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A voice called out to Miraak, distant and distorted. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voice, he instantly recognized it as the Last Dragonborn’s.
He felt cold, and his heart dropped to his stomach as he wondered if he’d ended up back in Apocrypha, all of his fighting for naught. But the cold was… unfamiliar. It didn’t seep into his skin and claw at his bones, or pierce his lungs like a sharpened dagger. He almost didn’t notice the cold at all, actually. For the first time since he’d entered Apocrypha, just his robes and armor were enough to stave off the worst of the chill.
A hand settled on his arm, and he flinched back out of habit, knowing for millennia that touch did not come without pain. Yet it had been gentle, a light pressure that did not freeze or sear his skin. The contact came with no intent to harm, and when the voice called out to him again, it sounded worried.
Miraak’s eyes opened slowly, snapping shut again the moment an overpowering light assaulted his vision. Everything was impossibly bright, a stark contrast to the everlasting darkness of Apocrypha. To be surrounded by light after many centuries without it was ruthless on his senses.
It was too much, overwhelming him effortlessly. Squeezing his eyes shut didn’t block out the light completely, he still couldn’t make out the Dragonborn’s words, and the lingering scent of nearby smoke make him choke on his breath, forcing them to come out in rapid, suffocated bursts.
“Too much.” Miraak croaked, his voice, once projected proudly across battlefields, now hardly above a whisper.
That gentle hand found his arm again. He tensed, but didn’t push it away. It squeezed his arm for a few seconds, then lessened its pressure for the same amount of time before squeezing again in a repeating pattern.
Miraak found himself focusing on the hand, sucking in a shaky breath every time it squeezed his arm, then releasing it slowly, copying the Dragonborn’s movements.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he could handle trying to open his eyes again. It helped that his mask blocked out some of the light.
The sight before him was… confusing, to say the least. A yellowish-blue mass filled his vision completely, stretching far beyond his peripheral. He looked around and quickly realized he was lying on his back, and that the oddly colored mass he’d been staring at was Solstheim’s sky. He’d grown accustomed to the grayish-green skies of Apocrypha, and was slightly ashamed to have momentarily forgotten that the sky wasn’t meant to be endlessly dark.
He glanced to his immediate right and saw the Dragonborn kneeling beside him. He still had the steel plate helmet covering his face, but Miraak could practically feel the concern rolling off him in waves.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” The Dragonborn said, snorting at his own joke. Despite this, his voice was quieter than before, calmed to keep from startling Miraak further. “How do you feel?”
For a moment, Miraak couldn’t form a reply, still overwhelmed by everything that surrounded him. He’d caught glimpses of Solstheim when he’d appeared as a specter, breaking minds and stealing dragon souls from the Dragonborn, but actually being there in person was an entirely different experience.
He was in Solstheim. After all these centuries, he’d made it out of Apocrypha.
He was no longer a slave to Hermaeus Mora.
“…I’m free.” Miraak breathed, disbelieving and triumphant all at once.
The Dragonborn gave a short nod. “You are.”
Despite how loud the world felt at the moment, Miraak felt better than he had in a long time. He still ached from the battles, his arm stung from the lurker’s bite, and his muscles were cramping from exhaustion, but it had all been worth it. He was free. No dragons to enslave him, no dragon priests to label him a traitor for daring to fight back, no Daedra to tear him apart and reshape him to their satisfaction.
He finally earned his freedom.
And he was so fucking tired.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m two seconds away from passing out in the snow.” The Dragonborn said, and Miraak had to wonder if he could read minds. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen today. “We aren’t too far from Raven Rock, we should be able to rent a couple rooms for the night.” He paused. “Unless you wanted to part ways here…?”
Miraak shook his head slightly, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I haven’t set foot in Tamriel since long before your ancestors were born, I doubt I would make it to this settlement alone.”
If he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d be wary of openly admitting such a thing, knowing how weakened it made him sound. The Dragonborn might have helped him now, but that didn’t make him trustworthy. He was still a stranger holding immense power, and ‘kindness’ always came at a price. He only hoped he didn’t escape one master just to be taken by a new one. He would not give his freedom up so willingly again.
The Dragonborn stood up from his crouched position and held out a hand for Miraak to take. Miraak hesitated for what was probably a second too long before he accepted the help up. He winced as the movement pulled on his bite wound. The pain was negligible compared to much of what Hermaeus Mora put him through over the centuries, yet somehow it felt more… real in the mortal realm. It was not absolute agony that faded suddenly without scars, but a physical wound that throbbed in time with his heart beat.
The Dragonborn guided Miraak out of a small village as its people watched them leave, a mix of rage and horror on their faces when they saw Miraak. The Dragonborn didn’t say a word to any of them, but one woman in particular stared on with deep disappointment in her eyes.
~~~
During the trek to Raven Rock, Miraak couldn’t help but look around in wonder at the wilds of Solstheim. Everything was… redder than he remembered it being. In the time when he was a mere dragon priest doing his dragon masters’ bidding, Solstheim was similar to his homeland of Skyrim in many ways. It once had a mix of lush greenery and soft snow covering the hills and flat landscapes, a myriad of animals ranging from large predators to tiny rodents running through healthy trees, and gentle spriggans tending to the nature surrounding them.
This was nothing like the Solstheim Miraak once escaped to. The grass was dry and dead, crunching loudly under his boots. There wasn’t a single animal in sight, though he did see bones of an unknown creature sticking out of the ash and dirt. In the distance, he saw a fire spriggan throwing flames at some sort of living being made entirely from ash. But the biggest difference between Solstheim now versus the land Miraak fled to five millennia ago was the fact that Solstheim was an island, entirely disconnected from Skyrim.
Memories of a battle with another dragon priest flashed through his mind, one so powerful that it broke the land. Had their battle severed Solstheim so thoroughly that it had drifted off during his time in Apocrypha?
Once both Dovahkiin arrived in Raven Rock, the sky started growing darker. The people of this settlement began packing up their shops and returning to their homes.
Miraak had been surprised that Raven Rock was a Dunmer settlement when he first started manipulating the minds of Solstheim’s inhabitants. In his time, Solstheim had been a Nordic land with very few - if any - non-native inhabitants. It had surprised him to learn just how little he knew of Tamriel after entering Apocrypha, but Hermaeus Mora had believed that information to be beneath Miraak. He’d known of the volcanic eruption of Red Mountain, but very little of the aftermath. Why did a Daedra’s champion need to know that Solstheim’s grass had dried up and died under a pile of ash?
It should have been daunting to think about, realizing he still had so much to learn - centuries worth of information - about the lands he’d just escaped to, but just the fact that he now had the opportunity to learn all that had transpired in his time away from Tamriel left him astonished. His information was no longer filtered through Hermaeus Mora, and there was so much the Daedric Prince had kept from him that he hadn’t even realized.
The Dragonborn guided Miraak to one of the buildings in the middle of town. Miraak glanced around uncomfortably at all of the people as he walked. The Dragonborn was popular around here, he did free many of their people from Miraak’s control, but it was still enough to make Miraak anxious, wondering if any of them were staring because they recognized him. Maybe they’d seen his mask in their nightmares, heard his voice echo in their mind until it was all they could think about. He’d have to speak far from these peoples’ earshot, in case they remembered his voice. He had no doubt he could level this whole settlement if necessary, but he’d rather get some rest before being dragged into another battle.
The Dovahkiin entered a tavern that seemed to double as an inn. It was called the Retching Netch, which couldn’t possibly be good for business. The Dragonborn walked up to the bartender, the rigidity in his shoulders gradually relaxing now that they were out of the cold.
“Welcome to the Retching Netch, Outlanders. What can I get you?” The bartender asked with a grin, though Miraak could see something like suspicion hidden behind it when his eyes landed on the First Dragonborn.
“I’d like to rent two rooms.” The Last Dragonborn replied, dropping a small pouch on the bar.
That was another thing Miraak was entirely clueless about now: currency. He was aware that the gold coins used for trade were referred to as ‘septims’, but he was unsure of their worth. In his time, bartering was standard, often using precious metals and determining the value by weight.
The bartender took the pouch, seemingly weighing it in hand for a moment, then placed it under the bar. “Sure thing, they’re yours for a day. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
The bartender walked around the bar and led them to two rooms on the far side of the building. Both rooms were next to each other, and the doors were hidden from the immediate view of people drinking in the adjacent room.
“If there’s anything else you need, let me know.” The bartender said before leaving, returning to the bar.
The Dragonborn moved to the room closer to the bar area, but he paused in front of the door. He raised a hand, and light flashed across his palm as he summoned magicka. Miraak had to glance away from the light, and once it dimmed, he looked back to see the Dragonborn holding a small red bottle.
Miraak blinked in confusion, then realization dawned on him. “You can open pocket dimensions.”
Magical storage spaces were a mix of Alteration and Conjuration magic that only expert mages could make use of. Not only that, but it was a type of magic most commonly used by Daedra. Pocket dimensions opened in a space within Oblivion, acting as storage for the magic wielder, or in some cases, even a portable home (though Miraak couldn’t understand why any common mortals would be idiotic enough to create a home in the realm of Oblivion). It was how Daedra often stole from or gave objects to certain followers. Miraak was… uncomfortably familiar with such magic.
The Dragonborn shrugged like it was a normal ability. “Never been great with magic, but this skill has been helpful recently. Better than carrying everything with me in a bag.”
He held out the bottle to Miraak.
“…What is this?” Miraak asked, not moving to take the bottle. He knew what it looked like, but it could just as easily be an amateur poison poured into a familiar looking bottle.
“Healing potion, to help with your arm. I figured you’d want to take it somewhere nobody has to see you take the mask off.” The Dragonborn said, and despite Miraak’s wariness, he did sound truthful.
That was… surprisingly thoughtful. Realistically, there was no reason Miraak should worry about removing his mask around others, as he hadn’t shown his face to another living being for multiple eras, so there was no risk of being recognized. But something about removing even a bit of his armor around others made his skin crawl. To be even slightly unprotected around strangers in an unfamiliar place was not an option.
After a moment, Miraak accepted the bottle. He still wasn’t sure why the Dragonborn would so willingly help him, but he didn’t openly question it. In his experience, such questions were taken with anger or mocking.
“Thank you.” Miraak said, careful to keep his suspicion out of his voice.
The Dragonborn nodded slightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Both Dovahkiin entered their rooms without another word. Miraak looked down at the bottle in his hand. For all he knew, it could be poison. The Dragonborn could be feigning kindness, making Miraak believe he was being helpful, only to kill him in his sleep.
Miraak shook his head, as if he could shake the thought away. Why would the Last Dragonborn go through the effort of helping Miraak out of Apocrypha, only to slay him later? Hermaeus Mora gave him the perfect opportunity to kill Miraak, but he’d refused. Not only did he refuse, he’d seemed angry that the Daedric prince had even asked such a thing of him.
Miraak had never witnessed a mortal speak to the prince with such blatant fury, let alone escape the encounter alive. For Hermaeus Mora to have even allowed the Dragonborn to make it as far in his realm as he had, the prince must have seen something in him. It made Miraak wonder if the Dragonborn had been willing to join the prince when they first spoke, or if Hermaeus Mora had been arrogant enough to believe the Dragonborn would automatically agree to join him simply because of his power.
The stinging bite in Miraak’s arm broke him out of his musings, and he walked deeper into the room.
The room was small and plainly furnished, with a single bed, a table with a couple chairs, a chest at the foot of the bed, a couple barrels and a shelf up against the wall. It was dark as well, lit up only by a couple wall sconces.
Miraak lowered himself onto the bed, wincing as he sat. His muscles cramped and burned in a way he wasn’t used to. He fought often, well-trained in battle just as his prince had demanded of him, but it wasn’t every day he battled a fellow Dovahkiin, then many of Hermaeus Mora’s minions.
He raised a hand to his mask, fingers pausing over the cold metal. When was the last time he removed it? Had he removed it once in Apocrypha? He could hardly remember a time when he’d seen the world without its barrier. Within the realm of Oblivion, mortal needs such as food and drink were unnecessary, so he’d had no reason to remove it.
Yet another thing he’d have to grow used to again; remembering to eat and sleep as regular mortals did. After so long without it, food sounded entirely unappealing, but it was a small price to pay for living in the mortal realm.
He took a deep, wavering breath before pulling the mask off. He shivered as the cool air hit his face, and even the dim light had him squinting while his eyes adjusted.
He turned the mask over in his hands and just stared at it. It was similar to other dragon priest masks, with the only difference being the tentacle-shaped metal along the top and bottom of the mask. It hadn’t been his first, though it was a near-replica. This mask had been given to him by Hermaeus Mora the day he’d entered Apocrypha. The tentacles were his symbol, and he wanted Miraak to carry it with him permanently, showing all other Daedra that Miraak belonged to him alone.
Miraak sighed and set the mask on the bed beside him. He opened the potion bottle and brought it to his lips, against his better judgment. The potion was cold and bitter, yet it left a sweet taste in his mouth as he swallowed it. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, although he couldn’t really judge the taste considering the only other liquid he’d had in his mouth recently was either ink or his own blood.
In seconds, the pain in his arm lessened to a dull ache, hardly noticeable. He figured it would be gone by morning. He set the empty bottle on the table, and after a moment of consideration, he put the mask back on. It was safer this way.
He removed none of his armor before lying back on the bed. Even as uncomfortable as it would be to most, he didn’t mind it. The feeling of his armor surrounding him was never painful or suffocating, but being unprotected and vulnerable while he slept would be.
He could almost feel the ghost of tentacles over his body, of ink soaking through his armor. He hadn’t slept once in Apocrypha, he’d never needed to, and if he had, there was no doubt in his mind that the tentacles would have pulled him into their pools and drowned him before he even had the chance to open his eyes.
I’m not in Apocrypha anymore, Miraak reminded himself. Triumph bloomed in his chest, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. After all this time, he’d successfully made it out. He was free.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do now. His original plan had been to use the powers he gained from Hermaeus Mora to take over Solstheim and bend the wills of the people inhabiting its lands to keep the prince satisfied. But now he was on his own, rendering that plan pointless. Ruling Solstheim was out of the question now, he’d thoroughly learned his lesson after his attempt to rise up against the dragons, not to mention he simply had no desire to rule over anyone. He had no dragon masters to run from, or Daedra to please, leaving him with… nothing.
He hated Hermaeus Mora with everything he had, and resented the pain his prince caused just to entertain himself, but at least then Miraak had a purpose. He was a dragon priest, a Daedra’s champion, the First and only Dragonborn. And now?
He was a traitor to the dragons, a disgraced runaway Daedric pet, the Dragonborn nobody remembered past recent nightmares. He had no purpose, no reason to keep battling. Five millennia spent learning, fighting, becoming better and for what? To be saved by a much younger Dragonborn who surpassed Miraak’s five thousand years of strength after less than a year of training?
He had nobody. He had nothing. This newfound freedom was worthless if he had no reason to keep going. After all he’d been through, all he’d learned, he couldn’t just return to a normal life among mortals, he hardly even knew what that life looked like. He didn’t know Skyrim anymore, he’d hardly known Solstheim to begin with, what had he thought he would do once he was out of Apocrypha?
The answer hit him all at once, cruel as a dagger and just as painful. He would’ve continued to serve his Daedric prince, letting Hermaeus Mora give his life purpose. All he’d wanted was to leave Apocrypha; he never actually wanted to be free.
A quiet, horrible noise broke the silence of his room, and he almost hadn’t realized that the sound came from him. He sobbed again before he could stop himself, choking on his next breath. He only hoped the Last Dragonborn couldn’t hear it through the wall.
When Miraak finally drifted into a restless sleep, his last thoughts were of a cold, dark realm and a new ache in his chest, spreading like a bruise; a soft longing for proof that the time he spent fighting had been worth it.
~~~
Miraak flinched awake to the sound of a loud crash from outside his room. He rushed out of the room and looked into the bar area, just in time to see the Last Dragonborn get thrown onto his back by an enraged orc.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult, Outlander. Just hand over the gold, and we can forget all about this, yeah?” The orc sneered.
The Dragonborn pushed himself up off the floor, then scoffed. “I don’t owe you anything. Relvi could have left Raven Rock at any time, it’s not my fault-“
“But he wouldn’t have. The coward never would have run off if not for you. And because you decided to play errand boy for a madman, now I’m out a thousand septims. If he won’t play his debt, you will.” The orc grabbed his war axe off his hip.
The Dragonborn raised his hands placatingly. “Hey, whoa, it doesn’t need to come to that.”
The bartender finally spoke up, voice aggravated as he spat, “Take this shit outside! I don’t need you scaring my patrons.”
The orc ignored him and swung his war axe at the Dragonborn. Before the attack could land, Miraak stepped forward and pulled magicka to his hand, using telekinesis to halt the axe’s movement.
The orc froze with it, staring at the axe with wide, shocked eyes. Once the initial surprise passed, he scowled at the Dragonborn.
“What the hell are you doing?” The orc snapped.
The Dragonborn stared at the axe as well. Even with his face obscured by his helmet, Miraak could tell he was confused.
“I’m not doing this.” The Dragonborn said. “He glanced around the room, gaze falling on Miraak, whose hand was still raised toward the axe.
The orc followed his gaze, and glared at Miraak. “Stay out of this, witch.”
Miraak sneered under his mask. Instead of dropping the axe, he threw it into a nearby wall, lodging it in the stone and wood with a loud crack.
The bartender mumbled something under his breath along the lines of, ‘Azura, help us.’
The orc growled, stalking closer to Miraak with his hands clenched into tight fists, the Dragonborn all but forgotten. Miraak didn’t move an inch as the orc stopped in front of him.
“You got a death sentence, Outlander?” The orc asked, voice dark.
“Leave him alone, it’s me you’re pissed at.” The Dragonborn said.
The orc didn’t acknowledge him. “What’s your name, witch? I’d like to know who it is I’m putting into the ground.”
“Miraak.” The dragon priest replied simply, quiet enough that only the orc would hear it.
Miraak watched with mild amusement as the orc’s expression shifted from confusion, to realization, to abject horror.
“Y-You’re-?” The orc cut himself off with a harsh swallow. “I-I’d like to apologize, I assure you that this was all just a misunderstanding-“
“Drop the debt, and you’ll walk away with your life.” Miraak interrupted.
The orc nodded immediately. “Of course! No debt, I’m sure I could just hunt down Relvi later anyway. The little coward has to leave that mushroom eventually, right?”
You could have just done that to begin with, Miraak thought.
The orc stepped away from Miraak nervously, going to the wall where his war axe was still lodged. The bartender sighed and shook his head as the orc pulled his axe out of the wall, leaving a large gash in the stone.
The Last Dragonborn moved to the First’s side and nudged him with his shoulder. “Thanks.”
Miraak crossed his arms to hide the way he’d startled at the contact. “You got me out of Apocrypha. I am in your debt.”
The Dragonborn went silent for a moment. “I didn’t help you because I wanted you to be in my debt. As you just saw, I don’t really care for debts.”
Miraak frowned behind his mask. “Such kindness comes with a price, and I wait for you to name yours. What other reason could you have had to help me?”
The Dragonborn sighed, almost sounding… disappointed? “I helped you because I wanted to help you. You do realize what Mora did to you was unacceptable, right?”
Miraak did not reply. He knew how he felt about the Daedric prince, but his resentment had grown over thousands of years. The Dragonborn had little reason to hate the prince, beyond what had happened in Apocrypha.
“Look, you can choose to believe that I helped you because I thought I’d get something out of it, or because I wanted to make Mora angry enough that he wouldn’t want me as his slave, or even because I was just bored. But whatever you think happened back there, just know that I was never going to leave you to that monster, alright?” The Dragonborn said.
Something in Miraak’s chest tightened. He wanted to think the Dragonborn’s intentions were pure, he wanted to trust the only being to show him even a scrap of kindness in over five thousand years, but he just couldn’t believe that someone like him actually existed. His entire life, almost everyone he’d known had enslaved him, building him up until he was just strong enough to be worthy of the pedestal they’d put him on, but still too weak to fight the hands that placed him there.
Millennia after millennia of suffering, and suddenly this Dragonborn appears, a warm light in the cold dark, offering help when no other person or creature would. Miraak could only hope that the warmth was not a ragged flame waiting to burn him down where he stood.
“Whatever your reasons were, I am grateful for your help.” Miraak said.
The Dragonborn gave a slight nod. He looked to the orc, who was now glaring at them from across the room. When Miraak faced the orc, he snapped his gaze away in an instant.
“We should leave before his bodyguard comes back.” The Dragonborn said.
“Bodyguard?” Miraak questioned.
“Angry guy, almost always with Mogrul over there.” The Dragonborn gestured vaguely to the orc. “If he gets back before we’re gone, we are well and truly fucked.”
“You defeated the World-Eater, yet you fear a simple mercenary?”
“‘Fear’ isn’t the word I’d use. I know you haven’t been in Solstheim for a while, but you should know, murder is illegal and I don’t want another bounty on my head.”
The Dragonborn started walking toward the staircase leading to the exit. Miraak nearly rolled his eyes, as if he didn’t know murder was illegal, but something about what the Dragonborn said made him pause.
“Did you say another bounty?” Miraak asked as he caught up with the Dragonborn.
The Dragonborn chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The Dovahkiin left the tavern together. They started walking down the stone path, though Miraak could tell they weren’t headed anywhere in particular.
“So, what’s the plan now?” The Dragonborn asked after a couple minutes.
“Plan?” Miraak asked.
“Well, you’re out of Apocrypha. Where to now?”
Miraak hesitated. He remembered his brief bout of despair the previous night when he’d realized he didn’t actually have a plan. He didn’t want to stay in Solstheim, he knew that much.
He entertained the idea of returning to Skyrim. It had been his home before he tried to rise up against his dragon masters, before the dragon priest Vahlok battled him and forced him out. He had no other home to return to, so why shouldn’t he go back? Nobody would remember him there, apart from the dragons, but he was stronger than them.
“I wish to see how much Skyrim has changed over the centuries.” Miraak said.
“Were you born in Skyrim?” The Dragonborn asked.
Miraak nodded. “I was, but I do not recall much of it.”
“I was born in Skyrim, too. I left for a few years, stayed with family in Valenwood. Imagine my surprise when I decided to come back, then got arrested and nearly executed, only to be saved by a damn dragon.”
Miraak’s eyes widened. “Why would a dragon save you? From what I’ve heard, your status as Dragonborn is new information.”
“I guarantee you, he did not mean to save me. You’ll never guess which dragon it was.”
Miraak thought about it. “Paarthurnax?”
The Dragonborn shook his head. “Alduin.”
Miraak scoffed. “Fool. He could have saved himself a lot of trouble by not interfering.”
“Skyrim’s better off with him gone. There’s still too many dragons around, not much to do about that other than kill any I can find.”
“You don’t seem to like them very much.”
The Dragonborn sighed. “I don’t hate every dragon, but most of them are assholes. I could be minding my business and get attacked on the road.”
“You were actively trying to kill their leader.” Miraak pointed out.
“Whose side are you on?” The Dragonborn asked teasingly.
Miraak said nothing, tensing up without meaning to. It had been a joke, nothing more. The Dragonborn couldn’t have known what the ancient dragons put him through.
“So, you get back to Skyrim, then what? Something tells me you aren’t going back to being a dragon priest.” The Dragonborn said, once again reading Miraak’s mind.
Miraak was reluctant to tell the Dragonborn the truth. He had no plan, no home, nobody to turn to. He would figure it out as he went, he told himself. He just didn’t want to seem helpless.
But the Dragonborn hadn’t been cruel or judgmental thus far. Maybe it was because he had helped Miraak in Apocrypha, or maybe it was the fact that they both held the blood and souls of the dovah within them, but Miraak had this feeling that told him he could trust the Last Dragonborn. And what did he have to lose by trusting him?
“To be honest, I am… uncertain.” Miraak said slowly. “I spent so long in Apocrypha, it’s as if nothing had existed outside of it. And now that I’m out, I’m…”
“Lost?” The Dragonborn supplied, sounding like he understood exactly what Miraak meant on a personal level.
“I… suppose, yes. But it’s better this way.”
“I was already planning on heading back to Skyrim after I finished up here. You could come back with me?”
Miraak stopped walking abruptly, taken aback by the offer. “You want me to return with you?”
The Last Dragonborn stopped as well, turning to the First. “I know it’s sudden- I mean, we could have killed each other yesterday. But, since the moment I learned I’m Dragonborn, it’s like everyone had these expectations of what a Dragonborn is meant to be like. The Greybeards, the Blades, anyone who has ever heard me shout. I never thought I’d find anyone else like me… and then I met you in Apocrypha. You know what this is like, you were the first of our kind, and there will never be another like us. I just think… we could have each other’s backs, you know?”
His voice had gone quiet at the end. Vulnerable. Miraak could hear something hiding in his words, something he probably hadn’t meant to reveal. Miraak wouldn’t have even noticed it if he wasn’t so familiar with it himself.
Loneliness. The Last Dragonborn was right, they were the only of their kind. Nobody would ever truly understand what it was like, to hold such kinship to the dovah, to feel the strength of their consumed souls coursing through every vein. Miraak knew well just how lonely this life could be. He’d been the only Dragonborn for a long time, with the few other known Dovahkiin being born across multiple eras, and dying quickly- pathetically.
But this Dragonborn was different.
“I understand.” Miraak said. “And I would gladly continue fighting by your side.”
The Last Dragonborn nodded, and Miraak was certain he could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Then it’s settled.”