"Ulfric."
The whisper was soft and soothing, the tone as smooth as liquid. Slowly it pulled at the boy's consciousness out from the realms of sleep. But the Nord threw an anchor into the warm chasm of slumber as he pulled himself deeper into the warmth of his blankets. He was not yet ready to rise from his soft bed and pad through the cold stone halls of his home. Five more minutes.
The voice came again, calling out his name with the same silky way. He felt a massive hand encase his shoulder and shake it gently. Ulfric mumbled in his sleep, shifting away from the touch. He stretched out his hand to gain purchase of more sheets to wrap himself up in. His hand touched something prickly, and he immediately retracted it. Slowly he opened his sleepy eyes to find a wall of pointy green sticks near his cheek. He shifted himself to a sitting position to discover it to be a floor of crisp grass. He fingered his blanket, remembering it rougher than what it had been yesterday. And were they not a multitude of colors instead of a bleak beige?
"Good morning, little king."
The memories flooded back to him like a roaring ocean, as he recalled the men, the tree root, the Altmer, the horse...and the magic. He lurched at the sound of Mithllon's voice and pulled the blanket closer around him, eyes searching for the familiar golden-skinned elf. When he found him, his blue eyes narrowed as he sucked his breath in.
Mithllon was extinguishing the fire with dirt, his golden arms partially exposed as his thin grey sleeves were pulled back. His straight black hair flowed down his shoulders like a blackened river, and his emerald eyes where fixated on Ulfric, although some of its mirth had disappeared. His thin lips curled in a friendly smile once he saw the boy awake. He stood, and Ulfric was reminded as to how incredibly tall Altmer where. His daddy was very tall, but Mithllon dwarfed him in comparison. The Altmer dusted off his hands and pulled out a small package from his pocket. He stepped towards Ulfric.
The Nord retracted; he remembered last night and how Mithllon had broken his promise by using magic. His father was right: do not be so trusting towards elves. Ulfric wanted the elf to know this.
And it seemed Mithllon did. His smile wavered once he saw the boy's sudden movement, but he continued walking toward him in long strides. Kneeling down to Ulfric, he handed the youth the package. "Here is breakfast, little one."
Ulfric swallowed as he stared at the bag, then back to Mithllon. He did not want to reach out and grab it, although he was terribly hungry. Mithllon sighed as he placed the package on the ground next to him before turning away to tend to Drastíll. Ulfric looked at the horse, whose deep brown eyes bore into the child. Ulfric quickly looked away, reaching the curious package that Mithllon had officially deemed "breakfast". It seemed rather small, even to a seven-year-old Nord. He opened it to find squishy wrinkled blobs, smelling remarkably sweet. He regarded the blobs quizically, which did not hold the most appetizing appearance. He cast a quick glance at Mithllon to see if the Altmer was looking. The elf had his back turned to Ulfric, occupied with tightening the ropes on the bags tied to Drastíll's saddle.
He took a tiny bit into an orange blob. It was juicy and sweet, the flavors tickling the child's tongue. He chewed on it contently, swallowing it all too soon. Quickly he tossed another in his mouth, savoring the juices and taste as he twirled it around in his mouth with his tongue. It tasted better than any sweet he had been given at the Palace of Kings. He eagerly shoved his sticky fingers into the pack once more to fill his stomach with the delicious sweets.
In minutes, the package was empty, and Ulfric stared at the bottom, regretting the fact he did not eat each more slowly. Running his tongue over his teeth, the youth stared at Mithllon, who was watching him intently, The Nord had forgotten his fear of the elf and asked, "What was that?"
The elf's eyes glittered and he answered with a chuckle, "Dried elvish fruit. It is abundant in our markets and a local sweet to many children."
Ulfric licked his lips, tasting the last of the sweet food, before exclaiming, "It was yummy."
Mithllon smiled as he pulled the blanket off Ulfric, passing him the waterskin. As the boy swallowed down his meal with the help of water, Mithllon made several adjustments with his supplies before holding out his hand to Ulfric. "Come," he announced, "we must continue our journey if we wish to cross half of Eastmarch."
This time, Ulfric did not hesitate to take the elf's hand; the sweets he was given had lifted his spirits and slightly altered his perception of Mithllon. Drastíll shifted beneath the Nord's legs as Mithllon grabbed hold of the horse's reigns and beckoned him forward. The horse jumped at the command, and the group sped through the trees, the birds chirping at their departure.
Minutes later, when the sun had fully exposed itself from behind the mountains, Ulfric looked behind his shoulder to stare at the elf. "What is your home like?"
Still staring forward at their course, Mithllon smiled in memory and answered, "It is very sunny and warm most days. The sky is always clear and a fellow Altmer can always hear the roar of the sea. There are many birds that sing their songs in Summerset Isle, but their tunes and voices are different of those in Skyrim. Unlike your home, which is white and foggy many days, Summerset Isles remains green during every season. The most particualar memory I have is the smell of magic fires and lightning."
"Magic has a smell?"
"Oh yes. It smells much different from your wood-fueled fires. Firstly, we have no smoke, for our fire requires the energy of the caster to continue burning. It holds a fresher smell. Many Altmer mistresses mix incense with their flames to make their house smell of leaves or fruit."
"What does your mommy mix with your fire?"
Mithllon chuckled. "I do not live with my mother anymore, but she sported the scent of cinnamon with a dull red fire. My wife favors a more evergreen aroma along with a bright green. She said it-" He paused, making certain he said no more. His eyes lowered at the thought of his family. She said it reminds her of my sparkling green eyes.
"What do you do for work?" Mithllon was grateful for the child's enthusiastic river of questions to keep him occupied of the dull ache in the elf's chest.
"I am a fisherman. My brother and I own a boat, and we hold weekly trips to catch fish."
Ulfric wrinkled his nose, eyebrows crunched in puzzlement. "That is it?"
Mithllon rose his eyebrows in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"My daddy said that Altmer are all very strict and they make sure their homes are spotless and make sure Nords aren't living there and kick them out. He said they go to long, boring meetings and read books all the time."
Mithllon frowned. "Your father said that?"
"Well, he didn't say the meetings were long and boring, but he said all the rest."
Mithllon soured. The Thalmor were taking their very identity away, replacing it with strict, unnecessary rules and regulations and transforming the Altmer into snobbish, overconfident librarians. They were proud warriors, skilled with the centuries of knowledge and wisdom, and honest souls! Mithllon grinded his teeth together as he felt his stomach boil with hatred. He felt an overpowering sense to burn the entire forest down to expose the Altmer's fury.
"Mithllon?" But then his anger faded immediately at the soft, innocent voice of a wide, bright blue eyed Nord. He loosened the tension in his jaw and forced a smile.
"Ah, we are not all like that. We work, grow food, have families, just as you Nords do. We certainly posses a different approach on tasks with the assistance of magic, but we live with the same needs as Nords."
Ulfric stared at the passing wildlife with a curious expression set on his features. "You know," he began, holding a recognizable voice of unexpected wisdom, "magic does not seem as bad as Daddy said it was."
Mithllon cocked his head to the side and whispered, "Oh? Even at the hands of terrifying Mithllon?" He poked playfully at the boy's ribs, who shrieked and giggled, squirming madly. Drastíll snorted in annoyance when the youth's foot struck his neck.
Once Ulfric's laughter died down, he answered in complete, utter honesty: "If there was one elf who used magic, I'd trust you the most."
Mithllon gaped at the boy; never had he expected such words, especially by the lips of a Nord. His chest swelled with unexpected and conflicting emotions as again he was reminded of his family. His lips quivered as he smiled and said, "I am honored by your words."
And so the day went on with recollection of Elven homes and Nordic ways.
