"Here we stand at a three-day's ride from Windhelm. To reach your home swiftly, we could ride Drastíll across the Eastmarch throughout day and night. However," Mithllon indicated at Ulfric's bound leg, "I am wary of your injury. You will need to rest and recover. We will camp at night, delaying our arrival by another day." Had it been an adult, Mithllon would have disregarded the injury, for it was only a simple sprain. However, this was a child, and a Nordic jarl's son at that. An Altmer had to be the very soul of caution when found in the possession of a particularly powerful Nord's child in order to keep his head on his shoulders.
"Is that Dr-Drastíll?" Mithllon smiled in amusement as Ulfric struggled with the accents of the Elven name. The Nord's bright blue eyes were wide with awe as he gaped at the Elven horse, who snorted indifferently and tossed his mane in the breeze. The Altmer glared at his mount, who had a habit of flaunting his glistening pelt to mesmerized passer-bys. "I've never seen a horse like that in Daddy's stables."
"Aye, he is an Elvish horse. And a boastful one at that." Drastíll cast a steely glare at Mithllon, who served as a seven foot tall crutch for the youth. Ulfric hopped on his foot, eyes still fixated on Drastíll. He reached out a hand to the horse. Hesitantly, Drastíll sniffed it before brushing his velvety nose on the Nord's palm. The Nord quietly sighed as he stroked the horse's face.
"He's so smooth! And silky!"
Mithllon smirked as he lifted Ulfric onto the saddle before pulling himself up. He then took hold of Drastíll's reigns and tapped the horse's flank with his boots. The horse started in a trot through the woods, heading north.
They rode together on the Elvish horse for an hour, speaking not a word to each other. Mithllon enjoyed listening to the wildlife around them. The chirping of birds filled the chilly air of Skyrim. The occasional burst of leaves as a rabbit tore across the landscape in moments seemed to excite the Nord, who stared at the earth yearningly. It was obvious the child had not seen past the walls of Windhelm, nor encountered any of the wildlife teaming in Skyrim.
Unexpectedly, the Nord spoke: "Why are you in Skyrim?"
Mithllon paused at the question. What could he tell the child? That Summerset Isles was in shambles, his fellow Altmer brothers aching to sink their swords into Thalmor flesh before all their rights were taken away? That he had left his wife and children where his enemies lie so he could search for a new refuge in a distant country? That he himself boiled with such murderous energy he felt that even if he left a sea of Thalmor bodies behind his wake, his blood-thirst could not be quenched? Ah, but children were so naive of civil wars, and Nords knew nothing of foreign politics. Best if they remained distant to the elves and unknowing of the war brewing in Summerset Isles.
"I am traveling," he said simply. That did not seem to satisfy the boy, but he did not question further.
"Tell me, young king. What is your grand city like?" Mithllon already knew much about the city, but intended to keep the child preoccupied so the youth would not be so chatty at night. He had learned the skill long ago with his sons, Coredalf and Ganllon.
And so the day stretched on with Ulfric boasting about the grandeur halls inside the Palace of the Kings, the kind servants he spoke with everyday, and his parents. He mostly spoke of his father, who's might rivaled that of a great bear. He was a fierce leader and one not to cross during his lesser moods. Although the child spoke fondly of his father, Mithllon imagined what could happen if the "Bear of Eastmarch" discovered little injured Ulfric in the hands of an Altmer, he might see the reality from a different perspective. Although confident of his survival skills, Mithllon would rather not avoid bounty hunters for his entire visit to the Nordic country. His wife and children, after all, placed their trust in him to find another home, possibly in these iced mountains which lay far from Thalmor hands.
When the sun finally fell below the mountains and with Ulfric's audible yawn, Mithllon called for a halt at a small clearing bordered with thick, strong trees. As Ulfric slid down Drastíll, rubbing his eyes tiredly, he asked, "Can I start the fire?"
Mithllon already had arranged twigs and leaves proper for a campfire, his hands in mid-snap, when he prepared to light the fire with his magicka. He looked up at the boy and smiled, "Oh? And does the young king know how to start such a thing?"
Again, the child's chest swelled with pride as he answered with confidence, "Yes. The men taught me how last night."
Mithllon's brow furrowed at the mention of the cloaked strangers. It was obvious these cloaked men were responsible for the kidnapping of Ulfric. Although they had fled-Mithllon was certain they had been discovered and, in their panic, had disregarded Ulfric during their flight-it was certain they would search for the boy again, to use him as a bargaining chip or whatever dark scheme they had held in store for the youth. He would have to watch the boy more closely, and look deeper in the shadows.
"Mithllon?"
"Hm? Ah, yes, the fire." The Altmer stepped back, guesturing to the pile of wood at his feet. "Show me this skill you have acquired."
The boy bounced eagerly to the stack, withdrawing a small branch and a flat piece of wood. Propping the branch on top of the flattened wood and sandwiching the branch between his hands, Ulfric's face hardened with concentration. Then, with the branch between his palms, he rapidly rubbed his hands together, slowly pulling downward. Within several minutes, a spark burst in between the two pieces of wood, before maturing into a bright orange flame. Ulfric released a cry of triumph, throwing his hands up in the air. Unfortunately, the movement snuffed the flame out in a moment, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. His face turned into utter horror.
Mithllon chuckled silently to himself, making certain the Nord could not hear him. Ulfric bowed his head, eyes fixated on the ground, shoulders slumping in defeat. Mithllon ran his hand through the Nord's blond hair, saying, "Quite the success, your Majesty! That only took a matter of minutes." Ulfric's face turned red and he glared at the Altmer angrily. He scrambled-or rather, hopped-from under Mithllon's hand to the opposite side of the mound of wood before flopping himself onto the ground. The black-haired elf watched him thoughtfully for a moment.
"I was not mocking you, Ulfric. You did well for your first attempt, but grew too enthusiastic. Your flame was snuffed out, and you immediately gave up." Ulfric was silent, fingering the cast tied tightly to his ankle. Mithllon folded his arms and sighed, drawing out the last sentence in a patient tone, "Try again."
Ulfric shook his head, eyes still fixated on the dirt. "I don't want to anymore."
Mithllon sighed. He observed the firewood for a moment before creating a spark of his own in the palm of his hand. Ulfric jolted as the light touched his face, and his eyes widened. Mithllon smiled in amusement before casting the magical flame into the heap. The wood crackled instantly as the fire engulfed it with its own whisper of a breath. This was a mistake.
The Nord shrieked, scrambled to his feet, and began to run. He did not go far with a sprained ankle; he took only several leaps before falling onto the ground. The elf was behind him in seconds, but the Nord gasped and recoiled as if he was in pain. Mithllon opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when the realization struck him.
"Mithllon, you fool,' the Altmer growled to himself. He had forgotten the incident earlier that day with Ulfric's ankle.
"Y-you promised." Mithllon swallowed at the meekness of the Nord's terrified voice. He gapped at Ulfric. His blue eyes were wide and watery, and his lip quivered slightly. His knees were scraped and bleeding. He sniffled. "You even crossed your heart."
"I..." Mithllon began, and the Nord cringed at the Altmer's voice. Mithllon swallowed again.
How could he promise not to use magic? Magic was a natural part of an Altmer's life. Mithllon used it unconsciously every day. To ask an elf not to use magic was to ask a Nord not to drink ale. It was an impossible request.
"I hate you!" Mithllon expected the words to fall from the Nord lips, but the sting that followed after was not anticipated. His eyes fell to the ground as he slowly stepped away from the boy, who continued to sniffle. Not knowing what else to do, Mithllon retrieved packages of dried fruit and a loaf of bread from the packs tied to Drastíll's saddle before settling himself near Ulfric, whose eyes followed his every movement. The elf tore the bread in two, offering one half to the boy in hopes of a response.
The Nord gazed at the bread as if it was poison. Downhearted, Mithllon retracted his arm. Then, without warning, the child snatched it out of his grip with astonishing speed and began to nibble on it, blue eyes still glued on the elf. Mithllon gawked at Ulfric, arm still hanging in the air. There was an awkward stillness in the air before the youth cautiously crawled onto his blanket, shoving the last of his meal in his mouth. He laid down with his back to Mithllon, and then was still.
For an hour, the Altmer sat staring at Ulfric, watching as the Nord's breathing became slow and rhythmic with the pace of slumber. The elf refueled the fire before stuffing his untouched meal into his bags. He then settled himself against to Drastíll, who nuzzled him softly.
How would he cope with such a child? The boy was absolutely terrified of magic, which did not place the Altmer as the best guardian. He was not even sure if the Nord would listen to him anymore, which would be a troubling ordeal. He still had three more days with the youth, along with the possibility of kidnappers in search for Ulfric lingering on his mind. Mithllon sighed as his eyes grew heavy. What had he allowed himself to get into?
