Gone From Home - Chapter 5: Parents

• Posted by Sildriel September 26, 2014 - 815 views

  "He wasn't found anywhere near Whiterun, my jarl. And we have searched a large portion of Winterhold without a trace."

          Haren grunted in acknowledgement, his dark eyes scanning over the yellowing map he crouched over, a massive calloused hand stroking his thick blonde beard. He rumbled deeply as he stooped closer over the map, his enormous arms falling to rest on either side of the table. He sniffed once and glanced to the beautiful woman standing next to him. Ania stood with her face as hard as stone, her chocolate hair twisted in a tight bun and a single strand curled elegantly over her flawless cheek. Her cold blue eyes studied the map as well, her back as straight as a wooden board and her fingers interlaced over the crimson dress fit to her form. She briefly nodded to the soldier standing before them, whose lips were slightly agape as he stared in awe at the two imposing figures.

          The jarl straightened and glanced at the soldier, who stood at attention almost immediately, swallowing hard to hide his nervousness. "Continue searching in Winterhold and begin to scan the Eastmarch," growled the jarl, whose voice was as deep as a bear, and equally imposing. The soldier hastened to nod his head, his helmet sliding over his eyes. "Increase the search parties by two hounds; and give them a stronger scent. I want the search to be completed by dawn. Go!" His final command was a short bark that caused the soldier to jolt before bowing slightly and hastened his retreat. Haren glared at the soldier's back as the boy scurried away, his hands gripping onto the table tightly. Once the loud boom of the door shutting echoed throughout the hall, the jarl gave a heavy sigh, running his hands over his face. He leaned onto the table wearily, and Ania rested a hand onto his shoulder, gripping it tightly for comfort.

          "Five days," he half-grumbled, half-whispered through his palms. "Five days since Ulfric went missing. No ransom-no note. Not even a cursed clue." Haren looked defeated, his blonde hair ragged and his eyes dark and red-rimmed due to lack of sleep.

          Ania's throat tightened and she swallowed slowly, wrapping her arms around Haren's neck. "We'll find him, my love," she whispered through a broken voice. She rapidly blinked her eyes, willing away the tears forming with incredible speed, and hugged her husband tighter. Haren placed his hand onto her arm, brow wrinkling.

          "It's the damnable Altmer, I swear it," he snarled, his face growing red with anger. "Who else could gain from taking my boy?"

          "Haren, we cannot blame th-"

          "Do you know anyone else?" he roared, tearing from his wife's grip as he paced around the room, flexing his fists. "Who else could do it? Just take my boy, right from his own home? The work of sorcerers, I tell you! And what other sorcerers do you know that could possibly be our enemies? The Bretons care nothing of Nords and their homeland. But the elves! Oh, the elves...how else do they amuse themselves? They enjoy watching us writhe in their grasp, shriek as they take our kin from us! Bah, within several decades, they'll have taken our freedom from us, and yet have no immediate control over Skyrim!

          I swear it!" Haren pointed an angry finger toward Ania, who sighed in defeat as she listened to his rampage. "I swear, once I find my boy, I'll skin the Altmer alive and then burn them! If I even find one Altmer within a mile from Ulfric, I'll wring their neck with my bare hands!"

  ---

          "I'm sure my daddy would like you," mumbled Ulfric from the front of the saddle, staring at the freshly-fallen snow piled onto the road before them, fingering his cast thoughtfully.

          Mithllon tugged his hood over his head, shivering slightly as he adjusted his cloak and whispered a quick warmth spell. He sighed in appreciation as his limbs suddenly felt warm and comfortable, his ears no longer as stiff as ice. Drastíll snorted loudly, tossing his mane to shake off the snow fallen from tree branches. Mithllon patted his friend and repeated the spell. The elven horse whinnied happily as the snow melted off his pelt and dripped off onto the white ground below them. Ulfric glanced behind him to stare at the Altmer with bright blue eyes, and his remark suddenly entered Mithllon's consciousness.

          He blinked and rose his thin eyebrows. "Oh?"

          "Daddy doesn't like elves very much, but he'd like you. You're nice."

          A smile tugged at the Altmer's lips as he stared at the young Nord. "Am I just nice, little king? Is that all I need to sway your father's view?"

          Ulfric was silent for a moment, thinking carefully. Then he said, "And you're strong. You killed a bear."

          Mithllon nodded slowly. "Yes, I did. But will my strength and kindness immediately seize your father's trust? Is he that simple?"

          "What do you mean?"

          "Would it not bother your father for me to be elven? Does he not hold a rather low regard for my kind?"

          Ulfric stared at Mithllon for a long moment, saying nothing. He then frowned and stared at the ground. "Yes," he answered reluctantly. Suddenly, his blue eyes shimmered with determination and he looked back up. "But he'd like you because you brought me home."

          The Altmer looked on ahead, at the frozen tundra before them, musing on the child's naivety. He pondered how to explain such a complicated subject to Ulfric, the child of simplicity. His lips twisted into a troubled frown and he chose his words carefully. "Adults are not that simple, little king. Despite what I might do, the Nords could never see me as a trustworthy figure. There are...bonds, you see. Bonds of hatred long since formed by our ancestors. There is, and might always be, and unspoken barrier between elves and humans. We are...too different from each other, and our views are opposite from each other. Do you understand?"

          Ulfric's bright blue eyes studied the elf for several moments before the boy shook his head. Mithllon sighed in defeat as the Nord's uncomprehending face twisted in confusion.

          "So, my daddy won't like you."

          "Yes."

          "How do you know?"

          "Because I know."

          Unsatisfied, Ulfric opened his mouth to argue, but a low grumbling sound interrupted him. The Nord stared down at his stomach, the sound echoing among the trees. Thankful for the interruption, Mithllon hummed thoughtfully. "It seems now is an ideal time to feast, young king." Ulfric was silent, and so the Altmer decided that the boy agreed with him. He tugged at Drastíll's reigns, and the horse halted obediently with a soft snort. Slipping off the saddle, Mithllon's boots crunched onto the snow below. He extended his arms to grab a hold of Ulfric, who hung like a rag doll as he was lifted from the saddle onto the white, cold ground. Mithllon led Drastíll and Ulfric to a fallen tree, on which Ulfric settled himself on as Mithllon rummaged through his supply bags. He frowned to himself as his hands did not touch any food until his fingers reached the very base of the pack. He needed to resupply soon, he mused to himself.

          The lunch was oddly silent, with each individual attending to their own thoughts. As Mithllon listened to the quiet chirps from the birds above and the rustle of the leaves after a gust of wind, his stomach fell as he was reminded of his sons and his wife. At this point of time, Ganllon and Coredalf were possibly scurrying around the bushes, searching for leaves and flowers to mash and mix together with some odd potion of theirs. Lorana would be cooking lunch for the children, grumbling to herself as she complained about the mess children were bound to make. The house would be relatively clean and smelling of evergreen, the blazing emerald fire humming in the air.

          Did they miss him, he wondered. Did they think about him with longing as he did them? Were they healthy? Had the Thalmor found them? Did he unintentionally place them in danger? What if the house was destroyed, what if his brother failed to supply them with fish every week? Was something wrong? Mithllon discarded his lunch for the third day in a row as he fretted over his family, with the full knowledge that his worries would be fruitless and only bring further strain on him. Sighing heavily, he stood.

          And suddenly he was in the air with a thunderous boom that lifted him from his feet. His vision was streaked in whites and grays, his hair whipping over his cheeks as he soared through the air for one short moment. A hardened, stiff force found his back and slammed into it, seizing the gasp from his lips as another force slammed into his head. He fell onto the snow, curled into a tight ball. His lungs had somehow disappeared, replacing them with boulders that his heart thundered against. His mouth opened and closed helplessly, his mind growing fuzzy and dim as his chest remained still.

          And then, miraculously, his lungs had returned and filled with one massive gulp of air. Mithllon coughed violently, his eyes fluttering and head spinning. The world had somehow tipped and fallen over. Was he underwater? There was no sound except for the high ringing in his ears, and his limbs moved with the pace of being beneath a river. One side of his face was growing numb and chilled. He twitched his fingers to feel something soft and incredibly cool touch his skin. He blinked again, willing his eyes to focus.

          There was a great ring of burnt grass among the snow, a grey sliver of smoke drifting from the ring as the blades burned a bright red. The scent drifted into Mithllon's nostrils, clearing his mind. His eyes finally focused to make out figures in dark cloaks clashing against the bright snow. Their faces were hidden by the shadow their hoods cast. They surrounded someone. Ulfric. His mouth was open in a scream, but Mithllon heard no sound-only a dull hum.

          Something boiled in his stomach, surging through his veins and sparking through his limbs. His mind immediately cleared as he stared at Ulfric, a single word roaring in his head like a dragon: danger.

          Slowly, the elf staggered to his feet, swaying dangerously before steadying himself. He felt energy thrum through him like a spark of lightning. He felt the sensation swim from his chest to his arm, leaping out from his pale palm. The air above it shimmered and suddenly it erupted into a churning ball of fire. The flames danced angrily over his hand, growing larger and more wild as Mithllon felt the anger burnt with more intensity within the refines of his stomach. He threw it, leaving behind a streak of white flames in its wake.

          The ball collided into the ground among a group of three. It exploded, sounding of a dull puff of air to Mithllon's ears. The three cloaked figures were incased in the ball of flames, their forms hidden within the angry inferno. Once it died with a gasp of smoke, the three fell lifelessly into the snow, painting it with black and red, their skin scorched and ruined.

          The others turned toward their dead companions and then to Mithllon, whose fingers were crackling with the mauve streaks of lighting, sparking from hand to hand. The Altmer felt the rage surge freely through his body, feeding the streaks of magicka sparking through him. He casted the lightning, its body shimmering as it streaked through the air. The lightning snapped at one figure, his body tensing and curling once the spell struck his body. His limbs were still shuddering even as he collapsed onto the ground and his life was extinguished. Mithllon's spell then leaped to the next victim standing several feet away, the sparks licking at his form.

          But something leaped from his gloved hand, forming a transparent sphere around him. The lighting struck the surface of the transparent sphere before crackling into a dying light and shimmering out of existence. Mithllon bared his teeth and felt his veins twitch and gleam once his spell died, and he could smell the recognizable scent of bitter magic in the air. He was battling wizards-very skilled wizards.

          Mithllon took a deep breath and commanded the magicka surging through his body to his hands. The energy jumped from his palm and formed into cold vapor, the air around it turning to ice and falling to the ground. He flicked his hand and a small piece of the vapor left it, streaming in the air and taking shape into a long, pointed shaft of ice. The hooded man shifted swiftly, and the ice spear streaked past him, shattering into pieces as it struck a nearby tree. Mithllon casted another spear and again the man dodged, the spear's edge scraping against his shoulder, tearing the fabric and skin. The man's companions began to move; two seized Ulfric, who opened his mouth and kicked out, ice blue eyes fixated onto Mithllon. Red ooze fell from Mithllon's ears and he knew he could not hear Ulfric screaming. This only infuriated the Altmer more.

          The other figures began to spread out, slowly encircling Mithllon. Mithllon cast another fireball toward a group of three, but they countered it with another ward. The ground vibrated beneath the soles of Mithllon's feet once the fireball struck the ward, and Mithllon heard a dull, distant thud. Eyes burning, a streak of lightning flew from Mithllon's fingertips seconds later, and the three hooded figures did not have enough time to recover. Their bodies arched once the spell touched them, sizzling and burning their insides. They collapsed onto the ground moments later, motionless. Mithllon attempted to cast a spell on the two figures struggling with Ulfric, but stopped himself. He could not risk missing and striking Ulfric down at such a long distance. He had to get closer.

          He dashed forward, flicking his hands toward the others surrounding him, the bodies of the ice spears shimmering and glistening as they streaked toward their target. His eyes and mind were focused solely onto those who gripped the shouting Ulfric, who desperately tried to scramble toward Mithllon. The Nord's captors turned their heads at the Altmer, and their free hands erupted with fire. Mithllon casted wards of his own, and the fire spells thudded into it, shaking the ground beneath Mithllon. Gritting his teeth, the Altmer attempted to move closer.

          His breath caught in his throat once the spark of lightning shone in the corner of his eye. With no time to dodge, he casted another ward, which collided into the spell immediately, pounding at his damaged ears. A shard of ice left Mithllon's arm and slid into the body of a hooded man, who tumbled onto the snow with a spray of crimson. Two more took his place and unleashed their own magicka onto Mithllon.

          The Altmer widened the ward, allowing himself room to cast more spells as they flew from his hands without pause. It became a battle of speed, and then a battle of numbers. Mithllon was skilled with his magic, but there came a time when a master wizard was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It was coming to that time. Sweat beaded down the elf's brow as he managed one quick glance at Ulfric; the boy was being moved farther from him, disappearing into the trees. Mithllon shouted in distress, and his concentration wavered.

          That had cost him the battle.

          His ward wavered and the churning balls of fire found an opening. It collided feet away from Mithllon, exploding with a massive force. He was thrown off his feet as he felt the flames lick at his face, singeing his skin. He hurtled across the snow, its chill touching his raw burns and causing his eyes to water as the pain intensified. He slid until he halted, groaning softly as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. Rolling from his back onto his belly, he raised himself up with his elbows.

          His heart fell to his stomach and his lungs turned to lead. Drastíll stood before the crowd of shrouded men, hooves raised and moving maddeningly as he tossed his head angrily. He struck a man and he was thrown off his feet. The hooded figures surrounded the horse, their hands poised. The spear came.

          Mithllon screamed. Drastíll fell. The shrouded mages disappeared into the night, and Ulfric with them.