That night he curled up in his furs and dreamed of powerful words that shook the earth. He dreamed of a deep voice beckoning him to darkness, and he dreamed of fire and ice. He saw a million eyes blink back at him.
The next morning, he woke in a cold sweat and headed to the carriage. He began his journey to Riften.