Chapter Text
"You are cold, ahtlahzey?"
She jolted a bit where she sat huddled to the base of a tree, ruana pulled tight around her and boots leaning against the rocks surrounding the campfire. It was beginning to dwindle, but she dreaded having to leave her perch for more wood. She wasn't warm but she wasn't shivering anymore - she'd forced her body to relax, to invite the cold. Let it seep in. And she hadn't heard him leave the tent.
"Can't sleep?" she asked instead of replying. Gods, he was shirtless. She didn't even admire his body - she admired the fact he could be shirtless in such a cold snap. He didn't even shiver. This was probably refreshing, for him. By what little she knew of Atmora and what few things he spoke of, it would have to get much colder than this for him to bundle up. But, as the initial envy for his Atmoran biology passed, she did admire him. His thick arms and chest furred with dark hair, his broad, round shoulders and smooth back, all of him dense with muscle and cushioning. His softened stomach that creased lightly as he bent down to flick an errant stick into the fire, sending sparks towards her boots. He was huge. And warm. All that hair and muscle certainly had to amount to something.
"Not if you intend to remain out here with your teeth chattering for the night," he retorted, crossing his arms and standing by the fire. His big body was made for this weather. She understood now why he sweated so easily and complained about even the pleasant temperatures of mid-spring.
"Sorry," she replied, jaw cramping from the tension the cold brought. "I was just about to go for more firewood." He looked at her curiously, his golden eyes shining brightly in the firelight, before scoffing.
"I will go," he said matter-of-factly. Surprising. He...infrequently offered to do camp chores. She didn't always mind - she knew how to do everything, and did it correctly, and quickly. He had no idea how to do any of it, and she just didn't have the time to teach him. But sometimes it was exhausting.
"Half-dressed?" she snorted.
"The chill is refreshing. I need to go out anyway," he said, dismissing her with one hand. A disguised way of saying he had to piss. She envied that, too. It wasn't as easy for women.
Without another word he stomped into his boots and then sauntered into the dark forest around them, only lighting a magelight once she'd absolutely lost his silhouette between the trees. She worried about him alone in the woods in only half his clothes, and watched intently as his magelight peeked in and out at a distance, holding still at first, and then moving. The worry abated as she kept track of him - he'd probably bring back sh*tty firewood anyway, and once he went back into the tent she would stand up and get some better kindling. She listened to branches break and the forest groan softly in the encroaching winter wind, moaning into her ruana as she tried to huddle closer to herself. Unfortunately she had yet to regain all the weight she'd lost during the war, and her time at Fort Snowhawk had...left her body worse for wear, especially in cold weather. She couldn't handle it as well anymore. It bit at her, seeped into her very bones. Locked her joints. Clouded her mind. It wasn't good. But he didn't need to know.
Briefly she thought of the occasions they'd touched, the moments she'd been close to his body. He was so warm. She remembered that burning heat he threw off most of all, so intense it felt as if he constantly ran a low fever. The gods had pulled some cruel prank, sticking him with her, a half-Nord who had lost her resilience to the cold and an Atmoran who walked shirtless into it and called it refreshing. Whenever they crossed through a town next she would have to buy some fur padding for her boots and maybe a thick hood and scarf, a cloak to put over her ruana. Perhaps a blanket to put in her bedroll. She could only spend so many nights enduring the cold before she feared it would devour her entirely. His magelight swiveled and grew stronger as he returned, eventually showing his torso as he trudged through the trees, and then vanishing as he returned into the thin ring of firelight. The wood he brought didn't seem too shoddy or wet, which surprised her. Still, it wasn't enough. She'd have to get more.
"Your lips are blue." She looked up at him, raising one eyebrow.
"And?"
"I am not unintelligent enough in the ways of survival to know you are frigid, ahtlahzey." He crossed his arms again, head tilted. "I have seen every stage of frostbite and hypothermia. I have known Atmorans larger than myself who died in the frost. It is not a pleasant gamble."
"Good thing for you Tamriel's pretty warm then, huh?" she retorted. He scowled. The truth was she had no furs and no cloak. What did he want her to do about it? They were flat broke right now - most of her wealth was saved in Whiterun, and what she had brought on the road initially was meant to be replenished. Well, the roads had been dry of bandits lately, and the inns bereft of Jarl's bounties. Most of her coin went into food, and most of her food went into him. Most of her resources went into him. He still had problems. He was constantly fatigued and hungry, and had been deathly sick at least twice so far. He needed things that allowed for his size - custom boots and clothes. A bigger tent. Weapons. A backpack. She tried to put a roof over his head when she could, sleeping in too-small inn beds occasionally, eating warm inn food. Expensive. He had no money of his own, so she provided all she could from her own shallow pocket. He had awful dreams, and so she tried to make him herbal tea that would help relax his mind at night, but sometimes the herbs were not to be found, and she had to buy them. She had to buy potions, too. Anything she couldn't procure herself was bought or bartered for, leaving them at an increasing disadvantage with winter creeping in.
Miraak made a click sound in the back of his mouth before scoffing, muttering and turning away. She watched him go back into the tent and waited until the flap settled to stack some of the sticks onto the fire and revive the flame. It worked for some time, soothing the numbness in her toes. But then it began to snow.
Snow.
She watched it fall slowly - she liked snow, it was pretty. She liked the way it seemed to dampen the world of noise. But at the same time, watching it fall now made her grimace. It began to gather on her ruana, melting into the wool, chilling her arms and chest until her muscles shivered uncontrollably. Finally, she gave up. Pushing herself off the tree's uncomfortable roots she brushed herself off and moaned in pain as the stiffness in her knees thawed and cracked. Gods, she hurt everywhere. Her back from sitting against the tree, her knees and hips from being huddled so close and shivering so often. Her shoulders from being tight. Her chest from being cold. The fire was dying again. Chewing her lip to dispel the misty tears threatening her eyes, she hobbled into the tent.
It was just barely tall enough for her to stand in, which meant Miraak had to stoop far. He laid with his back to her in his bedroll - a bedroll made specifically for his height, requisitioned with her money - and a small candle flickering to throw enough light to show the edge of her own unrolled bedroll. Shivering, she sat on the soft woven mat they placed as a makeshift floor and pulled off her boots, bending and rubbing her toes to wake them up. Circulation was slow. She put her boots close to the candle and then untied her bedroll, spreading it and dusting it off. The thing was as cold as she was. She had hoped leaving it rolled would preserve some heat. There was nothing for it, now.
She tucked her legs into her bedroll to warm them while undoing her ruana to shake it out gently, before wrapping it snugly around her shoulders once more. She would sleep in her clothes and hope that did something to combat the frost, though it wouldn't be the most comfortable-
"Dii fil." His voice was gravelly, thick, but she could see him sit up in the low candlelight. He wasn't asleep? Tentatively she searched for that bond they held, and felt for his end of it. No, he hadn't been asleep, not fully, since he'd gone out for firewood and came back. "Sleep with me."
She froze, staring at him in what little light they had as he rubbed his face.
"W-what?"
"Share- share my bedroll," he corrected quickly, frowning at himself. "You are too cold." She hugged her ruana tighter around her arms. Share his bedroll? "You can share in my body heat."
"I'll be okay," she replied after a long silence. The thought of sleeping with him- well, it wasn't awful. But part of her was somehow...frightened of it. Unused to such intimacy. So she did what she knew how to do: reject it.
"You are freezing," he grunted, sounding annoyed. "Do you plan to let the frost still your heart? You need warmth."
"I'll be fine," she replied harshly, matching - or perhaps overwhelming - his tone. He stared at her for a long moment before scoffing in disbelief and muttering in a language she didn't know, and then laid back down with his shoulders to her. As soon as he did she regretted it. He would be so warm. She did need that warmth, no matter what she said. But she'd already rejected it.
Scrubbing both hands through her hair she pulled briefly at her scalp before sliding into her bedroll, blowing out the small candle. She waited a long time for sleep to come. She forced her body to be still, to loosen, to disregard the shivering. Exhaustion set in. She couldn't fight it. She fell asleep.
"Tharya, wake up."
She didn't know how long she'd been out - the tent's sides were still dark, and the light beneath the flap showed no light. It wasn't dawn. Her whole body felt numb, boneless. Frozen in place. A spike of heat landed against her cheek, sharp and unforgivingly hot. She whimpered. "Dii fil?" That was his voice. Was it a dream? "You need to wake up." Hands shook her gently, making her body creak and groan in stiff protest, but she opened her eyes. Gods, but it was hard. Her lids felt frosted over.
Her vision was blurry, but she could still see him easily in the dark, kneeling beside her. He winced as a howling wind cropped up against the tent, slamming into the sides. She'd have to get some fur covers...
"Sit up," he said softly, though there was no room for argument in his voice.
"Miraak, why-?"
"I cannot let you do this." For the first time she noticed the scent of his worry flooded the small tent, permeated every corner and crevice of it. Intense and thick. She fumbled for their bond and found that his end was strained and thin. "Come here." It was only as he lifted her that she realized what little strength she had, how stiff her body felt, how her joints ached and how her muscles trembled. He was taking off her ruana and leather cuirass and he started on her shirt, but she jerked alive.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, squeezing his wrists. Why did he want to undress her? She slunk back away from him, but gods, he was so warm. It was hard to be without that warmth.
"You can roll your clothes to stuff them in the sides of the bedroll," he said after a long silence, perhaps realizing he'd overstepped. "As insulation. And they will be kept warm and dry for you to dress in the morning. Dii fil, you are freezing. I cannot let you sleep by yourself when I can...I can take care of you," he admitted slowly, and she let him ease his wrists from her grasp. "I am worried for you." That was the core of it. As he spoke those words his scent changed, softened, to something more like...more like resignation, but sweeter, somehow. Nicer. Kinder. He didn't often smell like that. "It will mean nothing. Any Atmoran would share heat with a stranger if it meant their survival. I am only offering what I know will help you." That didn't smell exactly pure - he wasn't telling the full truth, but she appreciated his effort to detach it from the truth. They'd already kissed before, and there was undoubtedly something more to their relationship than what had been tested since the dragonmarks. The dragonmarks. She shuddered at their memory, but didn't speak of it. By the twist in his face he seemed to already know what she was thinking of. Wordlessly he took her hands, gathered both of them in one of his. Gods, he was warm. The heat of his body radiated strongly when she was this close - she'd be an idiot to deny herself that.
"I don't have to take everything off, do I?" She hated how small she sounded.
"No, however much or little you like. But you will be too warm if you wear all of it." She snorted softly. Being too warm sounded impossible to her right about now. The chill had begun to seep back in now that she was awake, making her shiver again, uncontrollably. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, and her neck ached from the strain. He reached out to take her hip, rubbing it slowly, carefully, as her breath snagged in her throat. His fingers tilted below the hem of her shirt, brushing her waist. His skin was like fire. "Contact between skin is very helpful against hypothermia." She opened her mouth to argue that she didn't have hypothermia. The words never came.
Quietly she went about removing her shirt and folding it, and then folding the other things he'd removed, as well as slipping off her armguards, belts, and thick trousers. Her one piece of winter planning were thinner, skin-tight pants she wore beneath, made of snug wool. Miraak sat in silence, in only his smallclothes, which she envied him again for. The cold didn't seem to touch him. When she allowed herself back into his arms he was still as hot as before, pulling her close into his torso. Her knees curled against his sides, sapping his warmth up slowly at first, and then putting her arms around him for more. The heat of his bedroll had lessened without him in it but it barely registered to her when he himself threw such intense heat. She knew he was warm, but...
Outside the wind screamed suddenly, bolstering and flinging itself against the tent like a horde of angry wolves trying to batter it down. It went straight through her, striking at her bones, clawing through her muscles. She didn't think it was possible to be any colder than she was, but that wind peeled her skin back and snapped at her very core. Without realizing she dug her blunt nails deeply into the meat of Miraak's shoulder, squeezing his ribs with her legs. Beginning to second guess.
"Just a moment, little one," he promised, his voice almost gruff. But it was just a moment - barely a minute after he'd gathered and rolled her clothes he guided her with him back into his bedroll, and leaned over her to pack her clothes in against the side. She flushed against the sight of his chest so close, feeling one of his big thighs slip between hers as he supported himself. Strangely, she didn't mind being pressed so close to him. It was a terrifying realization but something she guessed shouldn't have been terrifying. It was just Miraak. She knew him. Or so she liked to think. His words from before dwindled in the back of her mind: it will mean nothing. Any Atmoran would share heat with a stranger if it meant their survival. He hadn't meant those words, she smelled it - it was something, and it would mean something to him, but what she didn't know - but the fact that he'd said them anyway was comforting in a roundabout way. He cared enough to notice her discomfort. To try and relieve it.
Finally he settled, nudging her a little closer so he could lay one arm over her side and against her back. Quietly she tucked her head against his chest, arms folded to her sternum. To her surprise, he began rubbing her back in slow, massaging strokes, all the way up to the base of her neck to relieve the tension clustered there. It forced an exhale against his heart that expelled with it parts of her aches and pains and pieces of her troubles. He put his other arm under her cheek so she could use his bicep for a pillow, and rubbed her scalp with that hand.
"You should not have to suffer the cold again as long as you have me, dii fil," he whispered in the darkness. Snuggled to his chest she could feel his deep voice vibrate through his ribs as he spoke. "And if you do, well...you need only ask."
He oozed heat like red hot metal about to be put into a cooling bucket; like the roar of an overfed campfire coaxed by an evening wind. She tried to keep her eyes open to feel the way his hands worked, to enjoy the sensation of him stroking her hair and her back, and enjoy the cushion of his arm below her cheek. She wanted to be awake to experience him. But that warmth and that gentle touch were slowly dragging her eyelids shut, weighing her down. Her body began to relax; her muscles loosened, her joints thawed. Her trembling stopped. She felt as if she were melting past the bounds of the bedroll, through the container of his arms.
"Miraak," she mumbled as her eyes fell closed again, fingers curling gently against his sternum, stroking the side of his chest on her fingertips.
"Geh."
"I trust you." This time she didn't fight to open her eyes. She was floating in a warm ray of sun, lying by the edge of a hearth. And the hearth held her so steadily, touched her so gently, breathed so easily. He was quiet for a long time.
"Thank you, ahtlahzey," he whispered finally, and she felt his hand at her back slip away to find her chin, tilting her head up towards him. In the darkness he found her lips perfectly, kissing her so softly and so sweetly that she wouldn't had guessed he was the same arrogant, self-righteous bastard she'd taken from Apocrypha. The same sad, destroyed, despairing soul. "I hope you know that trust is sacred to me." He stroked her cheek gently and kissed her forehead before letting her relax again, returning his hand to drawing circles and shapes against her spine.
"As are you," he added once she was asleep, closing his eyes. It made no difference in the darkness of the tent, but he didn't sleep. He didn't need to. She was safe. He intended to keep it that way, and to enjoy her so close, her marker of trust in his arms. For as long as he could.
For years to come.
