"Mithllon!"
Ulfric screamed out, his voice echoing through the trees as the tears fell freely down his cheeks. His captors held his arms firmly as he struggled, slowly forming bruises from where the hooded men's hands gripped so hard. He sobbed as the forest moved by him, taking him farther away from Mithllon. Ulfric's heart thundered against his chest like a raging storm, his blue eyes the steady rains. His blood roared in his ears, and his limbs felt cold and weak. His face was hot and red, and his voice was hoarse after his screaming tirade.
The men dragged him as if he was a rag doll, and Ulfric felt no different from one. He did not know where he was going, or what the men would do to him. And he was terrified of not knowing. His lips quivered and he breathed shaky breaths. He kept his eyes fixated onto the trees-the same trees that Ulfric had sat around before the ambush, willing Mithllon to emerge from the shrinking mass of trees, hands blazing with fire.
But he didn't. With each passing moment, the trees grew smaller and the booms of battle softened. Ulfric sniffed, fresh tears cooling his heated cheeks and stinging his eyes. He no longer battled against the men, and hung his head hopelessly, his tears falling into the snow.
Mithllon scrambled toward Drastíll, his bones aching and head throbbing. His eyes were wild and panicked, fixated onto his friend's still form. His heart beat against his chest like an angered Nord with a war hammer, and the world around him hummed dully. Bright golden light emerged from his hands just as he collapsed next to Drastíll, arms trembling as he struggled to guide the magicka with his terrified mind.
The light melted the ice spear lodged into the horse's side, which was a deep crimson color. The wound slowly sealed as the light churned inside the bloody flesh, forming a bare patch of white skin. Mithllon stared down at Drastíll, waiting, praying. He watched the horse's chest, waiting for the slightest movement-the slightest shift of the white stomach. He pressed a hand onto the horse's side, feeling for a beat of the heart. He found none.
"No...no!" Mithllon's hands trembled violently as he crouched over Drastíll, shaking his head in disbelief. "My friend!" he shouted in elvish, voice cracking and eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Awake, Drastíll! You cannot fall; you cannot leave! I will not say any words of parting; I cannot! Open your eyes. Breathe, my friend!"
Drastíll remained still, Mithllon's words unheeded. His blood painted his white pelt and the snow below him in a bright crimson. His blackened hooves were spread out and limp, and his eyelids were shut. His saddle and every supply attached to it had fallen into the snow, its strap broken by the ice spear's blade.
Mithllon felt his shoulders tremble and his jaw quivered. Stubbornly, he held the tears back as he rested his forehead on Drastíll's warm torso, sliding his fingers along the horse's smooth neck. The sorrow overwhelmed his form, turning his limbs to lead and shattering his heart. His head felt heavy and his mind was fuzzy, disorientated.
Drastíll was gone. It was a concept Mithllon had never considered before-something he never intended to consider. He had known the horse when he was a foal, and Mithllon was only a boy-centuries ago. They knew each other's darkest secret. They were interconnected to each other, like a tree to its branch. There was something missing now, like an Elf without his magicka, or a Nord without his axe.
Mithllon's throat felt raw and raspy as his fingers curled over Mithllon's pelt, and his mind wavered towards Ulfric. Ulfric. The name was a dull ring to his aching ears, a sharp pounding at the back of his head. Mithllon blinked for a moment, thinking about the little blonde Nord, before his eyelashes fluttered against the flank of Drastíll. His hand moved lower and he felt the wet, sticky liquid touch his palm. The emotions overwhelmed him with the power of a hurricane. Mithllon's fingers found themselves in his hair, and they clenched desperately and painfully onto the hair as the elf shut his jaw with renewed vigor. His mind swam violently, dangerously on the edge of shattering into thousands of pieces.
And then everything...ceased. There was no fading sensation of churning emotions, or even a pause to gather his emotions. They were no longer there; the sorrow, the agony, the guilt had disappeared without a trace. His mind felt clear and steady, and his chest no longer ached. The feelings he possessed were no longer there. Instead, he felt something inside at the back of his head; it was not an intruding touch, but a blockage of some sort, vibrating with the churning of magicka.
Mithllon blinked and slowly stood over the horse. His thin eyebrows furrowed as he felt warm liquid slide out from his ears and down his neck. Tentatively, his fingers touched his ear and casted a healing spell. A loud pop resounded in his ears, and the howling of the Skyrim wind immediately rushed in. He rolled his shoulders, bones cracking as a dull pain emerged within his back. He ignored it, deciding to allow the bruise to heal without the aid of magic. He allowed himself one last glance at Drastíll and awaited the pang of remorse to erupt into his chest. No such thing happened.
With a rather cold indifference, Mithllon scanned the battlefield. Hooded figures laid in the snow, silent and unmoving as their blood slowly seeped into the ice. The ground was scorched and smelled of fresh blood and soot. Mithllon wrinkled his nose in displeasure and stepped lightly toward the bodies, hands slowly reaching for the hood. His long slender fingers gripped the fabric and pulled.
Mithllon's eyebrows rose as he saw a flash of a face-a swift outline of a nose and lips-before the face turned gray and crumbled, caving in and falling like ash. Mithllon retracted as he watched the figure's form disappear, the fabric drifting down as the body it held fell with a cloud of grey and black. He touched the ash and felt the grate of it, and could smell the staleness of it. His lips curling into a frown, he searched the next body. Again, the body collapsed into a pile of ash, leaving the cloak behind. As he turned to stare at the other figures, he watched as their clothes sank deeper into the snow, the ash spilling from their sleeves and trousers and whisked away by the chilling breeze of the Skyrim winter.
He would have blinked in surprise, but the emotion did not come to him. There was only a short spark of curiosity and the gears in his brain moved to understand what these creatures were. But the will to do so diminished like a sliver of breath in the cold winter air as Mithllon no longer found the purpose of it. Sighing deeply, his eyes followed the trail left in the snow, disappearing into the trees. He stood still for several moments, staring at the trail that led to Ulfric's captors. He had to hurry if he wished to save the young boy, for he could be in true peril. And yet...
He did not care. His emotions were cut off-utterly gone and no longer his drive. Mithllon did not resemble the Nord to his own children anymore, and he did not feel the fatherly urge to save a child. His mind was driven by logic, and logic said that Ulfric would be dead before he reached him. There was no manner of urgency in his movements as he began to gather his belongings in a small pile. There was not even another thought of Ulfric that passed the Altmer's mind.
And suddenly, just as he stood, he felt something warm press onto his back. He tensed once he heard nostrils flare and expel their air, the warmth enveloping his back. The items slipped from his arms and Mithllon turned.
There stood Drastíll, his deep, dark eyes staring at Mithllon as his tail swished back and forth with a carefree attitude-as if to say, "Bah, me? Dead? Nonsense. I am a proud elven horse and will remain as such." He stretched out his neck to touch Mithllon with his soft nose, and something broke inside the Altmer's head. He could feel again; the emotions came flooding in at once, like a river unleashed when a dam was broken. Joy came first, and the elf wrapped his arms around Drastíll's neck, a deep sigh of relief escaping his lips and his chest swelling with the emotion. Drastíll neighed softly, nuzzling Mithllon's hair in pleasure. The happiness filled his heart and lightened it, bringing a wide smile to his lips. He shared his friend's warmth for several moments, running his hands through his horse's pelt, feeling the heartbeat and relishing the thrum of it.
Almost immediately after came guilt, and the smile fell from his face. Mithllon had done it again; he had cut off his emotions via magic. If he remained in that state, he would have left Ulfric to his death without any remorse. He would have been a monster-no different than the Thalmor. That brought anger to him. It emerged as a small flame deep inside his chest, flickering slightly. And then the flame grew larger as Mithllon thought about the Thalmor, his eyes fixated on the tracks Ulfric's captors had left behind. It acted as fuel for the scorching anger, filling his chest and seizing his limbs. It flickered inside his emerald eyes and brought a snarl to his lips.
Ignoring his supplies, he leaped onto the saddle-less Drastíll, who sensed his master's rage and tossed his head with emphasized anger. Mithllon's long fingers found the elven horse's reigns and whipped them fiercely. Drastíll rose to his hind legs, throwing his front hooves mightily, before leaping off, hooves thundering into the ground. The boom of their weight drummed through the air, along with the unspoken-but not unheard-threat whisking through the trees:
Here comes the Altmer full of rage,
prepared to soak the ground in his enemies' blood.
