Chapter Text
As the gentle morning fog rolled over the stained glass windows and the water from melting icicles tapped against wooden frames, the Blue Palace was yet to awaken from a fine night’s rest. The light marble corridors clad in elven rugs and expensive furs and dimly lit with half-burned candles drowned in silence. Their peace was only disturbed by a rogue snore escaping some room in the royal wing, a sound of servants’ gentle footsteps as they carried water for the morning bath, or a far-off echo of the hounds barking in excitement, as the stable master prepared the dogs and the horses for the morning hunt. The majority of the castle’s inhabitants were still wandering deep within Vaermina’s realm and there were at least two hours left before the first early risers congregated in the great hall for a course of hearty breakfast before the hunt.
Alas, in these gentle hours of the morning, cooks and stable boys weren’t the only ones wide awake and on their feet. The gentle aroma of khajiiti pipe, as well as freshly brewed hammerfellan coffee wafted through the cracked doors of one of the smaller kitchens in the cookery department. The quiet crackling of pine logs in the fireplace alongside the clanking of copper cutlery and the rustling of paper echoed in the smaller inconspicuous corridor. Quiet, husky, and happy humming accompanied the sounds of someone’s early morning work.
With a sweet moonsugar and tobacco pipe between his teeth, the High King of Skyrim took the boiling kettle off the fire and poured himself a hearty mug of the fashionable southern drink. All the while in his free hand he held a weathered issue the “Black Horse Courier”, which he read with great interest. Due to trade ships’ slow travel speed across the ice-bound sea, which was still many weeks away from melting in the warmth of spring sunshine, the issue happened to be a few weeks too old and the events described in it were, by now, old news. Nevertheless, the many happenings from the Empire of Cyrodiil entertained the old king, as life here in Skyrim was slow, quiet, and sometimes even drab. This comparably “old” issue of the “Courier” mourned the death of the good emperor and invited all able citizens to refrain from jolly activities and wear a black piece of clothing in the upcoming year as a sign of solidarity and grief. The yellowed pages of this paper, which spent several weeks on a ship bound from Leyawiin to Solitude, described in much detail the emperor’s glorious life, his achievements, and family affairs, as well as a few imaginative theories as to what exactly befell the poor beloved monarch. Those theories varied wildly, from the death of poor health and assassination by Morag Tong, to suicide from great grief over his most-beloved cousin’s tragic death at her own wedding and even a deadly attack by a rabid hare! Miraak was sure that to a loyal subject this read would prove difficult and invoke at the very least a teary eye, but the man born at the break of the Merethic Era, who happened to be just a few centuries older than Talos himself, found only hilarity amongst these pages. Life was too busy, too precious to waste it away mourning just another monarch, of which there were thousands upon thousands in the time Miraak had spent wandering the halls of Apocrypha.
As he finished reading the article, the king tossed the paper aside and swirled a spoon with an image of a pheasant in his gilded mug of coffee, which by now has cooled enough as not to scorch the mouth of a man notorious for his immunity to even the bitterest cold, but also a shameful sensitivity to even moderately hot temperatures. A few cubes of moon sugar went it, a pinch of cinnamon followed and a drop of cyrodiilic brandy completed the drink, and after a good final stir, the man took a hearty gulp. The familiar warmth and bittersweetness washed over him, bringing forth the pleasant memories of days long past when Marcurio introduced the members of their merry band of misadventurers to this popular drink of the Redguards. Not only was its exotic taste quite pleasant to the former dragon priest, who was a big lover of all things novel and unique, but he also found its invigorating properties very much useful on the long and cold nights when sleeplessness would prove to be most tiresome. He spent many a night with a belly full of warm coffee, keeping night’s vigil while others rested, reading a good book, or whittling something small from a piece of wood.
Oh, what simpler days those were! Past was irrelevant, future was unknown and everything that mattered at the moment was surviving for another day. The only long-term goal anyone had was to see the break of dawn once more. No thinking of the future of an entire nation, no planning a profitable marriage, no running around with nobles, who were as helpless and needy as newborn children, no headaches over what alliance might or might not cause a devastating war in the next decade… Being a king was, of course, what Miraak envisioned for himself ever since he was a young lad, but those months spent traveling across the wilds of Skyrim did indeed change something within him. It was… serendipity in its purest form. To have no home, no set goal, no dreams far and big. Just a wide road beneath the boots, open skies above the head, cold wind in the hair, and the smell of campfire in the clothes. By horse, cart, boat, or foot, no matter how they traveled or where it was always… freeing. He sometimes imagined his life after Alduin’s death, but also secretly wanted this nomadic life to never end. After all, what was he to do once the Great Tyrant fell? There was no longer the kingdom of Skyrim that Miraak knew and recognized. The cities whose streets he walked as a young man now lay in ruin, overrun by restless dead and buried under the earth and ice, their walls cracked open by the roots of mighty trees. The people he knew personally were dead for so long, that not a single memorial to their existence survived till these days. Fields where he played as a child became lakes, hills through which he rode with lords of the past were now mountains and the mighty forests where he hunted were now crop fields, hamlets, and towns. Skyrim was foreign. Once home, it was now a whole new world. The only thing that didn’t change was the stubbornness of her people and, of course, the cold.
And Miraak… He always preferred to cling to what felt familiar. Which Nim, surprisingly, did. After weeks upon weeks of traveling, fighting, and surviving, she really did become a familiar thing. Something that brought the feeling of belonging. Of home. If he had to choose any place in the world to claim as his own, it would be in a carriage, beneath the fluffy clouds and tall pines, with Nim sitting beside, strumming her lute whilst he lay near, napping to the sound of her voice and the creaking of wheels, wishing not for them to reach their destination just yet. Ah, but those were the most pleasant of journeys!..
The tapping of tiny shoes against the cobblestones tore Miraak out of his trip into the pleasant memories. He looked up to face the door, which cracked open just a tad. A golden-haired face peeked in and gave him a friendly smile.
“Knew I’d find you here,” said Sissel cheerfully and skipped her way in. “Good soon-to-come morning!”
“You, too, Malgein. Coffee?” He offered and sat down in a chair by the fireplace with a half-filled mug and the newspaper in hand, intending to finish reading the last few pages, which mostly contained news from the world of trade and business. It would seem that the septim had fallen in price once more.
“I can’t have it, pa. The nightmares, remember? Coffee makes them worse,” she retorted, then grabbed herself an empty mug and plucked a couple of dragon’s tongue leaves from the dried bundles over the fireplace, intending to use the still-hot water for some delightful morning tea.
“Ah, yes. I have quite forgotten. Krosis.”
“It’s fine. You forget a lot of things.” The king’s foster daughter grabbed the mighty copper kettle with a doily so as not to burn her gentle small hands and poured herself about half a pint of water. “Like, for example, the Burning of King Olaf! Which is, to say, next Fredas!”
The girl shot Miraak a coy look, with a spark of joyfulness and anticipation in her eye.
“Huh,” the king mused and sipped his coffee. “That explains the unusual rowdiness of these past few days. And the sheer numbers of dignitaries arriving, which I, quite honestly, attributed to the pleasant weather. And the betrothal feast, too. Ruth Nii Pah.”
“Yes, pa, that is exactly why you’ve been complaining about all the noise in the castle lately. People are preparing for one more grand celebration and you somehow missed it all!” exclaimed Sissel and sent at least six cubes of sugar into her tea before taking a small and very lady-like sip.
“What can I say, I am a busy man. Gods know how all these wedding preparations have utterly exhausted me.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the girl in sympathetic understanding, and then her little blue eyes lit up like two lanterns. “By the way, the feast to your soon-to-be darling wife shall take place during the Burning! Which means double the feasting, triple the guests, and quadruple the fireworks!”
“And here I feared you have grown out of the childish glee. Glad to know I was wrong, Malgein.” He smiled sincerely at her, the only other being in the whole wide world to receive true sincerity from him, the man known to wear many masks, not only the Miraak itself.
Sissel’s joyful laughter rang across the kitchenette and flew out into the corridor, enticing a few spit boys from the bigger kitchens down the hall to pop their heads out in curiosity.
“I am thirteen winters old, pa, not thirty!”
“Indeed you are.” He paused for a second to admire the fair young maiden stood before him. Clad in the finest atlas and silk dress the color of woodland green which he had the seamstresses tailor by his orders, specifically to fit Sissel’s tiny figure, which was the direct result of her malnourished childhood and stunted growth. Once a beaten-up child with barely enough strength to stand upright, now she glowed with vigor, youthful energy, and pure unadulterated love for life and everything in it.
He did not intend to just… keep her. The plan was simply to get this prodigy child as far away from the life of abuse and misery as possible. The second priority was to get her to the Greybeards, where she could live and prosper under the watchful eye of Paarthurnax himself, who, upon hearing of an unusual child with the gift of prophecy and talent in magickal arts, readily agreed to take her under the wing, so to speak. And yet somehow he ended up visiting her so often, that he once decided it was much more practical to just persuade Nim to take another child under the roof of the Lakeview Manor, so he could enjoy his newfound mentorship in peace and comfort with Sissel right under his arm. To say that Nim was left speechless when she learned of Miraak’s daring child kidnapping capabilities would be an understatement. On one hand, she wanted to give him a good thrashing for stealing away somebody else’s child, on the other hand, she was quite familiar with old Lemkil and, in all honesty, had considered multiple times shouting the bastard off a cliff one day and freeing the poor child of this monstrosity. But just Sissel, as Britte proved to be even more unbearable than her father. That one could use a few years in a castle scrubbing away at floors and learning some good manners… And so the Last Dragonborn did not protest much when he and Sissel showed up on her doorstep one night, asking if there was a free bed available for one more child in the house. And once the pressing matter of providing the new arrival with her own living space was solved, Sissel just… bloomed. She made fast friends with both Sofie and Blaise, even if she was a lot more bookish and quiet than they. And since this unplanned family addition took place sometime after the imminent threat of Alduin was dealt with, Miraak found himself spending much more time at home, with a woman he secretly loved, mentoring a child he had adored not so very subtly. He quite enjoyed his newfound domestic bliss and very soon even Dovahkiin began taking notice of his unexpectedly good paternal talents. At some point, he even began wondering and daydreaming about the what-ifs of true family life.
But since the gods are jolly pranksters, this idyllic life came to an abrupt end when the drums of war thundered once more and the two Dragonborn laid siege to the city of Solitude, where a violent usurper awaited his fate. Then… he became king. Sometimes he still wondered if the ease with which he had received the throne of Skyrim was also some kind of a divine joke. Nevertheless, he took it and brought his newfound family with him. Well… some of it. Sofie and Blaise, now teenagers too, were off at the Fort Dawnguard, learning the ropes of monster hunting with good ol’ Isran as their mentor and Serana keeping a watchful eye over them on the behalf of their mother. And Nim… She found court life a bit too dull and cramped. She taught lute and songwriting at the Bard’s College for a while, ran with the wolves of Jorrvaskr when new troubles with the Silver Hand arose, tended to some legal issues within the Thieves Guild, and then just… left. And hasn’t come back yet.
“Dii Pruzah. To think I will have to begin looking for a suitable spouse for you too soon enough… Ah, but where did all these years go.” The man sighed and finished his drink in one gulp, savoring the taste of finely roasted beans all the ways from Hew’s Bane.
“Then you shall be glad to hear that I am far more interested in my studies, rather than the lads!” Jested Sissel and gathered her father’s mug to place it on the far table, where dishwashers would be able to find them.
“You say that now, but you wait until a strapping young Nord rides in on a fine steed and suddenly sneaking away at night to see him becomes a much more pressing matter than your little books.”
“Why would I need a strapping young Nord, when I have you and Nim, Marcurio and Teldryn, Serana and Lydia, Sofie and Blaise, and all the others from Dovahdein? Not to mention all the dragons! You are all my friends, my family. I simply have no need for some lad!”
Their hearty laughter echoed throughout the corridors, enticing curiosity from the cooks and servants from the whole department.
“That is an odd family indeed.” He sighed and got up to his feet, his snow-white linen shirt rustling and fine leather riding pants squeaking. Weighty brass buckles clanked as he took heavy steps towards his daughter like a gentle giant. “Whatever makes you happy, Malgein, makes me happy as well.”
Sissel’s face, bright and joyous before, reddened; her big shining eyes glistened in the morning light, pouring through the open windowsills. She threw herself at him, hugging the tall man with her small thin arms as high as she could, her head barely reaching the arch of his chest. He returned the tenderness, wrapping his thick muscular arms, stained in scars and half-faded blotches of inky blackness, around her narrow shoulders and giving her a light squeeze.
“I love you, pa,” she said, her voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “I’d say it on Dovahzul, but dragons don’t have a word for love.”
“And I - you, Malgein.” He felt a kick from his conscience for his utter inability to say the simplest of words out loud.
“I believe I can hear the cracking of beds upstairs. People are waking up.” She finally let go of him and stepped back a bit. Her face was red, but there were no tears. An impressive, but truly sad talent to contain her tears, without a doubt beaten into her by her good-for-nothing father Lemkil. A moment later, the sadness dissipated and she gave him a cute smile once more. “Are you going hunting today?”
“Indeed I am. Jarl Balgruuf desires to negotiate his stature as the Jarl of Whiterun once more. These things are much better discussed away from castle walls.” Miraak explained, then, after a short pause, added with a hint of playfulness: “By the way, his son is of your age and still not betrothed.”
“Pa!” She stomped her foot theatrically, pretend-pouted her face, and struck him gently in his chest with a fist, evoking a sincere laugh from the First Dragonborn.
“I yield, I yield!” He cried out joyfully, raising his hands in surrender. “Please do be considerate, my dear Kulaas! However shall I appear at the hunt all wounded and bruised?”
“You won’t! I shall kiss the bruises away!”
They fought playfully for some more time, laughing and running about the kitchen, one chasing the other with pinches and tickles. Then, a bell rang upstairs.
“Uh-oh. Looks like your dearly beloved had risen!”
“Oh do not call her that way,” grunted Miraak at the realization of having to interact with his bride-to-be very shortly. The careless hours of freedom are over; the time has come to put on a serious face and go be a monarch.
They walked out of the kitchenette hand in hand and headed up via the backstairs. The jolly mood seemingly evaporated into thin morning air…
“You know,” said Sissel in the hallway of the royal wing, just as they were about to separate; he into the king’s bed-chamber to partake in the levee, she to her own room where a nanny must be worried sick after finding her princess’s bed empty and cold. “Those things the people are saying about her… Not all of them are true. She can’t be that bad.”
“And how can you know this?” inquired Miraak, whilst looking out for any particularly chatty noblemen in the hallway.
“Nim told me, that she knew lady Elisif personally and that she is not half as bad as the people paint her!”
“You know, Malgein, I doubt it is wise to speak of Nim right now.” He didn’t realize he squeezed Sissel’s hand a bit too much until she released a quiet whimper.
“But why? We already never talk about her! Don’t you miss her? I, for example, miss her something awful! She was so much fun! Even you used to smile much more back then.” As Sissel ranted on they made their way to the intersection of two hallways where they would part their ways.
As they stopped, he kneeled in front of the girl and squeezed her shoulders.
“Sissel. Listen to me now.” He felt his throat tighten up as he spoke. Her unknowing words had touched certain wounds upon his heart that he had long hoped were no longer there. “She is gone. Nim has left us. Most likely forever. It is no use to reminisce of her, especially here and now, in the palace of my bride, mere days away from the feast in her good honor. Whether the rumors about the quality of her character are truthful or not is of no matter. We do not marry for love. She will not pretend to be your new mother and I will not force you to pretend to be her child. And whatever heirs she shall produce will never replace you in my eyes.”
Her eyes were glistening again and her cheeks were red once more. Alas, her face remained stiff and composed.
“But you love her, pa, don’t you?”
“It matters not anymore,” he said, eyes dark and voice low. “Go to your room. I am certain your nanny is out of her mind by now.”
Sissel did not answer, just nodded and gave Miraak a quick hug, then turned on her heels and hurried down the hall, slipping behind the furthest doors at the very end of the hallway. A troubled voice rang from within the room, crying about the princess’s terribly worrying absence and the need to dress up as quickly as possible for the upcoming breakfast tea with Her Highness Elisif and her ladies-in-waiting. The king stood there for a while, thoughtless, hand on his chest, feeling the wild beating of his heart. Somehow, he was upset, enraged even. As long as he did not speak nor think of Nim life seemed almost normal and his upcoming wedding to the woman he was indifferent towards bearable. But Sissel’s words brushed against old hurts and Miraak… he hated feeling any kind of soul ache. He could endure millennia of imprisonment, the worst of battle injuries. But the pain of loss, of guilt? It was one kind of hurt he could not suppress by the sheer power of draconic will nor the alchemical potions of the court healer.
Nim… Where in Oblivion was she? Now, when dark wanton thoughts were slowly destroying him from inside? Was it revenge? For all the things he did and words he said? Did she just want to torment him? Seven months! Eight soon enough! Five thousand years in the slimy darkness of Apocrypha were more endurable than this!
He turned on his heels and stormed off towards the stables. To Oblivion with the levee, he needed fresh air and to kill something!
***
The stag fled through the forest with all his might, eager hounds hot on his heels, barking and howling loudly. The hunters were too not far away from their prey; horses galloped with difficulty through the underbrush, but still managed to keep up with the fine beast. Miraak was at the head of the hunt, riding full force, the spurs on his heavy boots close to the fat sides of his steed and the finely crafted crossbow in his hand, winded up and ready to strike. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater rode beside him, fine spear held high and aiming at the elk. Other nobles hurried some paces behind, letting the king and the jarl be ahead of them, as the tradition dictated. They rode and rode down the slopes of the hilled forest until it abruptly ended and the elk had led them out into the open spaces of the salt marshes of Hjaalmarch.
“He is done for, men!” Shouted Balgruuf and Miraak spurred his horse onwards.
The hounds, now out of the forest, were finally able to catch up with the beast and began to jump at him, biting at his ankles and hind quarters. The king steadied himself: legs squeezing against the saddle, spurs deep in the horse’s fur. The crossbow’s butt lay comfortably against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. He could feel the dragon within him bare its teeth. It needed to hunt sometimes; otherwise, Miraak would get perpetually angry and easily annoyed. And the dragon did not sit idly within Miraak’s soul, it participated. He could lock his eyes onto the elk the same way a dragon does when he hunts in the skies. He could hear the rhythmic hoof beats against the damp soil of the marshland, the exhausted huffs and puffs escaping his wide nostrils, the fearful beating of his heart against the ribs… Miraak could almost smell the elk’s utter fear. He aimed at the beast and time seemingly stood still for a moment. The dragon within coiled up, ready to strike out like a snake from beneath the water. For a fleeting moment, a fuzzy memory blanketed his eyes: of Nim in the shape of her beast, going after an elk on all fours in the joyous ecstasy of the hunt in Hircine’s good name, her snow-white fur glistening in the golden light of a rising sun, and clouds of warm breath escaping her big maw and dissipating in the cold air. He could almost hear her happy, guttural, wolfish voice: “Come on! Don’t hobble like an elderly mudcrab! Your dinner’s getting away!”
The trigger was pulled and in a blink of an eye, the animal stumbled, his front legs giving way. Under the force of the momentum, its massive body rolled over itself, falling down into the saltwater with a powerful splash. The hounds jumped forth excitedly, ready to tear away at the hide of the elk, but a loud horn summoned them back to their masters. Miraak’s horse slowed her pace, her head rising and falling in exhaustion and the sound of her heavy breathing drowning out the quietness of the morning.
“A damn good shot, milord! Congratulations!” yelled Balgruuf from behind Miraak’s back.
He let his horse move forward a bit closer to the body of the fallen prey. The hunter looked down at the mighty elk laying in the shallow puddle, bright blood running down his brown fur. The bolt hit the beast with such a force nearly all of it hid in the beast’s flesh. Miraak stared into the eye of the elk, which was slowly but surely getting more and more glassy. A quiet ambiance hung in the cold marshland air; only the occasional barks of the hounds, quiet conversation between the nobleman, and the breathing and neighing of the horses disturbed the eerie silence. The dragon within was satiated. Nim in his memories was triumphantly smiling as well. Miraak could feel the immense rage within him subside. He felt at ease once more. All he needed was to hunt, to kill, to dominate. To prove his place as the apex predator of this land. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt as good as he did when slaughtering and devouring dragons of old… Alas, this beast lacked a proper soul for him to devour. His flesh, however, will be devoured in full during tonight’s feast. Shame, though, that the greatest huntress he had ever known would not sit by him at the dinner table…
Miraak turned his horse away from the cooling body of the animal and rejoined his fellow hunters.
“Tonight’s dining shall be fine indeed,” he proclaimed and summoned the hound master from the back of the group. The older Nord atop a simple allrounder dismounted and hurried towards the carcass to retrieve the king’s bolt and to prepare the kill for the journey back to the palace. As he passed bloodied bolt to the king, all the while keeping his head respectfully low, Miraak stared intently at the dark red stains upon the gilded surface of the bolt. He noted just how… good it felt to let himself off the leash, so to speak. To bare his teeth and see these fat lazy noblemen awestruck and humbled. To be what he always was – a dominator.
“We go home, men!” commanded Miraak with a powerful voice and struck his steed with spurs, riding forth and leading his followers back towards Solitude. He doubted that Elisif would find the gift of a dead bloodied animal romantic; at most she would find it impressive, at the very least… she will know what he is capable of.