TESFest '24

by aureliu_s

Summary:

A work for the 2024 TESfest! All prompts are posted in ch1 if anyone wants to join in. This will just be fun little prompt fills each day but after the week is done, I may go back and do all the prompts I didn't choose for funsies!

Chapter 1: prompt list!

August 12th – breath or forbidden
August 13th – secret or golden
August 14th – ghost or hungry
August 15th – thief or enamoured
August 16th – crown or gentle
August 17th – mirror or abandoned
August 18th – companion or fallen
August 19th – free day!

Chapter 2: 1 - breath

Notes:

WE'RE BACK😈😈 YOU KNOW ME I LOVE A GOOD PROMPT FEST!!! cannot wait for this year's fictober so in the meantime let's do TESFEST BABEY!!!!

Breath pools in the dingy crypt air between them as hearts beat wildly out of sync. The hallway is narrow, pressing them together, but Tharya is glad to have him close. Miraak's grip is tight like he's ready to toss her over his shoulder and bolt back through the twisting hallways to the surface once more. By the way his weight shifts on his heels, she can tell he's considering it.

Their breath continues to mingle, soft panting that gradually aligns their inhales and exhales as they occupy the dark hallway. Is the Deathlord following? Tharya can't smell it, not from here - the stench of draugr hangs too strong in the barrow to tell one from another.
"Elskavin," Miraak breathes, curling his fingers around her arms. She gulps in air, nodding. They should probably start running again.

Fus...ro dah!

The force of the Deathlord's Shout shatters air in front of it, barreling forward to smash into them from behind. Displaced light ricochets off the funnel of raw, simmering power shoved forth from the draugr's dusty mouth. It echoes horribly around the hallway as draugr Tongues always do, raspy, scraping. It slams the breath out of her lungs, careening her into Miraak's sternum and sending them both down the rugged stone steps.

Tharya trembles as she scrambles to her knees, gasping, begging for breath. It all seems to have fled her body at once - her vision is tightening around the edges, chest locked shut. A few feet away Miraak rolls and groans loudly as he sits up, reaching for his staff.
"Tharya?" he gasps, blood trickling down from below his hair. The atmosphere down here is...choked. The oxygen this far below ground is stiff and musty, untouched, unstirred for perhaps thousands of years. Something lurches in her stomach and she coughs awfully as the stinking breath of the barrow sweeps into her mouth, blissful for a moment - happy to breathe again - and then rotting on her tongue.

Bones click as the Deathlord takes the stairs down slowly. It has no lungs, no muscles nor flesh to feed, only dry bones and creaking joints and its long-rusted armor of a bygone Era. Miraak's boots scrape along the floor as he jumps to his feet, pushing himself up with his arms. Tharya wheezes as she inhales desperately, trying to refill her veins with precious breath, sweet air. The Shout might have broken something, a rib maybe. There's an uncanny stabbing pressure along the side of her chest that seems to be weighing everything down.

"Unslaad krosis!" the Deathlord garbles as it raises its axe. All air in the barrow seems to seep from the walls as Miraak spreads his feet to brace himself and inhales, chest expanding to hold the breath on the brink of swallowing. Tharya groans, letting herself fall to the dirty stone floor again to cover her ears instead.

Yol...toor shul!

The Shout simply explodes forward, rattling what feels like the foundations of the universe with it. Her husband's Thu'um is not something that people - or draugr - are supposed to withstand. The Deathlord rattles, its magical hold on its limbs tested at it gets tossed like a wet straw doll. Dragonfire from a human mouth creates an intense ray of heat at her back, lighting the room momentarily. The Deathlord screeches as its magicka fails, and it splits to pieces of a skeleton, useless and scattered.

With a grunt Miraak sits again, coughing black smoke and flicking tiny embers from his beard. He exhales once, heavily, and a billowy stream of grey floods out of his nostrils and floats away.
"Good gods," he groans. "Can we get out of here?"

Rolling onto her back, Tharya finally takes a good, long, solid breath, clearing her airways, regaining her senses.
"Absolutely," she replies, but is stopped from saying more as a familiar hook appears around her soul. Dragging her further in. Not painfully, but insistently. Leaving little room for argument. She sighs once. She knows what that feeling is. "After we get the Word Wall behind us."

Chapter 3: 2 - golden

Notes:

oh i am a HUGEEEE fan of this one tbh cannot lie. huge huge fan (also yeah "enfeebles" is not a word but it should be so. im using it)

His eyes used to be green.

They aren't anymore, but once upon a time they were black in the sclera and acidic, sickly green in the irises. Demonic looking. Plaguing things. The color had unsettled her initially, but it never truly bothered her. If anything it bothered him more that she was willing to meet his gaze, in those early days. He didn't like it when she looked at him. In the few times they have returned to Oblivion, even during the Hunt, his eyes have turned back to black and green. It will never truly leave him, the taint his body carries, the pieces of his soul he forgot in Apocrypha.

But now his eyes are gold.

Gold like melting, bubbling septims. Like gold bars smelted down to liquid, like a blazing sunset before it crashes into the mountains. Gold with the slightest hint of red, a tinge of it, like a single drop of blood added to the mix. Beautiful, brilliant gold. She's never seen someone with golden eyes besides him. They are not sickly yellow or unnatural, but stunning. And yet so flat. Where she sits now, regarding him closely as she combs her fingers back through his hair, his eyes fill her vision - they are all she sees, all she wants to see. She likes to spend time doing nothing but looking at him. It makes him nervous, but, like with so many other things, he shoulders the discomfort bravely to allow her. The sacrifice is not lost on her, so she strokes his hair, his jaw, slowly and lovingly. He lets her keep his gaze. Examine him.

Golden eyes that should seem so incredibly vibrant fall somewhat flat without life behind them. She's no stranger to his gaze, that chilly piercing sensation of being stared at, but even so she cannot deny the unsettling lack of life to his eyes. They look dead. Cold. Unfeeling because there is nothing to feel. His face is not old, but his eyes age him thousands of years if you look too long. Even in his nervousness as his body fidgets, thighs she sits on shifting under her, none of it reaches his eyes. They are even. Flat. Uninterested.

"You are staring," he says very softly, holding her waist between his large hands.
"I know," she hums, tracing his eyebrow. His eyelids flutter and then close as she strokes his forehead, cutting off those gemlike irises abruptly. Youth returns to his face. Tenderly she holds his chin to keep his head steady. "Open."

He obeys so fluidly with only the briefest of hesitation. Another thing that is not lost on her. He is glacial for others, uncaring. But for her he slips so easily into her palms. She knows it is her job to keep him safe when he is so unguarded; strangely enough, it is his eyes that tell her so. When he is weakened by choice, when he enfeebles himself to her whim, there is just the barest, most distant glimmer in his golden gaze. A spark of a man - perhaps not even that. A human? An entity? A sentience? It is him, she thinks, his rawest, most unreduced form. A soul? Inside that tiniest of lights is that piece of him that is aware of everything and scared of it all. Aware of even the nightmares of Apocrypha he refuses to speak of, and even the ones his mind has blotted out. Without it he would no longer be sane. That tiny piece of him knows everything, sees everything, holds everything, clinging to the edge for the past five thousand years by its loosening fingernails.

Whether or not he knows it, that little piece of him is impossible to get to. She's spent years since they met trying. It shines occasionally, bigger, brighter, disabling him, grip trembling on that sanity, that power. Usually when bad things happen. But this, this is not a bad thing to be sitting together, enjoying the dark and cool night, touching slowly. Yet that tiny piece remains.

"What are you looking for?" he asks very, very quietly, sounding concerned. Unnerved by the way she can burrow through his mind like that. No one else can - no one else dares. Wearily she lets the spark go and watches it flee away from her. It is tiring work to ease that far behind his eyes. As she retreats the golden locks snap closed again, and she kisses each eyelid as it closes.

"You," she replies simply, speaking perhaps not to the man, or the entity, or the sentience, but the timid, unreachable soul within those golden eyes.

Chapter 4: day 3 - hungry

Notes:

sorry y'all i literally felt like SHIT last night so i didnt get to post this 😩😩 BUT HERE IT IS

For the first time in five thousand years, his hunger is fierce.

He has not eaten since leaving Apocrypha - his first month out of that place, he doesn't remember. Ahtlahzey tells him they remained on Solstheim in a Telvanni wizard's mushroom tower as he laid dying. After that they sailed to Windhelm, and he spent two weeks dying again in the Argonian Assemblage. It has been at least a month since then. Two and a half or three months since he left Apocrypha, and he has not eaten a single bite.

His mouth floods hungrily with saliva as he sits up, wiping harshly at his wet lips, at the spittle soaking his beard. Gods, what the fuck is wrong with him? Drooling all over himself like a dumb animal? But, gods...the hunger. Nearly five thousand years since he last ate food. Real, real food.

Groaning, Miraak rolls over onto his elbows, throat tightening and gagging around nothing as the excess saliva pours out of his mouth and coats his lips and chin, forming a small puddle on the ground beside his bedroll. The damn thing is too small, but it's the least of his worries. He hasn't slept in five thousand years either, but if the hunger has returned, why wouldn't exhaustion follow? Grimacing, hands trembling, he wipes at his mouth, trying to swallow his spit and loosen his throat. Hungry. He is hungry. No, he is fucking ravenous. Insane for something to eat. After so, so incredibly long without it, his body ravaged and destroyed by Daedric taint and the stasis of Apocrypha, his stomach feels as if it has flattened to his spine and withered away.

Cold sweat soaks his shirt as he scrambles out of his bedroll, so he peels it off, tossing it aside. Cool night air kisses his flushed, pulsing skin. Gods, he hates these clothes. He needs new ones. He needs to get out of these dusty green and brown robes he wore for so long. Hermaeus Mora corrupted the pretty violet out of the fabric so long ago...

Hunger. He's not just hungry, he's famished. Starved by the last five thousand years. Across the dwindling fire ahtlahzey sleeps soundly in her bedroll, nothing but a lump. A stupid one. She brought him back to life, dragged him into this failing world, and what does she have to show for it? Her own idiocy. By her head is her pack, leaned against a small rock. Ahtlahzey is always well-packed. She thinks herself a ranger, a traveler. A survivalist.

On his heels, balancing his palms on the forest floor, he crawls forward. His beard and chin is soaked with sweat and spit. Gods, he's disgusting. Sweat trails down his spine, gathers uncomfortably behind his knees. But he's so fucking hungry. So hungry. Ahtlahzey's pack is easy to steal, but he hesitates as he holds it, staring at the back of her head. At her blonde hair. His stomach lurches nauseatingly, eating at itself, devouring his inner organs for sustenance. If he eats all of this...she will have nothing.

He takes the pack and slinks back to his side of the dying fire, and then even further, crawling back into the ring of trees that fortify ahtlahzey's little camp. The pack pops open easily and he shoves one hand in blind, ripping out her clothes, that stupid journal she carries. His fingernails graze the skin of something and he wrenches it out - an apple. The first crunch is too loud, but the bite is huge. These things used to be bigger, he thinks. This one is barely the size of his palm. He eats it in two bites, and then studies the tough core before eating that, too. More. She has bread. He rips it apart and shoves as much as he can in his mouth, chewing ravenously. More. She has berries in a little canvas pouch, and he rips the cord off and tilts the pouch back, draining its contents. These used to be bigger too, and red, maybe. He needs so, so much more than this. Another apple. Something wrapped and a bit soft - some kind of treat, something dessert-like. He bites into it with a growl and then chokes on its overwhelming sweetness, its sugar aching on his teeth. He tries to mute his coughs as he spits the fucking thing back out, half-chewed and useless. Disgusting.

Oh so briefly he eyes her strewn clothes, leaning on his knees as he rummages the pack once more. Something substantial. Something big. Meat. Ahtlahzey can hunt, can't she? He hasn't seen her go in a while. Maybe she doesn't because he doesn't eat. She'll need to now - she'll have no food left.

There is more in the bag that he eats indiscriminately, but nothing that really sates his hunger of five thousand years. He drains the waterskin attached to the bag's side. When there is nothing left but cloth wrappings, her clothes, and tools, he shoves them all back into the bag, uncaring of their previous appearance. He could go into the forest. He's seen ahtlahzey pick certain mushrooms and plants to eat, but he has no idea what they are. Eating something in the forest could just as soon kill him - though is that so bad? At least then he won't have to deal with this starvation, this pooling, excess saliva flooding his mouth and drooling from the corner of his lips. A poisonous mushroom is an easy way to go. No questions. No fuss. Just death. An end to the hunger.

Carefully, walking upright this time, he slinks back to her little camp. He deposits the pack quietly against the rock again and then sits heavily on his bedroll. As he does, the weight of his actions seem to creep down on him. He's eaten all her food. Tore through her personal belongings like they mean nothing. What will she be left with? Nothing to eat or drink?

She did this to herself, he whispers. It's not as convincing as it usually is. He lays down slowly, facing away from the fire, and stares into the darkness. The hunger continues to grow, insatiable, bottomless. It is only fed by his despair. What is he now? A thief, at worst. An animal. A ravenous animal. No, less than that. Animals have rules, guidance. He is just a thing. A monster.

Across the fire, lying on her side, Tharya listens to him lay down again. At least he returned the pack. She knows there's nothing left in it. He hasn't eaten in two months, if not more. Nor has he slept. She always assumed those things would return in time. It seems that time has come.

The next day she makes sure he sees her rifle through the pack as if nothing is changed, and then again makes sure he sees her refill her food twice over. She carries it in a canvas sack instead of her backpack. The next night he does it again. She doesn't understand why he won't simply tell her he needs to eat again. She's been worrying about it for two months. The next night as he gorges himself, thinking he's out of earshot, she leaves her bedroll, walking very quietly past the fire, into the darkness. He's lost a lot of weight. He used to fill his robes better. But he can't keep going like this, stealing her food in the night and not eating all day. He needs some semblance of normalcy for his meals.

"Miraak." She says his name firmly, and he freezes where he's kneeling, back to her. His spine is a little more prominent than she thinks it used to be. Yes, he's getting thinner. He whimpers dejectedly around the heel of bread in his mouth. She knows he'll probably hate her for interrupting, but she refuses to let him think he can go on like this, and she refuses to let him think she doesn't know. He will hate her for it. "Give me the bag. Let me cook something for you."

Chapter 5: day 4 - enamored

Notes:

i kid you not this was inspired by looking at pics while apartment hunting - one place had a pool with those cool lounge chairs that you can sit in shallow water and i was like wow....modern tharyaak vacation coded....AND NOW HERE WE ARE ‼️ GIVE THAT MAN A NIBBLE THARYA YOU DESERVE IT‼️

Cool water lapped easily at her sides as Tharya eased herself back down into the slender recliner, set up on a shallow shelf inside the large pool to allow the water to rise a few inches. It, and the ice cold cocktails in hand, were a welcome touch under the hot sun.

Miraak was nowhere to be found on the seat beside her, so she left his drink in the shade behind her chair, by their towels. She scanned the pool from behind her sunglasses but didn't have to look far - someone was letting a small gaggle of kids climb onto their shoulders and then tossing them into the water, and they were loving it. She would recognize that broad, glistening wet back anywhere.

She reapplied her sunscreen before settling in, letting the kids gleeful shrieks and Miraak's deep, bellowing laughter undercut the otherwise low buzz of chatter and movement around the hotel pool and gardens. This happened almost every time they went to the beach, or found a hotel pool like this - somehow, somewhere, he almost always ended up tossing kids into the water, and they always worshipped him by the end of the day for it. She worshipped him for the way it showed off his shoulders and biceps as big as her head, but to each their own. As long as no mothers tried to make a move.

"Excuse me, miss?" Tharya lowered her sunglasses to look up at the Altmer man suddenly standing beside her, gesturing expectantly out into the pool. He crouched down a bit, and pointed one slender golden finger at Miraak. "Is that man with you?"
"He is," she said, raising one eyebrow. "Why?"
"He wouldn't happen to be your brother or anything?" the Altmer asked after a moment, laughing at himself.
"I sure hope not," Tharya cackled, raising her left hand. He took one look at her rings and raised both palms in surrender.
"My apologies. I was getting ready to shoot my shot," he chuckled. "Where'd you get him?"
"Atmora," she snickered. "He has three single friends, if you want."
"Ha! I'll be okay. You're a beautiful couple, by the way. I just wanted to ask." His laugh drew Miraak's attention as the Altmer stood, thanking her again before walking away.

The kids gave up an impressive chorus of moaning and complaining as he waded away from them, some clinging to his arms as he laughed and promised he'd be back later. Eventually they drifted off, pouting and swimming back to their families on the opposite side of the pool.

She watched him as he came to the edge of the shallow ledge, shiny and wet and smiling. She wasn't the least bit upset about that Altmer coming to ask - if anything, it made her happier to call him her husband. Because those big arms and solid shoulders and heavy, oh so squeezable pecs were all hers.
"Who was that?" Miraak asked curiously, holding her calves and leaning down to place his chin on her knees. "I thought it looked like Quaranir."
"A suitor," she giggled, pushing her toes into his side playfully.
"For you?"
"For you. I'm surprised none of those parents hit on you over there."
"Oh, I made sure they knew," he replied with a grin, wiggling his left hand at her.
"I got you a drink," she hummed, letting him rub her legs lovingly with hands cooled by the water. "It's behind me."

He pushed himself up onto the ledge and she admired the rest of his torso, his soft stomach and the jut of his equally grabbable hips as he stepped by her to find his glass on long, deliciously thick legs.
"You are going to have to stop ogling me unless you want to get us in trouble, prinsaessa," he tutted, tapping her shoulder to get her to scoot forward a bit. She did, and he sank into the lounge chair behind her, slipping one arm around her middle to pull her back snugly between his legs. "You're crushing many hearts at this pool today, you know?"
"Good," she giggled, holding his wrist as he splayed one big hand against her stomach, and laying back into his chest. He took a long sip of his drink - complete with its little toothpick umbrella - and sighed gratefully, ice clinking against the glass. As he swallowed she craned up a bit to kiss the side of his neck, dragging her nails along the back of his hand.

"Go ahead, leave your mark, elskavin," he purred, grinning against her ear. "It will break some hearts, but surely not mine."

Chapter 6: day 5 - crown

Notes:

debut of AU i have but never talk about number 58283938282: EMPIRE AU!!

She stared out at the crowd. It was a crowd, no matter how orderly it seemed, how many neat rows people made. She gripped Miraak's hand tightly, so tight it felt like her knuckles would pop, but it did nothing for the dreadful pit in her stomach. Not anxiety. Not fear. A pit of nothing.

Quaranir was bringing the crown of the empire on a silken pillow with tassels at each corner. He was going to make her empress. It had been his idea, initially, to restore a Dragonborn ruler. To put two Dragonborn on the throne. Quaranir said it like they were evening their odds for the coming war - at least three rulers would be on their side. The Empire, whatever remained of it, Skyrim, and Hammerfell. Probably Morrowind too, if Mathyas did his work. He would. The crown was drawing closer. The hall was very quiet.

These people didn't know her - to them, her half-Cyrod heritage meant nothing. She was a Nord. She'd always considered herself one, too, so it didn't matter what they thought, how they whispered; they were right. She was a Nord. And Miraak, gods. He was something they didn't know how to manipulate. Allegedly Atmoran, supposedly Dragonborn, whispered to be a Dragon Priest. Covered in scars and taller and stronger than all of them yet draped in the best finery, in embroidery they didn't recognize, he spoke them all into corners and circles. He extracted their secrets. He knew their ambitions. He was a threat to this court, but her? They thought she was hopeless.

She hoped they weren't right about that, too.

Quaranir was supposed to crown them both, but without thinking Tharya raised a hand to stop him once he drew close. Behind him a High Priestess was holding a second crown for Miraak. Sweating under her heavy regalia and long dress, Tharya gestured the woman forward, trying to curb her urgency. She felt sick.

The pillow with Miraak's crown was the same in all but color. The High Priestess of the Eight Divines bowed slightly as she proffered it to Tharya, and she took the heavy jewel-encrusted crown between both hands. Lifted it from the pillow. She wanted nothing more than to hurl it across the hall. From her side Miraak watched her, his eyes sharp and hot. She wished she could believe he wouldn't enjoy being emperor.

"Let it be known," she said softly, voice trembling. The entire court seemed to lean in to hear her voice, so she inhaled and repeated herself. "Let it be known that though I crown my husband, Dragonborn Emperor of the Septim Empire and rightful heir to its throne, my power is not above his, nor his above mine. As Dragonborn we are and have been eternally equal; as rulers we will be equal."

The entire idea was Miraak's. He said letting someone else crown you, especially a religious figure, showed the crown subservient. It would be best for a ruler to crown themselves - or, in this case, for one to crown another. Gods, nothing was in her control. She was being puppeted from all sides. Still, Miraak lowered himself gracefully to one knee as she turned, not pulling his gaze away. Arms trembling, she lowered the crown. It fit perfectly.

Quaranir looked pale as he let Miraak take her crown from the pillow, holding it delicately in his hands. Expertly. It was not the first crown he'd handled.
"Let it be known," he said, voice smooth and strong, "that though I crown my wife, Dragonborn Empress, and rightful, long-awaited dragonblood heir to its throne, that my power is not above hers, nor is hers above mine. As Dragonborn we are and have been eternally equal. As rulers, we will be equal. As husband and wife, we will be equal. As man and woman, we will be equal. As living, blessed beings, we are made equal." Her palms were slick with sweat. He'd added more words. She found her knees protesting as she knelt before him, thighs tense and muscles crying for relief.

The crown's weight was lighter than she anticipated, but still daunting. Still terrifying. Gods, she wished her parents were here, her family. She stayed kneeling for a long moment after Miraak placed the crown on her carefully braided hair, and felt as if she would throw up on the hand that appeared to help her up.
"Rise, my wife," he said very, very softly, and she took his hand, clinging to it for dear life as he pulled her up. It didn't look like it, of course, but she couldn't stand without his strength. "My empress." He bowed his newly adorned head to her and kissed her hand.

There was no going back now.

Chapter 7: day 6 - mirror

Notes:

wait yall i lowkey REALLY loved this one‼️‼️‼️ it's always such a joy to write introspective miraak, but this was also fun bc my idea of his body has changed so so much since i first started writing him ! (my best example, we upgraded from abs miraak to powerlifter/chunky build miraak. best decision of my life it actually changed my writing so much LMAO)

This time, when he walked by the tall, slender mirror in their bedroom, he actually stopped.

He avoided mirrors if he could, rarely ever checked himself prior to going anywhere or doing anything. If Tharya complimented him on their way out, then he knew he'd done fine. But he hated it, his own stupidity with these things. It was utterly trivial. In Apocrypha he had moaned and wept and prayed for a mirror to remember his face by, anything to grant him his reflection that he had forgotten. And now that he walked so freely amongst mirrors large and small, he disliked them.

But he made himself stand in front of this one. One of the great joys of his mornings was watching from bed as Tharya got ready in front of this mirror. One of his great joys in the evening was watching her undress and step into her sleeping clothes, watching her inspect herself in this mirror. She did it so easily. It was foolish of him to run from his own reflection like a scared deer. He forced his gaze to his own body, the vessel he so often felt...unnattached from. The thing he had lost sight of in Apocrypha as well, not for lack of a reflection, but for lack of its preservation. Hermaeus Mora had ravaged his skin and bones countless times, torn him, knit him together, touched him, split him, crushed him.

Yet the mirror showed his body as whole. How strange. It was...different than he thought he remembered from the Merethic Era. He'd been a bit thinner then, the muscles in his stomach more prominent. Now his midriff was cushioned by a healthy layer of fat, though he was sure if he tensed, it would all go rigid. The muscle had not vanished, just changed shape. His chest had perhaps been a bit smaller, his arms not as big. He could heard Morokei's voice in the back of his mind, a fleeting memory from his childhood, at the point where Miraak had learned that if he would never be taller than his peers, he would have to be stronger. Aelskling, you've gotten bigger! He thought those words and found himself...brightened by their presence. He was sure Morokei would say the same now - in the Merethic Era he had been strong, but less hulking, less dense.

His legs had never been so thick either, but as he examined them they were nicely proportionate to the rest of him. Faint stretch marks decorated his inner thighs. Softer at rest, a good cushion for the woman who so often occupied his lap. And...quite long. Had they always been like that? He supposed it made sense because of his height. Atmorans were a long-limbed people. Still, he peered at them in the mirror, dressed in only his smallclothes and with tight concentration behind his eyes. Both Tharya and Bhijirio had remarked before that he looked taller the less clothes he wore. He didn't know how that happened, but it seemed a fair statement. Here, now, the optical illusion of wearing less did seem to make him...a bit bigger than he thought he was.

Hesitantly he lifted one arm, curled it, and watched his bicep contract, bulging against his forearm before he stretched the arm out. Thick veins decorated the hinge of his shoulder and shot down into his arm. Veins that carried real blood, not the sludge of Apocrypha. Strange. He put the arm down to twist it, examining his tricep and elbow in the mirror. All strangely mundane parts of the body, yet he couldn't help as if he'd never seen them before. Holding his arm like this made it press into his chest, creasing his pectorals together and disfiguring the long scar slashing over them. Warily he held his chest in both hands, trying to emulate the sensation of the way Tharya did it. No, that was ridiculous. He didn't need to grope himself just for- for research.

But that scar...as he traced it, the open-mouthed concentration in his face settled into grim deliberation. That scar had almost torn his heart out. Almost ruptured his lungs and ripped through his ribs. He was lucky his healers had grabbed him when they did, otherwise he would have surely lost his life to Paarthurnax that day. The old worm had left him to bleed out in the lush foothill they fought upon. Perhaps he had known it was the crux of his Thu'um, its home nestled to his heart between his ribs. Perhaps he had merely been living up to his name.

Silently he let his hand slip up to the base of his neck, but immediately it felt itchy just sitting there. He didn't like things around his throat. He wore his necklaces loose and low because of it. He let Tharya touch his neck, but she never held it in the way he did hers. A pang of guilt slithered into his gut at that. That didn't seem fair.

He stepped a bit closer to the mirror and bent down to examine his face closely in the reflective silver. It was difficult, but he felt he must. Carefully he took in his eyes and nose, his undefined cheekbones. The neat edge of his beard. Absently he ran his fingers through it - soft, trimmed, and oiled. Little things. He thanked the gods he'd been blessed with the ability to grow one so fully. Vahlok always used to have a little stubborn patch below his chin that refused to grow. The memory made him smile however faintly, chuckling to himself, but he zeroed in as quickly as possible to catch the expression before it faded. Gods. What a dreary sight. He remembered smiling with his teeth once upon a time, laughing freely. Did he always look so...bland? Poor Tharya.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it a bit to let it fall looser. He didn't have Althëa's curls, but his hair had little waves in its inner layers that sometimes curled if he let it grow long enough. It, like his beard, was one of the very few things about his appearance he truly cared about. More for habit than any real love of his own visage. Humming curiously, he decided to comb his hair back with his fingers, pushing away the little pieces that usually framed his forehead. He wanted to know why Tharya always said he looked so different with his hair swept back.

The change was small, but very noticeable. Even removing those few strands seemed to...open his features more. He realized she was absolutely right - it did look good. As he straightened out and examined himself in the mirror again, he hardly recognized his own face. It all seemed to flow differently.

His concentration was broken by the door coming open, but, in a brief panic, his feet remained rooted to the spot. Gods, he would look like an idiot standing here. No one did such foolish things unless they were daft in the head. He found himself warming with - what was that? Shame? The guilt of being caught? - as Tharya stepped in, still dressed from the day.

"Hi, beautiful," she said easily, smiling at him. Heat creeped into his neck. Gods, how many thousands of years since he'd blushed? He almost wanted to laugh at himself. Almost. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "I am...I had a bath."
"That's exactly what I'm about to do," she snickered, joining him to put her hands on his hips. She squeezed him lovingly, and he noticed for the first time how that little extra bit of fat that he hadn't had before pooled into her palms so perfectly. "You look spooked." Her hands traversed his body so easily, drawing up his arms, rounding his shoulders and settling on his chest. He had admitted to her before she seemed to know his body better than he did, and it was true. She knew the strongest parts of him, and she knew the softest. She knew where to touch him to make him crumble into her palms and where exactly to touch him to inflate him, to make him stand straight. She knew how to hug him to make him feel the thousands of eyes on his back retreat. She knew how to stroke his hair and trace his face to tease him into sleeping. She knew the places on his body that had never healed completely in Tel Mithryn, and she knew which scars he still felt the most, and which she could kiss. "Everything okay?"

He blinked at her and then merely nodded, feeling dazed at how many things she knew of him, how he could so easily list them. He liked to think he returned it, but she had a certain intimate knowledge of his body that he simply could not have with hers. She had been the one to take care of him for so long, after all. It only made sense. He glanced in the mirror again - if she knew him so well, then there was only one question his curiosity begged to ask.

Wordlessly he held her hips and turned her around, watching her peer at him in the mirror.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered. "Please."

Chapter 8: day 7 - fallen

Notes:

i truly had no idea what to write for this one 😩 canonically tharya only gave up one soul to miraak but i LOVE the fact that he steals more if you leave and kill dragons after meeting him so HERE WE GO (feat. one of my FAVORITE miraak voice lines!) if you're insane like me, WOULD recommend checking out miraak's fandom wiki for his quotes section, where you can listen to most of his voice lines including the ones i used here 😌

Tharya watched as the brassy dragon crashed to the ground, shrieking its finals breaths, huge, serpentine body heaving against the ground. It upturned mounds of ashy soil as it fell and slid, wings jerking before falling still. Its eyes rolled before growing dull, and its tail swept across the ashen hill one more time to send up a cloud of grey before falling to the ground lifelessly.

This soul would feel good. She hopped over the burnt log she'd been crouched beside to stay safe from the dragon's crash landing, and kicked through the ash towards its decaying body. This soul would help her fight back against that...that man in Apocrypha. She wanted to get him out, but the bastard wasn't going to make it easy. A soul or two would put her at her best before she went back to the dreadful place.

How was that man so strong? He was another Dragonborn, yet somehow...leagues more powerful than she was. She felt it that moment he grabbed her hair in Apocrypha - his magicka reserves seemed endless, and he obviously had some power to enslave the minds of almost the entire island of Solstheim. Yet it didn't seem to make him break a sweat. She frowned as the dragon's flaking flesh began to glow and drift away into embers, letting its caged soul escape. He couldn't be that strong, could he? Maybe it was Hermaeus Mora who was controlling the island. But why would he let his master take over the operation? Would Mora even agree to it?

She pushed all the cluttered thoughts away from her mind, exhaling heavily into the thin cloud of ash around the dragon. It didn't matter for now. Tharya opened herself to the soul, closing her eyes to let it find her, to let it come to her.

"Ah. One step closer to my return."

Tharya whirled around, gripping her staff tightly as she came face to face with this...spectre. It wasn't him, not fully. That didn't mean she wanted to punch him less.

"What do you want?" she demanded as the grandiose echo of his voice died off slowly. The soul skittered away from her, confused and stuck.
"Thank you for this gift, Dragonborn. It will be most helpful."
"What? The- the soul?" She spun around to face the dragon, but he appeared there too, standing close to its barebones. The soul pulsed as it recognized another Dragonborn - him. "No! I killed this gods-damned dragon. You can't just take it's soul after all the dirty work is done!"

The glow around his spectral figure pulsed and grew as the soul seeped into him. How did that work? He wasn't here in the flesh. Unless...squinting against the light she watched as he seemed to solidify, flickering into a real, solid human for a brief moment as the soul touched him. He couldn't be spectral to get the soul. He had to be here.

She lunged forward and curled her fist into his musty robes, shoving him down and leaping over him. He grunted in surprise as the soul danced, not fully absorbed. Curling her hands against his chest Tharya squeezed her legs to his torso, sitting on him with all her weight, and called for the soul. She dug her fingers into its intangible swirling strands and pulled it, singing for it, opening herself to its splendor. To its knowledge. Miraak writhed, landing a fist against her ribs that bloomed pain and then knocked her over. In a blink he was over her, weighing her down, fighting her wrists back. He squeezed them mercilessly, so hard she heard her bones crunch.
"Play kindly, Dragonborn, and perhaps I will let you keep it," he mocked. His voice didn't echo anymore - he really was here in the flesh.

She cried out as he rammed her arms to the ground, holding them firmly to dispel her grip on the soul. Tharya watched through her snarls as the light finally chose him, frightened off by her lack of focus, and fled quickly into his body. She groaned as its final shreds vanished. It was his.

"I'm going to axe that out of your chest next time we meet," she growled as he leaned down towards her, unfeeling mask filling her vision. The vision of him vibrated before turning transparent again, his weight vanishing on top of her.
"It takes a strong will to command a dragon's soul," he replied, his voice arrogant and smug and lilting with mockery. "Perhaps you aren't as powerful as you think."

Chapter 9: day 8 - free slot!

Notes:

i'm feeling lazy from a busy few days and had no ideas for this, so i decided to write about tharyaak being lazy! life imitates art they say ((plus big spoon tharya rare appearance!!)) thank you everyone for reading, commenting, and kudosing this week and HUUUUGE shoutout to all my fellow creatives who did tesfest week as well!!!!!

She sighed as she sat down on the edge of the bed, pausing to stretch her arms up high above her. The sun was set, the night air was cool, moons bright, the day done. The week done. And what a long week it was.

Wordlessly she tilted to look at Miraak, half-asleep where he laid on his side, snuggled deeply into a pillow.
"We live to fight another day," she teased, grabbing his leg to shake it gently.
"I would prefer to sleep another night," he moaned. She laughed quietly into the cool dark of their bedroom, toeing off her slippers and scooting back onto the bed.
"Well, I have to get up early tomorrow-" He groaned again, this time in pitiful protest. "But you sleep in, my love."
"Who, by the gods, could possibly draw your attention so early after all the work you've done this week?" he grumbled. Smoothing the twisted hem of her shorts Tharya dropped with a sigh onto the bed beside him, pulling the covers he'd shoved away close to her back.

"People," she mumbled, snuggling into his shoulders and kissing the smooth expanse of his back.
"I could kill them."
"Hey!" She laughed unexpectedly, smacking his shoulder.
"I want my wife in bed for one morning of my life," he whined, shifting around as she put an arm over his side, tucking it below his elbow to hold his chest.
"Gods, you're such a complainer," Tharya said, rolling her eyes.

Even so she pressed herself close to his back, tucking her cold feet against his warm thighs and rubbing his side. It was unexpectedly chilly tonight, and it had been all day despite the sun. She dared to venture a wish for autumn - the weather today certainly felt like it. Warm sun but cold wind, brisk air. Not cold enough yet to wrap herself in the covers and her husband, but winter wasn't far off either. For now she was happy to take one or the other.

"Sleep well, big guy," she whispered, kissing his shoulder softly. He mumbled something that didn't sound like words, but she took it anyway. Squeezing the arm around his middle gently, she nuzzled into the back of his neck, inhaling the gentle scent of the northern mountains lingering in his hair. "I love you." Another mumble, this one a little more coherent.

It took her a while to fall asleep but her body relaxed easily, grounded by his already heavy limbs sinking into her embrace, his even breathing. She watched the curtains dance in the cool wind from the open window until her eyelids went heavy, until the warmth of Miraak's body lulled her to a drifting, fulfilling slumber.