When Neoma had awoken, she wasn’t completely, totally sure, of course, that she hadn’t simply woken from a dream. Parts of it seemed to slip away from her memory from the moment she sat up, and the weight of the ash in her lungs and against her skin again was enough to make her doubt completely in the validity of what she’d seen.
She knew it wasn’t a dream when the people were released of the curse. When all hands had stopped building, and the island seemed to be in a gentle sweep of celebration at freedom.
It was more than a little difficult, in the midst of the palpable relief, to convince them to go back to where they’d just been freed from.
She offered them compensation of amazing amounts – half from being awful with her money, half as incentive. She attempted to explain no one would be caught under a spell again. She thought the sway of her being a Dunmer and a Dragonborn to boot would help convince the residents of Solstheim to undertake the task.
It didn’t work. They were all too wary of the place – and now of her, for attempting to push it so avidly. A few with especially empty pockets would approach her when they believed others couldn’t see and agree to begin the work outlined, but it was still nowhere near enough to accomplish what she had promised.
It was fortunate that Neoma didn’t seem to care that they called her some religious zealot as she stood near the docks and offered easy work to whatever visitors were unboarding. Many undertook her task, and slowly but surely, she began rebuilding the ranks of the builders.
But, the operative word in there, of course, was: slowly.
Blessed be those who had time to idle. Miraak certainly had none – the more time passed, the more likely Hermaeus Mora would gain awareness of his schemes. He was running out of time. Though he could feel that the Dragonborn was making progress, she was simply too slow – and so, he sought her out in her dreams once more. The amphitheater was dark this time, the candles that had lit their first encounter had been extinguished since. A single bleak light fell down unto the masked man who waited for the woman who had sworn to help him.
“With each passing day, my time wanes. Dovahkiin – I will not put the freedom of those people over my life. You have tried your best, I have no doubt, but against a daedric prince, that best is not enough.”
He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, and even feigned a touch of grief he did not feel. This was no threat, merely a simple warning. They could be civil, and surely she would understand. If not, she was a fool. “Please do not try to get in my way, Dovahkiin. I do not wish to be your enemy, but I will not risk my life or another five thousand years of imprisonment to soothe your sense of justice.”
Finally, Miraak turned around to her, met with that grey darkness of a face he has never seen and could not fathom. “I hope you understand.”
