Work Text:
He wasn’t dead but that would have been preferable; the pain would have been reasonable then and the hunger would finally end. But much to his frustration, his life would not be ending anytime soon. Quite the opposite; he’d been informed this was his ‘second chance’ by the bastard god that had cursed him in the first place. Why people worshiped Akatosh he’d never understand. Time was indifferent; wasn’t that the ultimate sin?
After vomiting again, he pulled himself and assessed is appearance with a grimace as his insides churned. Gods how had he forgotten this sensation? The constant weakness of malnutrition and dehydration were a torture all on their own, but the malodorous stench of the waking world was driving him closer to insanity faster than anything that roamed Apocrypha’s molded halls. If he wasn’t retching from sickness, he was shaking from cold and sweating from fever. So frail he’d become but no, he couldn’t let them see. She was still the enemy. It didn’t matter that they’d escaped together, it didn’t matter that they’d made an agreement – such promises were broken all the time and what reason did the Last Dragonborn really have for keeping him around? None. Absolutely none. He may as well have been a trophy or a pet.
He shuddered in revulsion.
But what was her name again? This also didn’t matter. She checked on him regularly despite the vulgarity and threats he hurled; if it wasn’t her, it was the idiot she employed. Always smiling, always polite. Gods damn that red headed nightmare and his cheerful outlook. He’d see them all bend to his will, or they would burn.
He continued to study his appearance in the mirror; pale, emaciated and hunched. He was a sickly creature that should have been put out of its misery, not coddled, and nursed. Leaning forward, he noticed the black had lessened from his eyes allowing the natural iris to appear, a greenish hazel that he once took pride in and had caught the attention of both men and women alike. This was a start at least, a sign of the human under the demon but it would be some time before he would appear without his mask. His head and face had been shaved which sharpened his gaunt features further and exposed old scars, but it was his protruding ribs and collarbones that alarmed him most. He’d taken pride in his appearance and to fall so far was jarring.
The majority of the dark veins had cleared from his skin, but an embarrassing amount of the inky liquid still seeped from him. It had lessened greatly in the last few weeks but more often than not, he’d awaken to find his bed linens black which only added to his degradation. Despite the sickness, he insisted on maintaining his own living space, but some days were harder than others. The room he was provided was in the far corner of the large manor with direct access to the back deck to allow privacy, something he had not realized he’d appreciate so much.
While it had taken some coaxing, he was encouraged to go outside. After one of their more heated conversations, the woman had pulled him from of his room, shoved him out onto the deck and locked the door behind him. He banged on the door loudly, demanding to be let back in but was promptly told to get fucked. He’d only pointed out her form was significantly lacking during her sword training. Who knew she would be sensitive to this?
But as his last hope was fading, he saw it, a chair with a blank book facing a perfectly serene lake. Suddenly, the world wasn’t so loud, and odors weren’t quite as noxious. As he sat, the warmth of the sun enveloped him with a sense of calm that he hadn’t felt in millennia. He sunk into the chair, closed his eyes and decompressed; perhaps things would be fine. Perhaps this wasn’t his end but a rebirth; his second chance to achieve his glory. After all, he was still a powerful mage and from what he witnessed, the inhabitants of Skyrim were still blessedly stupid. He'd deal with her eventually but for now, this would suffice.
Later that afternoon, Miraak awoke with a nasty sunburn; this was another lesson learned.