Chapter Text
They shouldn't have gotten to this point, really, of having to pay some farmer for a place to rest in the midst of the coldest of winter. But they did anyway, and though Arpina can't really, logically, and certainly ascribe this fault to either of them, she satisfies herself with the thought that it’s Miraak’s fault, because he had insisted they press on instead of having to sleep in a cave in the woods. She doesn’t mind the fact that it’s, you know, a cave, because it would just be to rest and she can rest anywhere, really, but he had firmly refused and threatened to pick her up over his shoulder and drag her away.
Unfair of him, lording his height over her like that. He tends to do that to her—hardly fair at all.
It’s not her fault he’s freakishly tall, but she still keeps getting the brunt of its consequences, damn it.
Fumbling with the key in her gloved hands, she struggles to push it into the lock. Her hands are cold even in the leather, and it’s stiff as it creaks with her movement. Arpina shifts her weight uncomfortably, then back. She lets out a frustrated breath, snowfall beating at her back and seeping into the gap between her boots and her trousers until a shadow falls over her and the sharp chill seems to die down for a moment. She looks up over her shoulder.
“Are you certain you want to go in? It’s such a warm, pleasant summer’s day, it would be nice to stay longer,” Miraak grumbles, eyes narrowed as his brow furrows with impatience.
Arpina rolls her eyes. Ever so sarcastic. Turning back to the lock, she pushes the key in, turns, and the the lock clicks as the door swings open, a dry, somewhat musty smell escaping. Still, it’s warmer than the impending snow storm, and she is not in the mood to Shout her way to better accommodations to please the Lord of All That is Drama just because he wasn’t keen on sleeping in a cave that she could’ve kept warm with a roaring fire and the snow out with a spell or two.
She slips inside, followed by him, and he shuts the door, leaving them in darkness. Hurriedly, she casts magelight. It’s dark, she’s tired, and she just wants to rest next to the fireplace and—oh.
Her eyes flick from the west to the east wall of the shack once, then twice, and she even turns on her heel with a sort of desperation.
No fireplace!
She opens her mouth to tell Miraak this, but he’s frozen. She gives him a puzzled look then turns to scan the room again. Was it the lack of fireplace, too?
“There’s only one bed,” he finally says, strangled with horror.
“Oh, wow!” Arpina bursts out with indignation. “Things could be worse! So much worse!”
“Debatable.”
“I’ll do you a good one—there’s no fireplace!”
His sharp green eyes, luminescent in the darkness (some trace of Apocrypha that could not be wiped) seem to flash with amusement. “I’ll live.”
“I won’t!”
Silent, he examines the room, and then her. His expressions are often always so easy to read, but when he’s thinking, it’s impossible. Annoyingly impossible of him.
“Take the bed,” he finally says, stepping past her and dropping her pack on the floor. “I will sleep on the floor.”
“Wh—”
He pointedly looks at her ankle, raising his brows at her as though awaiting some silly protest from her.
She had sprained it earlier. Though she is notoriously clumsy when fighting, it’s just rude of him to use it against her. Drat. She raises her chin and turns away to take a half-stride towards the bed before taking off her cloak and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “You have to turn around,” she tells him. “I can’t sleep in all this armor.”
Skeptically, he asks, “I thought you said you’d die from the cold. Is this not counter-productive?”
“I have thick sleepwear,” she says, pulling her pack to the side of the bed with a tug of magic. “Now turn around.”
Rolling his eyes, he acquiesces and turns away from her. Arpina makes quick work of her armor, tugging at buttons and unbuckling straps before pulling on her common clothes to wear. The bed has a blanket—she hopes she won’t freeze, at least.
“Done,” she tells him, and adjusts herself so she can press her feet under the blanket, tugging it up to her waist and undoing her hair. She rakes a hand through it to brush out the waves.
Miraak has no such qualms with her watching him change, but still, she keeps her eyes elsewhere. He seems to enjoy her staring, but she’s hardly going to give him that. When he finishes, he snatches up one of the two pillows on the bed, then takes her cloak so he’s at least not lying down on the floor directly.
Arpina lifts one of her knees to her chest, chin resting on it. Her eyes return to the bed, which is not small—really, it’s quite large, and she’ll guess that a tenant must stay here in the summer at least because the furniture does not look too worn.
Watching Miraak fix his makeshift sleeping place, she feels a little bad allowing him to sleep on the floor without even much bickering. Besides, he had helped her walk back out of the tomb when she had twisted her ankle. With a sigh and a faux annoyed air, she says, “You can’t be serious about sleeping on the floor.”
He doesn’t look up at her as he tartly replies with, “Of course not, I was jesting.”
“Very funny. Get up, this bed is big enough for the both of us.”
“It’s not.”
“What, are you scared about sleeping next to me? I don’t bite.”
“I’m not scared,” he snaps, finally looking up at her, those startlingly green eyes of his piercing her with a dangerously annoyed look. He glares at her for a moment, and then another— “You’re on my side. Move.”
And with that, he picks up the pillow and unceremoniously pushes her back to the other side of the bed with a flick of magic.
“Hey, I wanted that spot,” she blurts out. “Miraak!”
“Deal with it,” he grouses, and lies down, facing away from her and tugging on half the blanket. Now, the blanket seems too small.
Mouth agape with displeasure, Arpina lets out a huff and turns around, dropping her head on her pillow and facing away in annoyance. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked him to sleep next to her.
(But no—better be irked by him than guilty.)
The room falls silent, no sounds beyond that of the howling wind outside and the occasional gusting draft that passes through the roof. The chill permeates through the room, but that and the dull ache of her ankle pull her into a drowsy, terribly light sleep—still, it’s sleep nonetheless.
There’s no dream to speak of, and when she opens her eyes, it is still dark. No light seeps through the minute cracks of the shack, no soft sunlight filtering in. Arpina shudders, half-lidded eyes on the beams in the rafters, and she silently counts them and forgets every number she says in her head.
Turning her head to the side, she notices that Miraak, in his sleep, had turned over to face her.
He’s peacefully asleep, lack of furrow in his brow, his features calm. He always seems to be in a perpetual frown, though. She studies him for a moment longer, then her eyes drift down to his arm, with which he holds the blanket fast, and—
That’s why she’s awake.
“Miraak,” she says, breath fogging. “Wake up. You stole my blanket.”
He grumbles in his sleep, unintelligible murmur his only reply.
“Miraak,” Arpina complains, voice soft but insistent. She reaches out to tug on his arm. “I’m cold.”
He stirs, eyes cracking open for one second, and the green has never seemed so bright before.
She just looks at him, not quite speaking and too drowsy to reply as sharply as she’d like, but before she can speak, he closes his eyes again. She opens her mouth to complain, but he stops her dead.
“Come here.”
Miraak shifts his arms, pushing the one on the bed under his pillow and the other moving up, as though to make space for her.
It’s her turn to be frozen in shock, but he’s having none of it.
“Hurry up, mal dov.”
Against her better judgment, Arpina edges forward and rests against him. By the eight-and-a-half, he’s like a furnace. She sighs and presses closer, pushing her feet into his legs. He pushes back against her, though not hard enough to dissuade her.
“You are pushing me off the bed,” he murmurs, and she shifts back to allow him to move closer to the middle. When he’s done that, she hardly hesitates to press closer to him, already drowsily drifting at the warmth, and she presses her bare feet against his calves. He hisses softly, but doesn’t move away. “Are your feet made of ice?”
“Maybe,” Arpina murmurs, and closes her eyes.