"Grab your gear," an all too familiar voice snapped Onmund from his reading. His blue eyes flicked up and he froze in place when the stern glare from his father beat down on him.
"We're going hunting." He tossed a bow onto the rickety dining table, "Deer- they're out and about."
"Pa, I—" Onmund wanted to protest, but held his tongue when his father grabbed the spell tome in his hands and threw it into the fire, startling his other family members in the common room.
"Magic," his father spat, "All magic ever did for us Nords was bring us trouble, boy. A strong sword arm is what's going to win our livelihood, not casting lights and starting fires."
Onmund furrowed his brows and looked away. The anger in his heart burned, but he knew better than to argue back. His father was a formidable man— stood as tall as any proud Nord, built like a wall, with arms that could carry a deer in each one. He even wore braids, as per tradition.
"But 'pa, I'm no good with a sword."
"Then get better with the bow, your aim's off. Practice will make your sight better."
"Pa, please," Onmund tried, but the older man wouldn't listen, "I know you don't trust magic, but I can cont—"
"There you go again. Magic this, magic that," his father's voice raised with each word, "You sound like a Breton. Or worse, an elf." He could see his old man physically shudder at the last word.
"A farmer, Onmund, or a hunter. Something that could earn yourself an honest, decent living. All those mages are nothing but cheats and liars and scholars who can't even protect themselves."
"But 'Pa—"
"I'm raising Nordic sons, not Aldmeri whelps." Not another word was spoken, his father stormed angrily out of the house. The door slammed behind the large man and the whole house practically shook.
After a frozen, awkward moment in time, his grandmother spoke up, "Onmund," her voice was gentle, warm, a stark contrast to his father's cold, stern voice, "Onmund dearest," she beckoned.
Bless the poor old dear, if it wasn't for her kindness, he would've been halfway to Winterhold by now.
"Your father's going to be back from that trip, you'd best help your brothers and sisters gather the firewood."
Something to distract himself, he thought. Onmund didn't mind. He'd much rather help out around the house, watch over his younger siblings or help his grandmother run errands, but hunting? Farming? He'd sooner conjure up an atronach than start hunting deer.
He grabbed the axe and headed out towards the back, all the while muttering under his breath, "A farmer. A hunter." Contempt dripped from every word.
When split wood met the wet grass, when darkness began to set and the children in his small little farming village ran back inside, he couldn't help but keep his gaze towards the northeast.
Winterhold.
He'd earn his livelihood yet, just perhaps not as a farmer.
Perhaps something far more sophisticated.