The night was cold and dark, clouds hovering beneath the stars and expelling their load of snow onto Skyrim below. The wind howled gently, brushing against the trees and rustling the leaves, painted in orange by the fireplace's glow. The crackling of wood devoured by the flames echoed into the night, and the warmth the fire provided drifted into the tents resting in the blankets of snow. A soft, rhythmic sigh of air continuously escaped from the tent, along with the shifting of material and occasional mumble. The silhouette inside the tent flickered with the movement of flames, the small lump rising and falling. As the light from the fire place touched the other tent, it exposed only an empty shell with a blanket discarded onto the floor.
Mithllon sat crouched on a rock, red-rimmed eyes staring unblinkingly at the fireplace sputtering in front of him. His long slender hands remained curled around a long, gnarled stick as long as himself, the snow falling onto his cloaked shoulders in great heaps. His golden skin had turned a wan pale color, and his green eyes were dull and dim without his usual mirth. He looked sick-or at least unhealthy-as he remained as stiff as a statue, the orange glow of the fire casting a ghastly look about him.
Drastíll quietly nudged his master with his velvety nose, dark eyes coated in concern as the Altmer remained unresponsive. He neighed softly, and the elf blinked, a slow and almost painful movement. He glanced at Drastíll and scratched his jaw reflexively, his strokes instinctive. The Elven horse nudged Mithllon with more force, and huffed from his nostrils. Mithllon was using an ancient Altmer technique of cutting off any emotion from the brain with the use of magic and willpower, resulting in a dead-looking, indifferent elf with lifeless eyes and almost response-less soul. It was a defense system many High Elves knew, and all used at one point, usually when they were placed under high stress and still were required for a task. Drastíll had known his master long enough to see the strain placed on him. He wished to identify the strain.
Drastíll caught Mithllon's coat in between his teeth and tugged roughly, jostling the Altmer. Mithllon blinked again, his eyes focusing onto his horse. He stared quizzically at Drastíll, who finally released the clothing and rested his nose onto Mithllon's forehead. He exhaled slowly over the elf, his dark eyes boring into Mithllon's emerald orbs. Before the elven horse could say anything, a loud shift of clothing caught Mithllon's attention. They both stared in the direction of the sound to find Ulfric scrambling out from the tent, his blonde hair tangled and knotted and his ice blue eyes wide.
"Mithllon?" He whispered in a meek tone, voice wavering. Mithllon's thin eyebrows rose to his hairline once the little boy hopped over to the elf and collapsed onto his chest. His small hands curled around Mithllon's cloak, clutching onto it as he buried his face into the warmth of the elf's robes. The dullness in the Altmer's eyes instantly transformed into surprise and puzzlement, his slender hands releasing the stick he was holding and so to waver over the boy's form uncertainly. Then the sobbing began again.
Drastíll tentatively nuzzled Ulfric's neck as Mithllon embraced the Nord, silently stroking his filthy hair as Ulfric's shoulders shook violently with each forceful sob. Comforting words of elvish fell from the Altmer's lips and Mithllon pulled Ulfric in tighter as the boy's weeping gradually lessened into short sniffles.
"I miss my daddy and mommy," he mumbled from within the folds of Mithllon's cloak. He remained unmoving as his arms were still locked around Mithllon's frame, and his head buried into his tunic. Mithllon frowned and continued to stroke Ulfric's hair as the little boy whispered, "I am scared."
Mithllon shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, hugging the boy tighter. "You're safe now, little king. The bear is dead and far away from here." Ulfric remained unresponsive as he sniffled in Mithllon's chest, arms quivering slightly. The Altmer sighed softly and opened his eyes to stare at the crackling fire before them. Something emerged deep from within his green eyes, an ache Drastíll had not seen in the elf. A small smile tugged at Mithllon's lips and he leaned closer to Ulfric's ear, whispering, "You remind me of my sons. Bright and brave, they create chaos about them with the energy to rival a churning river."
Ulfric's face-red, wet, and puffy-eyed-emerged from Mithllon's cloak to stare at the elf in curiosity. The little Nord seemed to love stories, and sensed Mithllon was about to tell one. "What are their names?"
Mithllon's smile grew wider, and the ache in his eyes intensified. "Ganllon and Coredalf. They live with their mother in Summerset Isles, with a small cottage near a wide cliff and the ocean alive and beating beneath it. The air smells of the open sea and its salt, and the sun beams against the cottage in such a way it seems to glow. You can hear the seagulls cry into the wide blue sky and the wind brush against the trees, rustling the leaves and causing the birds to chirp their protests. And if you listen closely, you can hear the mischievous laughter of a pair of elven twins.
"They are fascinated by the concept of creating their own crafts. They experiment, clashing two odd ingredients into one. Never have they been disappointed by the result, no matter how destructive or disturbing the result is. Their mother and I had to keep a close eye on what they were holding, for it could bring total devastation to the house and its valuable objects. Unfortunately, we underestimated the craftiness of the twins, which led to our own impending doom."
Drastíll watched in wonder as the young Nord's eyes were drained of their weariness and fear, replaced by curiosity and awe as he latched onto Mithllon's every word with wide eyes. The Altmer seemed to enjoy himself and yet looked as if he had been tortured for years, his eyes ever so dark and unhappy. And yet his lips were set in a wide grin as they spoke of his children.
"They somehow had managed to obtain fire salt and a certain sap from the trees growing around the cottage. They very well knew it was flammable, which seemed only to persuade them to merge the two objects together. They had rushed to their room with such swiftness to cause suspicion for us, and so we cautiously entered the room. But we were far too late.
"Just as we had creaked open the door, Coredalf and Ganllon were already sprinkling the salts into the sap. In a fleeting moment of panic, my wife had snatched the twins while a sliver of frost sparked from my fingertips. But alas, I was too slow and the sap burst into flame, catching onto the desk and setting it aflame. It had taken me several moments to extinguish the desk, but the fire had done its damage and the wood was burnt. It had taken me another week to purchase another desk, and by then the twins had managed to burn the sheets off their bed." Mithllon ran a hand along his hair, smiling sadly. "They are a force to be reckoned with."
Glancing down, the Altmer had discovered the Nord's head back on his chest, his eyes closed and his breath deep and rhythmic. The smile slowly faded from his lips, but the sadness remained. He glanced back at Drastíll, who stood silently beside him, nuzzling Ulfric with his soft, velvety nose. When his master spoke again, it was soft and spoken in Elvish: "It's been a month, my friend. A month since my eyes left their sorrowful forms. What if...if I do not remain swift, the Thalmor might discover them. If anything happens to them-"
Drastíll neighed softly, compelling Mithllon to stare into the horse's eyes. The horse answered back with firmness, "They will be safe." And as Mithllon settled himself onto the ground, with Ulfric still curled in his arms, the unspoken sentence echoed in both of their minds:
Altmer were never safe.
