Hi. So I decided to try to publish this thing. First of all, the rating is due to bad language, sexual themes and violence. Nothing too explicit, I've read coarser things on this site. But best to be safe.
To the story itself, I tried to reference as much of the official lore as I could. Elder Scrolls online is taken for official lore, so some things from there might make an appearance (for example enchanting via glyphs). Liberties were taken, though I believe not too experience breaking.
The game and lore belong to Bethesda (and Zenimax, since I used lore from ESO). OCs are mine.
English is not my native language, so please, forgive me if I made any mistakes. I tried to correct as many as I could. Otherwise, enjoy :)
XXX
Merethic Era, Solstheim
"Völund! Where are you? We need to have the cake prepared as soon as possible," a woman's voice echoed through the spacious kitchen.
A little boy ran out of a pantry, hands full of colourful flowers.
The tall woman with black bun put her hands on her hips. "What is that, Völund?"
"Flowers," he stretched his small hands towards her, "to make the cake pretty for the lords, mama."
She smiled tiredly and ruffled his hair. "You are a good boy, Völund. But the likes of us must do what the lords say, and nothing else. They did not say they wanted flowers."
Völund's smile disappeared. "Yes, mama." Then the boy ran back to the pantry and returned without the flowers.
"Good boy. Now, take the wine and glasses and let's go."
XXX
Völund was standing in the shadow of a massive stone column, one of many holding the weight of the roof over the dining hall. The boy held a beautifully decorated silver pitcher and tried not to look at the lords.
Most of them were warriors and guardians. Very loud lot. But at the head of the carved table, there were three men sitting there. Völund stole a look their way sometimes. Those men spoke in hushed tones, remained very regal even through the most greasy of meals and their movements were elegant.
All three of them were dressed in robes, and the one sitting between the other two wore a mask.
The high dragon priest of the temple.
"Boy! More wine!" one of the warlords brayed. Völund hurried to him. But he did notice that the masked priest shot a quick glance at the warlord.
As he was pouring the wine, the warlord turned quickly to answer some slur aimed at him. His huge elbow hit Völund and the boy fell down. He hit the floor, as did the pitcher. It dented and wine splashed all over the floor.
Everyone turned to the warlord and Völund.
"You insolent brat!" the warlord screamed and jumped to his feet. "You dare to damage your lord's property?!"
The warlord kicked Völund. Then he reached to his belt for a sharp dagger.
"Enough!" a sharp voice followed by a faint echo rang through the dining hall. All heads turned.
The masked priest stood up and looked at the warlord. "The servant belongs to me. How dare you damage my property?"
"But...lord Miraak…"
"The servant will be punished for his mistake. So will you, warlord Hrafni," Miraak pointed at him. "For overstepping your authority."
Guards, standing along the walls of the hall, moved forward. One of them grabbed Völund's hair and dragged him up. The boy tried to hold back his tears. His gaze found his mother. She shot him a quick terrified and saddened glance, but then kept her gaze lowered to the ground, as protocol required.
Warlord Hrafni left quietly with three of the guards. Miraak nodded with satisfaction, then waved his hand as he sat back into his seat covered in furs. The guard shoved Völund out of the hall.
XXX
He lied curled in his bedroll and cried silently. They whipped him, and hard. His mother tried to help him with some herbal poultice, but the hag who gave it to her probably didn't know anything about magical properties of herbs.
Völund kept sobbing long into the night. Why were they so cruel? It wasn't his fault….
XXX
"Watch closely, dear boy. What I'm going to teach you today is a mastercraft, a secret passed down in our family for a long time."
"What is it, nana?" For the first time since the whipping Völund perked up with interest.
The older woman, head cook in lord's kitchen, smiled warmly at her grandson. "How to make the finest atmoran chocolate. Come, come, we'll start at the beginning, with snow-wind beans."
XXX
Warlord Hrafni didn't forget about him. He haunted Völund for three years, making his life as hard as he could without lord Miraak noticing.
One day, when Völund, now nine years old, was working on a field, the warlord decided to show up.
Other workers cleared out as they knew what would happen.
Völund tightened his grip on his sickle.
Over the three past years, anger had been building up inside him. Now it started to bubble on the surface. Gods be damned, he won't let Hrafni do this anymore.
Hrafni stopped in front of Völund. "So what are you waiting for, filth? On your knees!"
"No."
"No? You think you have the right to speak to me?! Or deny me?!"
Völund growled and raised his sickle.
"See the brat?" Hrafni laughed. His guards snickered. "He thinks he can take me on with a sickle!"
The warlord reached for his weapon, a huge claymore. Völund darted forward. He slipped past Hrafni and cut him with the sickle. Hrafni grunted and looked down. Tiny stream of blood was travelling across his ribs, unprotected by the ceremonial armor he was wearing.
"You're dead," he growled. Völund raised his sickle again and bared his teeth.
He didn't manage to slip by this time. Hrafni caught him. Then he wriggled the sickle out of Völund's hand and threw it away. He lifted the boy and grinned as Völund tried to kick him.
"What are you going to do now, slave? Huh?"
Völund gritted his teeth. He felt like bursting. The anger, now freely flowing from his heart into his whole being, was unbearable. He decided to let it go. He opened his mouth and shrieked.
As he opened his mouth, he also felt something loosen from inside him. His hands, fingers clawing at Hrafni, suddenly lit with lightning. Small, but numerous bolts streamed onto the warlord. Hrafni screamed and threw Völund away.
The boy hit his back hard against a shed, but he scrawled back to his feet quickly. He bared his teeth again and raised his hand. Lightning still danced along his limbs and fingers.
Hrafni drew his claymore.
Völund roared like an angry bear and threw the lightning at the warlord. Small bolts joined into a stream of lightning. The crackling stream hit Hrafni's heart.
Völund kept screaming and the lightning kept streaming.
It didn't take long for Hrafni's corpse to turn into a scorched lump.
Hrafni's guards finally snapped out of horrified surprise. They drew their bows and aimed at Völund.
"Enough!" a voice followed by an echo barked. All heads turned. Everyone fell to their knees and bowed down. Everyone except Völund.
Völund looked up defiantly. Lord Miraak slowly levitated towards him, followed by a group of acolytes, walking on the ground. His blue robe embroidered with gold flapped around him majestically.
Lord Miraak stopped right in front of Völund. He didn't spare a single glance to Hrafni's corpse. Instead, he reached for Völund's chin and lifted it a bit. Völund could see Miraak's eyes through the slits in his mask.
He saw old eyes. Old, powerful eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, but still impressive and piercingly cold.
"Why did you kill him? Don't you know what happens to a servant who raises their hand against a warrior?"
"He wronged me," Völund answered solemnly.
"So you took matters into your hands."
Völund pursed his lips. "Yes."
"You have power, boy. Who are your parents?"
"My mother was a kitchen maid. I never knew my father."
"Was?"
"She was sent to the mines. The shaft she was working in collapsed."
"I see." Miraak released his grip on Völund and straightened up. "Leoferic!"
"Yes, lord?" a young acolyte stepped forward.
"Take him to the temple. Bathe him, clothe him and then take him to the Hall of Stories." Miraak looked back at Völund. "We'll see if he can be made into an acolyte."
XXX
4E 185, The Great Forest, county Chorrol
"Auntie! Auntie Flavia!" a girl, about six years old and nicely plumb, rushed down the stairs and ran into open arms of an elegant woman dressed in fine red mage robes.
"Bernadette, dear! Come here," Flavia greeted the girl and embraced her. Then she took a step back to take a look at Bernadette.
The girl turned her peculiar gold eyes up to the woman and beamed. "I have finished the book about stars! Did you bring another one for me?"
"Such thirst for knowledge!" Flavia said proudly and ruffled Bernadette's hair. It was long, fine and dark brown, but few shades lighter than her eyes.
"Bernadette!" a boy's voice came from the other side of the entry hall. "It is not polite to beg your guests for gifts."
"Who never asks never gets to find out anything," Bernadette turned suddenly cold eyes to her oldest brother. "Don't tell me what to do, Tobias!"
The tall thin boy of fourteen, golden-eyed, pale and dressed in black, frowned even more. His hair was startlingly white. "Dear sister, you are a daughter of a noble house. You must act like it."
"Tobias," Flavia smiled warmly, "it's alright. I'm not offended and Bernadette knows that she won't ever offend me by asking for knowledge. She wouldn't act like this around other people, would she?" the magewoman turned to the girl and winked at her.
Tobias scoffed and walked away. Flavia and Bernadette could hear him calling out to a servant to announce Flavia's arrival.
Once he was out of sight, Flavia reached into her satchel and pulled a book out. Bernadette's eyes lit with interest and excitement. She remained silent in her excitement, however, as not to alert Tobias.
XXX
"Now, Flavia," the master of the house, lord Oswen, wiped his mouth, "you came unannounced and obviously in a hurry. Will you finally tell us what you need?"
Flavia looked at her brother and his wife. Lady Moriwa, a beautiful breton woman with gentle features, was smiling, her long white hair in disarray, flowers, leaves and twigs sticking out of it. Her strikingly gold eyes were, as was usual during past few years, lost somewhere where only she could thread. Lord Oswen, a lesser noble and the Huntmaster for the count of Chorrol, sturdy man with thick brown hair and dark brown eyes, looked at Flavia sternly over his hooked nose.
The magewoman sighed and set down the fork she had been playing with.
"I heard you had plans to engage Bernadette. That true?"
"Yes. What of it?"
"So young?"
Lord Oswen frowned even more. "What are you on about? She's perfectly suited for an engagement. The wedding will have to wait, for sure, but that is the common practice in noble families. Have you forgotten?"
Flavia narrowed her eyes. "No. And I never will."
"So, what? Have you brought engagement gifts? The deal is in the making, but not yet finished."
"No. I have come for Bernadette. I want her to come with me."
"What!?" lord Oswen almost growled. Flavia sighed. Her brother reminded her of the beasts he hunted more and more with each passing year. "Why?"
"I need an assistant."
"She's no mage! You can't possibly have any use for her. In fact, nobody has any use for her!" lord Oswen barked. "She's wild, her head is lost in the books you always bring, even though I forbade it, and she never gets any proper education into her little head! She's ripe for taming, and only a husband can do that. No," he sat back in his chair. "Why won't you take Francois instead? He's gifted. All my boys are."
"Proper education? Like what - sewing?" Flavia looked at Oswen coldly from under her lashes. "Yes, Francois is gifted, but that is not what I'm looking for. I need someone interested in what I'm doing. Someone with bright mind and thirst for knowledge. Wild ingenuity is also a good trait. Leave the boy to his books and numbers, he will be a good steward of the estate one day."
Flavia entwined her elegant fingers. "Bernadette, on the other hand, will never be of use to you particularly. Yes, you might strike some good match for her, but I highly doubt it, brother. Mind you, our family is noble, but at the lesser end of nobility. No one of your preferred choosing will ever agree to marry Bernadette. Let her come with me and utilise her own talents."
"What do you want her for?" lord Oswen narrowed his dark eyes at his sister.
"I want her to catalogue my findings. I also want her to make potions for me, so I could use the time I'd spend doing alchemy doing research instead. And I want her to look over anything that gets into my hands with me, because I might overlook something important. In the meantime, I would provide thorough education for her. The Synod have the vast libraries on almost every topic, as you surely know, and I have access."
"That all sounds very pretty, but how does it help me?"
Flavia pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "How big should her dowry be?"
Lord Oswen told her the sum.
"I'll give you double that amount."
XXX
"I'm going to miss you, mama," Bernadette wrapped her small arms around the lithe breton woman.
Lady Moriwa smiled at her daughter and hugged her back. Her eyes were present here and now.
"Do not worry, my little cub. I will send a jackdaw to watch over you," she whispered into Bernadette's ear. "If you ever miss me, just speak to the bird and I will hear it. I might even be present enough to speak back," she winked at the girl. Then her smile twitched into a mischievous grin. "Do look for the dragon, dear. To miss him would be awfully unfortunate."
Bernadette looked at her mother, confused. But lady Moriwa was clear of mind and serious about what she had said.
She kissed the girl's forehead and took off her necklace, made of wooden beads and carved bones. It also had a wooden carving of a bear, making it look like some kind of totem. She put it around Bernadette's neck and caressed her hair. "Here, a gift to remember me by. It will protect you, my little cub." Then she looked into her eyes and put both hands on her small shoulders. "Don't forget the Old one. He protects us."
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