"Have you ever been impaled before?"

It's a strange question, but Aredhel has heard stranger queries in her lifetime. Yet it is something wholly unexpected from Miraak; thus far he has restricted his inquiries to information he requires to perform tasks, and even that has always been laced with reluctant contempt. For a brief moment she wonders if he somehow got into the skooma she keeps on hand for bribery.

"Once," she answers, shifting on her bedroll. The campfire is but embers now, glowing crimson fragments barely giving off heat; the wind is cold here on top of the ruined watchtower, but it is a far cry from the ruthless chill of Skyrim's far north. "Why do you ask?"

"Pah. Why does it matter?" Without his mask Miraak is pale and drawn, and even in the dim early-morn light Aredhel can make out the cross look on his face. Thick black hair hangs uncombed to his shoulders. "You're clever, elf. Guess why."

Even in this state he speaks with some semblance of authority. But his voice lacks the grandiose ring it possessed during their confrontation in Apocrypha; in the place of that grandeur is a sort of resignation that manages to sound resentful despite itself. His speech has not been the same since the strangled cry he gave as one of the Knowledge Demon's tentacles stabbed through his midsection.

"I did not take you for the sort to brood over wounds," Aredhel replies serenely. "Unless you mean to complain about my healing skills, in which case I permit you to grouse as you see fit."

"Your healing is... adequate," the First Dragonborn admits gruffly. There is rustling of fabric as he sits up in a cautious manner. "Hermaeus Mora's touch leaves a foul poison resistant to any of your potions. It will be long before the taint fades entirely."

Another unexpected statement. Miraak is secretive to a fault, generally refusing to surrender any tidbits about himself unless it pertains to their situation. But it does pertain to our situation, Aredhel muses, golden eyes narrowing as she glances at her quasi-ally. It is why I must contribute the most to the battles we fight.

The option to let him succumb to his injuries has always existed. After the harrowing game of cat-and-mouse on Solstheim, there was truly a strong temptation to finish him off and take his power for her own. There is nothing stopping her from rending Miraak limb from limb but her own proclivity for mercy. Or is it merely hesitation for the sake of gleaning more forbidden knowledge he may yet share?

"It was a betrayal." Aredhel stokes what remains of their fire with a sturdy stick, watching as tiny sparks flutter from the disturbance. "I threw in my lot with a guild of thieves and unraveled a conspiracy. An ally proved false."

The memory of Mercer Frey's blade piercing her chest is still strong. There will always be a scar just beneath her heart, a reminder of death's constant closeness. A warning to never allow anyone the chance to cut her down again.

"I knew Mora would ultimately forsake me from the beginning," Miraak says wearily. Absently. "A dangerous game. It didn't take me long to realize he meant for you to replace me. I needed you dead if I was going to free myself of him forever – yet that is exactly what he wanted me to think. A cruel joke."

"I suppose the punchline was me dragging your dying body out of Apocrypha while the Skaal stared at both of us." Aredhel sits up fully now and pulls her bearskin cloak up to her chin, golden eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't think it was easy convincing them to help, either."

"They called me traitor. Such a contradiction. Or perhaps they are foolish enough that they would bow to the dragons if the old ways were reestablished," Miraak scoffs. "Your Greybeards whom you speak so highly of, perhaps they are such pacifists they would refuse to protest as well? This land is rife with conflict and yet they do nothing."

"Do not discount that their Grandmaster fought Alduin with tooth, claw and breath to protect me." Aredhel watches as the embers grow faint and hisses an elven curse through her teeth, followed by a whispered yol. Flames born from her thu'um rush to the remaining firewood and devour eagerly. "I have recounted the tale of how I defeated the World-Eater once to you. I will not waste my breath doing so again."

"Ah, yes. Paarthurnax." The firelight illuminates Miraak's sour expression. "I do not doubt your recollections. But do not deceive yourself thinking that old dov would not turn on you for power."

"He is a far worthier ally than Hermaeus Mora," Aredhel states dryly. "And far more trustworthy."

"Is he, now?" Miraak actually sounds irritated. "His defection from Alduin's cause never seemed anything to me but a ruse to gain leadership himself. Give men the power of the thu'um, then use them as the best pawns on the board. Does he not claim to lead what few dragons still live who have not gone feral? It would be a simple thing for him to reclaim what was lost."

Aredhel bites down on the retort begging to leave her lips. He is not like Alduin, she wants to say, but then she realizes what her rival is really saying. She raises her head, lifts her chin so that she is looking down her nose at the man, then gives voice to her annoyance. "He is not like Alduin," she intones. "He is not like you."

The First Dragonborn's brow furrows and his mouth flattens to a stern line, but there is no angry reaction. Not yet. Either he is saving his fury for another day, or she has actually gotten through to him; there is no way to tell which it is at this point. They sit in silence as the fire warms their numb faces, two dov in mortal form caught in an uneasy alliance with goals as opposite as the fabled Anu and Padomay. Aredhel allows herself a small sigh and shuts her eyes, wondering if keeping this man alive is worth the trouble.

It must be. It must be, because we are the only two Dragonborn left and though prophecy says I am the Last, I do not wish to be the Only.

It is a selfish, ugly thought and it lurks underneath the notion that she should preserve his life in keeping with the Way of the Voice. Perhaps it is truly hypocrisy; perhaps not. There is no guidance from the gods here, no whisper from Kynareth or any of the other Divines to push her in either direction.

When she opens her eyes Miraak is lying on his bedroll again, his back turned to her, bundled in his robes. She does not doubt that his mind is full of schemes and plots, that his hunger for power still burns in his core and that he will never come around to her way of thinking because they are simply too different. She wonders if Paarthurnax ever tried to turn Alduin from his evil ways, or if her mentor was simply wise enough to see his brother's arrogance for what it was and dealt with him appropriately. It has been too long since she sought counsel from the old one – but she does not dare allow Miraak near the Throat of the World yet, lest she endanger all who dwell on that mountain.

"You are wrong," Miraak half-mutters. His back is still turned but perhaps he simply does not wish her to see his face as he speaks. "I am nothing like Alduin. You will see. Soon I know you will come to know it – the potential in our blood, what we are truly meant for. I will show you."

The Last Dragonborn remains silent. She wonders if Miraak has ever thought of who and what she was prior to discovering her nature as dovahkiin; if he will ever know how it felt to be reduced to nothing, to wander as a disgraced fugitive, then to have one's life reshaped by the revelation of destiny. She wonders if he will ever be privy to her former life as a Justiciar and all the regrets that life has left her with. If he is even capable of choosing, as she did, to embrace a new purpose -

You are wrong, she thinks, golden hues reflecting the firelight as she stares into the heart of the blaze. It is I who will show you.

But am I holding out hope that you can change, or simply baring my chest so another knife can pierce my heart?