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Miraak was relaxing in he small vegetable patch that Alyssa usually struggled to keep up. It was no wonder why, since she couldn’t stay in place, but Miraak had found, after accompanying her on several trips, that he actually preferred to stay home, save for the occasional visit to friends. Not that he had a lot of them these days. But these outings, when they happened, were enjoyable specifically because they were a bit rare.
Tending to the garden, beekeeping, and generally maintaining the house calmed him down, grounded him and gave him things to think about that were practical and real. When he relaxed near the vegetable patch, in a chair he’d constructed himself a few months ago, his thought sometimes drifted to Apocrypha and the possible reason he enjoyed doing things around the house so much. Keeping himself busy in mundane ways was for him an access to normalcy he hadn’t had in thousands of years. Back there, in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, there was no real sky, no nature, no bees – only endless and repeating rows upon rows upon rows of books. Now that he was out of there, even staying inside the house could be too much for him when he was alone. But the woods, and the garden, and Alyssa when she was there, all helped him be just a bit more normal. Relax just a bit more. Miraak always appreciated when the dragonborn was there, her lute playing, and the evenings they spent talking and singing and laughing. She had annoyed him before because she seemed to be caring and kind effortlessly, even if that wasn’t always true, and now he simply accepted that this was how she was, and how he loved her.
W hen Alyssa wasn’t here and he was idle, Miraak sometimes carved little pieces of wood. He’d started with simple shapes, something easy to get used to the material, before making animals of varying size. Nothing that couldn’t be carried in one’s hands, though. Wolves, bears, and so on had been made, with varying degrees of success. Nice-looking ones were becoming more and more common. So, on this day, he attempted something harder. Not only because of the form of what he was about to carve, there, in his chair in the garden.
E ver since things had calmed down, since he actually stopped repeating to himself that it was no use to attempt to become a better person, he just had to keep doing what he was doing , since he started genuinely caring about others, he had regretted the events in Apocrypha. He had pushed himself to do the absolute worst, and he had killed three dear friends.
H e could never bring them back. He was aware of that.
But maybe, just maybe, carving them all in little pieces of wood could bring them some peace. Maybe it could bring himself some peace, too.
By the time he was done, several days later, three little dragons looked like they were about to take flight, and he was crying.
He barely registered Alyssa coming home and running to him in worry. But he did not push her away as she took his hands in hers, and whispered attempts at comforting him.
Sahrotaar, Kruziikrel and Relonikiv sat in both of their hands, heads tilted towards the stars that they’d never see again.