Chapter Text
THE FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIRST TIME, Arpina Sun-Stealer opens a Black Book and enters Apocrypha. Miraak watches her as she falls into his world, watches the way she lands on the ground and staggers as she tries to get up, watches how her gaze is on him—expectant, alert, and there is not an ounce of fear there. Deathless, defiant, a shining fraction of Nirn stumbling into this murk.
(He waited for her. He has been waiting for her for so long—still, he cannot deny the stutter in his chest as he finally sees her for the first and the four hundred and eighty-first time alike.)
Who are you to dare step foot here?
Miraak takes a step toward her, and another, and then more until he stops before her, and she is looking up at him warily, one hand on her blade and the other on the ground as she wears through the effect of coming to Apocrypha for the very first time. Miraak offers her his hand. She takes it.
"Laat Dovahkiin," he greets. "This realm should be beyond you."
"You know who I am," she notes.
"I've been expecting you," Miraak responds, letting go of her hand reluctantly and taking a step back. "And now you are here. I presume you've already seen some of what I've accomplished."
"I have," Arpina says from beneath her mask, voice resounding metallically as she continues with, "It is why I am here, Miraak. Why did you send your cultists out to attack me, calling me the False Dragonborn? Some call for attention? You have mine now."
"I do not have cultists. If anything, they are under Mora's influence."
She is silent, evidently thinking, and so he carries on.
"I would have had no hand in your death if it was to be brought about by some lowly mage claiming to be my servant. Still, I must win my freedom, Dragonborn. Fate demands it."
"At my cost?"
Miraak cannot speak anymore in front of these Seekers. His plans will be ruined, and he will have wasted these days for naught. He cannot have that. With a sigh, he turns away from her and walks back to Sahrotaar. "You should not have come here. Await my return to Tamriel, Dragonborn. We shall meet again soon enough. Send her back where she came from."
He climbs his dragon's back as the Seekers force her back to the ground, and he watches as she begins to fade from Apocrypha, colors muted and translucent until she completely disappears—he cannot kill those Seekers in retaliation. All too suspicious.
It isn't even a day later when she slays a dragon and he can feel that pull to Nirn burn in him as he feels the echo of that dragon's soul ring through every realm of this world.
"This dragon's soul," he says as he materializes on Nirn (and he cannot help but be disappointed at the ashlands), appearing before Arpina, "is mine, Dragonborn."
She gasps, outraged as he directs the soul to him, diverting it from her. "That's mine! I fought for that!"
"For that, I apologize," he says, trying to stay curt—he cannot let the hidden smile on his lips seep into his words. Not now. "This is the only way we will be able to speak without being under Mora's watchful eye."
She stays silent, listening and watching him. And then, she takes off her mask. It is not for him, hardly, but that doesn't mean he doesn't take pause to watch her as she slicks back her sweat-damped hair and cracks her neck to ease the exertions of her battle with the dragon.
At his silence, she raises a brow at him, waiting for him to continue.
Thankful that his mask is hiding the sudden warmth he’s feeling, Miraak continues after that slightly too-long pause. “You’ve killed me hundreds of times. Sometimes, it is Hermaeus Mora who does it directly. Most of the time, it’s you. Regardless, I have died each time you wished it to be. And I cannot—I cannot go through that again. You must put an end to this cycling death, Dragonborn. I am tired.”
Maybe he had said a little too much, but this is the one and only time he has ever made such an admission to her before, and it takes everything in him to restrain that growing, sickening desperation. He had always assumed that feeling something over and over would have one grow used to it, but resignation is not the same as apathy.
Arpina is still quiet, and then she laughs, bright and sharp. Not mockingly, but it's a laugh of incredulous disbelief.
"Tell me you’re joking. Because that’s new and I haven’t heard that before, I’ll be honest."
He had expected her disbelief, of course. It always did take a while for her to believe him, the last several times he tried. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt even the slightest bit. He covers it up with an eye-roll she cannot see and a scoff to compensate for that.
"I can prove it."
"Do so," she says, eyes bright with amusement, a smirk of disbelief on her lips. "Would love to hear what you've likely just read from Apocrypha. Knowledge and all that."
"You're a thief," he points out. "An assassin. Leader of guilds of both in Skyrim. Unless you publish your records or you're a very poor criminal, I doubt that would be present in Apocrypha."
"Well—!" she sputters, cheeks coloring. "That's just obvious!"
"If it was obvious, you'd be a bad criminal."
"I am not!"
"There. You've said it yourself. My point has been proven."
"Well, I think not. Do better," she says irritably, but he can see her confidence in her statement begin to flicker.
Miraak sighs. "You grew up in High Rock, sort of a noblewoman. Sort of," he says flatly. "You think the Ada-mantia is unimpressive, because…"
Arpina gives him a look, long and hard and utterly annoyed. He can’t help but fall silent at the force of her gaze, but he’d be blind if he couldn’t see the grudging acknowledgement in her eyes. She glances away, muttering something under her breath, and then when she finally turns back to face him, she says, "Fine. I'll believe you. But turn on me and I'll turn you into a Horker."
"Oh, the h—" he starts sarcastically, "—orror," he finishes, face to face with a Seeker.
It makes a gurgling sound in his presence.
"Out of my way," Miraak scowls, disgusted, and pushes it aside and walks to nowhere in particular to burn the restlessness from his body. He paces, uncertain of when he'll see her next. He hopes that she doesn't make the mistake of bragging to Mora about it like the first time she'd gone the route of not killing him.
It's likely, though, that she doesn't—he's already impressed upon the importance of secrecy from Mora. And he trusts her more than she trusts him, certainly.
When he senses the echo of a dragon's soul again, he drags his spirit to Nirn with haste. "You work quickly," Miraak notes, and is once again disappointed to see the ashlands. Still, he doesn't comment on it and focuses on Arpina instead. "Why have you called me?"
"Because I—I needed to speak with you," she says, and crosses her arms. "Tell me: why do we face each other? Why does Mora pit us against one another?"
"Because he is getting tired of me," Miraak says in the most obvious tone of voice. "And you are the Last Dragonborn. I am the First Dragonborn. Mora has always been a collector. First, me. Then, you. And then, a little experiment—which of the two is the better dragonborn? He wants to know. He is, after all, the Prince of Knowing."
Why me? is a question he's familiar with, asked time eternal, unceasing in inquiry. Doesn't mean he gets anything out of asking, though.
Why you? Good question. Why Arpina? Of all people, of every single man, mer, neither—why her? Why? Why did it have to be her that killed him every godsdamned time, why did it have to be her that—
(He had immediately stopped that train of thought, but it would have been: why did it have to be her that he wants? In every way? Why does it have to be her, when Miraak knows well enough how wanting her kills him? Literally.)
"You were a tyrant, the Skaal said," Arpina says, narrowing her eyes at him distrustfully. Even her tone is accusing. "A tyrannical, rebellious dragon-priest. You have every sordid reason to want to return to Nirn."
"Oh, tell me about it," Miraak snaps sarcastically. "I had no idea. They wanted to use me to deal with Alduin, Hakon and the rest. I chose otherwise, and I do not regret making that choice at that moment. I just—I just want to stop this."
"Oh," she murmurs, shocked into silence for a moment, before hesitantly continuing with, "You know I'm freeing you because I can't—because you could help me defeat Alduin, right?"
He crosses his arms. "Yes. Of course, I do."
(And he was surprised, first time he found this out. He had every faith that she would have made quick work of that overgrown, tyrannical lizard. But she freely admits that she needs his help—puzzling, she is.)
"Good that's clear. There's no need to be so snappish about it," she mumbles, and turns away, crossing her arms too.
Realizing then that he may have gone overboard, Miraak swallows his pride (it does get easier the more practice you get) with only just a bit of difficulty and says, "I didn't intend to offend you. I ap—"
"Don't," Arpina says, looking back at him with wide eyes. "No, it's not that. Nevermind. It isn't your fault."
"Then what is it that ails you?"
"Nothing. When will I see you again?"
"When a dragon's soul calls for me," he says plainly. "As it has happened last time, and now."
"That sounds sketchy," Arpina says, making a face. "How on Nirn do I benefit from this arrangement, again?"
"I will help you defeat Alduin," Miraak deadpans, feeling the last of the dragon soul burn out into smoke as he clings on for one last moment. "I want nothing more than to just get out of this godsforsaken doom. It takes a worse toll than Apocrypha, in a way, watching you… best me time and time again."
(But is this really the reason why he hates this entire situation so much? Not quite, he cannot help but think.)
And just like that, he is back in Apocrypha, Nirn fading away from him, vanishing without a trace. All he can do now is wait, really, because any scheming and planning he does he knows will get him nowhere. But he knows he has to ask her next time just exactly how she’s going to turn on Mora. It may even be that she’s planning his demise regardless, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes too high up—even after all these years, disappointment never fails to sting.
Aren’t you supposed to put up a fight?
Miraak wonders where that curiosity is from. Where that sympathy had come from that time she asked him to fight for a place in Sovngarde instead of simply giving up. Where that fierce pride comes from—he hasn’t met many willing to pit themselves against a Daedric Prince, much less one of knowledge. Then again, she is Dragonborn.
And more than that, he adds, and he smiles.
“Finally!” Arpina exclaims as he appears before her, called to Nirn by the dragon’s soul. “I thought it’d be ages ‘til I got to speak with you. Luckily, this dragon appeared from nowhere.”
To him, it was ages. “Time works differently in Oblivion,” Miraak says, squinting at the brightness of the dragon soul he consumes. “How long has it been?”
“A day and a half? Two? What about you?”
“Longer,” he answers vaguely and sets that topic aside from now. She’s catching her breath on the ground, still breathing hard—but she’s still breathing too hard, and, in his discomfort watching her struggle there, he blurts out, “Are you hurt?”
“A little,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood stains the side of her face, a trail marking the corner of her lips to her jaw. “Claw almost got me in the face. Good thing it was the blunt edge.”
“You must be more careful,” he snaps, setting a hand on his hip and waving the other around as he speaks, beginning to pace out of worry as he watches her heal herself with a spell, wincing at the pain of it. She could’ve been seriously hurt. She could have been gravely injured and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it— “You—you fool! Dragonborn you may be, you’re still mortal! Hi ulaaknu miil!”
“Re-lax,” she tells him placatingly, bright eyes looking up at him with a watchful intensity. “I’m fine. Not hurt, not one bit, and I think I’m glad I can’t understand dovazhul.”
Miraak stops pacing, but he taps his foot on the ground incessantly, still eyeing her uneasily. Finally, he says with an exasperated sigh, “Heal yourself. I cannot stand to see you in such a state.”
“Weak?” Arpina asks with a laugh.
“Hurt,” he clarifies testily, and then he’s embarrassed at how quickly he had said that. Flustered, he huffs and looks away. Deciding to change the subject again, he says, “How do you plan to take on Hermaeus Mora? He is a Daedric Prince, and you will be entirely mortal in his realm when the time comes.”
“I’m not certain,” she says. “But I know it won’t be through my power but by something greater than me.”
“A Daedric weapon?”
“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully, then her eyes brighten, and he realizes that he will not hear a thing of it if she’s determined to keep it a secret. “I’ll have to send for it as quickly as I can. I didn’t bring it along. I didn’t think I would need it.”
“What is it?” he asks her, brow furrowing—he should have expected it, but it’s still surprising how she seems confident in this one particular weapon and that she already has it.
Arpina’s eyes gleam, sky-bright with merriment. “You’ll see.”
She barely tells him any more than that, and she is still terribly secretive the next two times they meet. He had asked her for at least some clue and she had told him, quite simply, “Well, you know what the Elder Scrolls are, right?”
She didn’t entertain any of his questions on her schemes, only asking him to trust her.
(If she hasn’t killed him hundreds of times over, he would easily say he trusts her with his life. The irony is still too great for him to face, though.)
But now, as he appears on Nirn as an apparition for what he desperately hopes will be the last time, he asks her that question he has asked time and time again as the dragon soul engulfs him in light. "Do you ever wonder if it hurts? To have one's soul ripped out like that?" For a second, he doesn’t feel hollow, but like he is drowning in the power of the dragon's soul, and it slowly burns through him as he uses it to stay on Nirn.
“Whenever I’d take a dragon’s soul, I would feel like I could eat the sun raw,” she says, bright eyes sharp on him, piercing through every defense he could ever hope to put up.
He does not doubt her words.
“I imagine it hurts just as much the other way around. The first time I learned that I was permanently ending my kin, though, I’ll admit I wasn’t hurt about it.”
“Neither was I,” Miraak says, huffing out the slightest bit of a laugh. “You know Hermaeus Mora would be laughing at us if he knew?”
“Who’s to say he isn’t now?” she sighs, turning to him and stepping closer. There’s something searching in her eyes, looking right through him. So he doesn’t get to see the sky of Northern Solstheim this time around—doesn’t matter. He still thinks her eyes make better skies than anything else. “Who’s to say this isn’t just as he intended?”
“It is too late for regrets, Dragonborn,” he replies, growing uncomfortable under the piercing scrutiny of her gaze. “I am done being his pawn.”
Arpina turns away with a sigh. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know you are.”
This is the only way, Dragonborn. The only way I can be free.
He doesn’t want to hinge all his hopes on her. But this is the only way, isn’t it? This is the only way there is.
“Just—do what you have to do to survive,” Arpina continues, looking back at him. “Don’t back down. Don’t give up. We have to put on a show for him. It’s all trickery like I said! Don’t worry about me—just make sure Mora doesn’t kill you and make sure I don’t do it by accident.”
“As you wish,” he says, and despite the fact that he wants to stay longer, burning away at the dragon souls to stay longer has weakened his own soul in the process. “I must depart.”
“Wait,” Arpina says quickly. “Take off your mask. Just a second, I want—let me see the man who places all his faith in me. It is only fair, is it not?”
Miraak hesitates. But why should he? He has nothing to lose, and there is no reason for him to be embarrassed. He lifts his hand to the chin of his mask, then lifts it over his face. “Satisfied?” he asks her dryly in an attempt to cover up his flusterment and the strain of staying even mere moments longer.
It is just the slightest, shallowest of gasps. He can hear the familiarity in it, the gentle yearning given breath. “I—yes, I am,” she says, pursing her lips, cheeks flushed.
With that, he disappears, landing back on Apocrypha. It is all just the waiting game now. Do what you have to do to survive, she had told him. Then he can expect that she will be attacking him to put up a front. He hasn’t truly fought her in years—giving up was the easy way out, and who needed death in honorable combat to go to Sovngarde if he wouldn’t even be able to go there in the first place?
He hopes that his efforts will not go wasted.
“Go,” Miraak tells Sahrotaar later, not so long before the Inevitable Doom. “You will find her easily.”
And Sahrotaar does, returning not so long after with Arpina on his back. She is armed to the teeth, a gleaming bow at her back, bright gold magic coursing through it in an unfamiliar script. He doesn’t know what it is precisely, but he knows it’s Aedric—its shine in the gloom of this shred of Oblivion is unmistakably divine—
OH, he thinks to himself.
The Elder Scrolls, something stronger than a Daedric Prince, a weapon of legend—Miraak wants to know exactly how she managed to get the fucking Auri-el’s Bow. How is it even possible that she’s that… auspicious! Now, unfortunately, is not the time for asking.
As Arpina walks toward him, she opens her arms wide in a gesture of grandiose pride. “And so the Last Dragonborn meets the First Dragonborn, at the Summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Herma-Mora has intended.”
Did you miss me?
Miraak stays silent, watching her place a hand on the hilt of her sword, eyes star-bright—but strangely, cold and without that fiery merriment he would so easily ascribe to her. What’s wrong? He wants to know what’s wrong, but—
“Fate has decreed your death,” she tells him. “You can fight all you want. But you know that I am stronger here.”
“The time for talking is long past,” Miraak finally says as he feels Mora’s invasive presence materialize vaguely behind him. Dread rushes upon him once more, but he bars himself from being swayed by it—he has gone thousands of years without allowing his fear to be his master. He can go on even just an hour longer.
“Then this will be over soon, for you,” Arpina says, and brandishes her sword, striking to kill.
Don’t back down.
They deal each other blows in a deadly dance, and he Shouts to his advantage, going past her to escape a shockingly close call, his arm nicked by that dangerously sharp-edged blade of hers. He doesn’t want to hurt her—he doesn’t think he can, really, but he refuses to fall to her blade, just as she had told him.
He almost gets her as he Shouts Fire Breath at her, but she ducks and vanishes, disappearing. Miraak curses under his breath. “You cannot flee me, Dragonborn!” he calls out, and under his breath, “LAAS YAH NIR.”
There. He sees her red outline creeping up right in front of him, and he ducks back as she finally reappears, swinging her sword at him, and on the other hand, a paralysis rune glows green.
He uses the Whirlwind Sprint to go right past her until he finds that he is right in front of Hermaeus Mora, and he looks over his shoulder up at him, scowling, and he says, “Did you truly think to get rid of me so easily?”
“Good show,” the Prince says with an amused laugh. “But the fight must go on. Oh, look.”
Miraak turns on his heel, back to Arpina, and narrowly misses a white-hot Sunfire spell burning right over his head, singing the top of his hood, and then he sees it—Arpina’s eyes are wide, and she mouths, he thinks, duck!
She’s shockingly fast, the way she reaches behind her to take her bow, then the arrow in her quiver, and she nocks it so fast that when he blinks, he is only barely just ducking down to dodge the arrow. It arcs over his head and pierces right through the bright Sunfire, right in Mora’s multitude of eyes, and darkness consumes Apocrypha, burning blackness swallowing this shred of Oblivion whole.
A hand takes his arm, small but with a fierce grip, and a voice, clear in the deafening darkness, says, “Almost there.”
He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he does open them, it’s the dizzyingly vast, luminous blue sky overhead. For a second, he thinks he’s simply died again, reappearing on Nirn as a shadow. Then a hand reaches out and touches him, on his shoulder, firm and steady, bringing him back to earth. For a moment, it is almost too much, this realization that he is Here. He is Here, on Nirn, he is Here Now. He is alive and out of Oblivion, out of the vast emptiness of existence there, out of the torturous, infinitely indefinite time loop—
(He is too afraid to shut his eyes again.)
“Arpina,” Miraak says, voice soft and it cracks as every godsdamned feeling in the world burns through him like the sun setting the world afire. It is not gentle ease that washes over him. In fact, it is almost the opposite.
“Miraak,” Arpina murmurs, and her hand comes up to tug his mask off his face.
“Thank you.”
Fate, he thinks, is a funny thing. Funny, yes, but it is also everything that is undeniable, dangerous, and utterly divine.
Arpina smiles at him in unbridled relief, radiant and shining and real.
(Miraak knows that fate is not kind, good, or giving in the slightest. But this? This is enough to forget that.)