"How is she?" Lord Yurl asked the maid, sweat dotting his face, and his hands shaking. The imperial man was sturdy, tall, with rich dark brown hair and brown eyes. His wife screamed from her chambers, the tiny Breton woman's pain sending shivers down his spine. She really was a tiny woman, how could she give birth?
"She had a son sir….but…" the maid looked to her hands, wringing them on her gown.
"What? Out with it!" he demanded angrily.
"There is another…."
"Twins?" he gasped. His wife had barely shown one child, let alone two. The maid nodded and looked at him with a sudden eagerness.
"The second one is coming out backwards, sire, they will both die if it does not come out soon."
"Lord Yurl!" the mid-wife, an older woman who had been recommended.
"What is it Arine? Is the baby…is my wife?" His eyes burned with tears.
"The baby lives-" she started.
"Praise Mara!" He cried, his hand to his beating chest. Arine shook her head sadly, causing his breath to catch.
"The lady Ursala is gone, sire, and….."
"And?" he rasped his mind a blank as the news processed. Two more maids came out from the chamber, tears in their eyes. One held a beautiful baby who was wailing healthily, dark hair already forming on its crown.
"A boy, sire," the maid handing the bundle said to the Lord, who took him from her gently. He looked to the other maid who looked frightened, and saw why. This baby was quiet, staring with unnatural grey-white eyes, and white wisps on its head.
"A girl…" Arine said calmly, taking her from the maid, who looks more than thrilled to pass her off.
"What in Ta-What is it?" Yurl asked the older woman.
"A healthy baby girl Yurl," Arine's eyes flashed. Yurl felt a boiling ager in his gut, and sadness as well. It was this….being that had killed his beautiful wife. "I know what you are thinking Yurl. And it is not right. This is your daughter, just as he is your son. You will raise them both, and treat them equally, as your wife would have wanted."
"I…need time. Please, arrange the funeral…and take them," Yurl handed his son to the maid and left the room, fighting back tears. Arina rocked the little baby in her arms as her eyes drooped closed. The Lady Ursala's final words, looking at the tiny bundle, had been a smile and one sentence, "She is as beautiful as the snows of Skyrim….she reminds me of Winterhold…Snow…"
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"Snow! We have lessons now!" A very handsome young man called out the window, dark hair pressed back with water. He laughed, the cold air taking his breath and causing his skin to crawl. He watched as his sister sat up from the snow, a large smile on her face. The only reason he had been able to see her was because of the blue clothes she wore. Her white skin and hair was almost undecipherable from the snow on the ground.
"Byron, it's so beautiful out today!" she ran to the front door and was allowed in by the guards. She met him at the stairs, shedding her cloak into the arms of a maid who rushed to her side to brush the snow from her hair. Bryon swiped her up into a hug.
"Your skin is like ice!" he shivered. Snow laughed brightly and touched her pale cheeks. There was no hint of cold in her face.
"Is father up?" Snow asked, she was a little worried. Her father hadn't been in the best health as of late. A sickness had swept through Bruma in the fall, taking many lives. Byron nodded, but did speak. Truth was, his father was very ill and was refusing to see Snow. Until their nurse, Arine, had passed a few years ago, Snow had been raised in Skyrim, Falkreath the home of Arine. For her entire life she was moved back and forth, hidden from most of society. Now that she had no choice but to ne in Bruma, in his house, Lord Yurl had avoided her. The few times he had seen her, he had feigned adoration and love- and maybe she fell for it. Byron had a hard time reading his sisters thoughts. She was always cheerful and unaware of the way people viewed her. Honestly, he barely knew her. He loved his sister, and thought that her appearance and uncanny ability with magic was a gift of the Divines, as Arine had always told them.
Snow herself was very much an optimist, and a dreamer. When Arine had died she had feared for her own safety. She was very much aware of her father contempt for her, Arine had never tried to hide it, but Snow didn't blame her father. She didn't want her father to die, but mostly she wanted him to send her back to Skyrim-where she really felt she belonged. Nord's were lovely people with big hearts and strong morals, and they glorified her ability to control ice. Not much was left for her in Falkreath, Arine's husband was old and being taken care of by his house-keeper, Snow already had the money her nurse had left her. She really did love her brother, but they had very little in common. He would inherit all of their father's things, and be put in charge of her well-being if she didn't get away.
"Why don't we go say hello?" Byron offered her his arm. Snow took it and they walked up the hall staircase to the east wing, where their fathers chambers were. Gurlg stood outside of the chamber doors, an orc who had come to work for their father before he had become ill.
"Let me ask him if he is up to it," he said in his accent, without asking them what they wanted. He didn't look Snow in the eyes, he came from suspicious stock, and she was a very abnormal girl. Snow felt her grip on Byron's arm tighten. She was going to do it; she was going to ask him to send her to Winterhold, to the mage's college. Byron looked at her, unsure of why she was suddenly nervous. Gurlg came out and held the door ajar for them, ushering them in. Bryon nudged her in ahead of him and they entered. The room was dark, the curtains closed, and a couple of candles lit on a desk, where their grey haired father stooped over. He had once been a broad shouldered, handsome man, similar to the way Bryon looked. Their father stood straight and stared at the portrait above him on the wall. The face was of a pale, blue eyes Breton with black hair braided, she wore the most brilliant armor, a figure of a stone dragon behind her, the one that stood in the Imperial City. At first Snow mistook the person for her mother, as it looked quite a bit like her, but realized that it was too old fashioned, and it was actually a portrait of her great-great-great grandmother, the Champion of Cyrodiil.
"Father?" Byron strode over to the window and opened the curtains. Their father turned and cringed at the light. He saw snow and his face paled.
"Ursala!" he reached toward her, but his eyes adjusted to the light, and he saw that her hair was white and her eyes were too pale. He cringed and retracted his hands.
"It's me, father. Snow," she replied, forcing a smile, even if her heart was in pain. He nodded, remembering himself, but broke out into a terrible cough that had Byron to his side in a second. Snow made no effort to help, but instead went back over to the curtain and closed it. She picked up some water and a cup from the nightstand and handed over to her father. He took it and drank deeply.
"I am fine now, sit children," he put the cup down and sat on his bed, his back on his pillows. "What is it you need?"
"Can't we just be here to see how our father is?" Byron asked with a chuckle.
"I remember being young once…" he replied.
"We may be skipping our lessons," Snow smiled. Her father's smile faltered slightly. Snow couldn't keep the disappointment off her face, and he saw, as did her brother who took her hand.
"If there really isn't anything you need, I would like to sleep," their father closed his eyes.
"Father!" Snow shook her brother's hand off and reached for the old ones before her. Her father's eyes flew open and he jerked away from her, as if her touch was acid. Snow bit back tears and looked away. "I have a request…if I may."
"What?" he asked, his voice neither hinting at regret or anger. Snow took a shallow breath and went for it.
"I wish to go to Skyrim, to Winterhold so I can become a mage at the college." There was silence, and then laughing that was abrupt and horrible sounding. Her eyes flew to her father who was practically doubled over.
"Father? What are you-," Byron's face was shocked.
"You want to leave? Why would I let you leave?" their fathers eyes were filled with cruelty.
"I don't….why are you saying that?" Snow demanded her blood on fire. She was a calm person, but found herself suddenly filled with the desire to be passionate.
"You are a monster, the only reason you were allowed to leave this house when you were younger was because of Arine, now that she is gone I have no intention of letting anyone lay eyes on you," their father's voice was so harsh and cold. Snow caught a movement out of the corner of her eyes and only had a moment to grab her brother's wrists before he hit his father. Snow glowered at the old man, seeing him for the first time. He had never really tried to be kind to her, but she had always pretended that he loved her and was just busy.
"I see, than I will obey you," Snow kept her voice even and she pulled Byron with her. Their father continued to chuckle to himself, long after they have left his chambers.
"Why? Why was he acting like that?" Byron demanded, not of Snow, but of no one.
"Look at me brother, have you seen anyone like me before?" Snow demanded gently. Byron frowned, confused.
"You look like a very pretty woman, if that's what you mean. Father must be going mad because of the illness, he would never be so cruel to his daughter," Byron shook his head furiously.
"You know he hasn't…ever really loved me. No, he would keep me locked up instead of let the one thing he truly hates free. I need to leave, come with me," Snow looked around and saw one guard standing in the front hall at the bottom of the stairs, and then one of the serving men dusting a vase a few feet away. Snow grabbed a large cloak off of the banister and shoved it in her brother's hand. She didn't need one, so as he put it on they walked out of the building and into the garden, the freezing snow that was exhilarating against her skin. They ran out aways from the estate, to a grove of pines where you could just see the walls of Bruma.
"Are you really going to leave sister?" Byron asked, rubbing his chin to warm it up. His eyes were on her, as the wind whipped her white locks around her head, the paleness of her eyes shining, and the strength in them surprising.
"Yes. I will take the money I have from Arine, and I will take a horse through the wilderness and sneak into Falkreath. Then, I will make my way to Winterhold and join the college," she sounded determined. Byron had no desire to stop her, as he knew that he couldn't. He didn't want her to be trapped in the home at Bruma, and he didn't want to lose what little bond they had. He grabbed her icy hand and squeezed it,
"You can take my horse, Nightwind, and some more money. Good luck sister, when father is gone I will send a letter to the college and you can come back whenever you want."
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She had been so close. The night after the confrontation with her father, she had put on leather pants, a tunic, winter boots, a thick black fur cloak, and a short sword. She had packed a bag of supplied and money, and left as the household slept. Nightwind was as dark as night and easily allowed her to sneak far away from the estate. It took them almost two days to reach the border. There was a distinct difference in terrain in Cyrodiil and Skyrim. During the day she slept, curled up with her cloak in the nook of a bush or tree, and at night she rode, eager with every step.
She had made the fatal mistake of trying to reach Falkreath before nightfall. She pushed Nightwind hard, but had heard clashing of steel and stopped. She left Nightwind behind with her bag and snuck through the brush to see what was happening. There were men in blue uniforms fighting men in red uniforms, and it looked as if the men in blue were losing. Finally one man wearing heavy red armor had a fur cloaked man in blue on his knees. The man on his knees appeared to be wealthy, by his clothes. All men in blue surrendered after that.
"General Tulius, sir, do you want us to cover his mouth?" one of the men in red asked the man who stood over the wealthy rebel.
"Unless you want to be shouted over the top of the forest, I suggest you do just that," he replied. Snow watched as all of the men in blue were tied up and led onto wagons with people already aboard. She slowly backed up, hoping to get away, except one moment she was trying to avoid making noise, and the next she was blinking into the sunlight with a blinding headache.
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"You…you're awake?" a man, Nord from the looks of him, sat across from her, wearing the blue uniform she had seen before.
"Hmmmm.."Snow shook her head in hopes to clear it. The man continued to talk, he sounded nervous, there were two more there. One was wearing rags, while the other wore rumpled, but very nice, clothing. His mouth was covered.
"—that's the Jarl of Windhelm!" the man from before scolded the man in the rags, a horse thief. Snow had heard of the Jarl, a man who had been particularly displeased with the result of the war.
"If that's the Jarl-oh no! Where are they taking us?" The thief was really upset.
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I know what's going on," Snow finally spoke.
"We are the Stormcloaks…well some of us," the man looked at the thief sharply. Snow vaguely remembered hearing about them while she lived in Falkreath, she had been mostly sheltered from political news. The Stormcloaks opposed the Empire, or the Imperials to be specific, within Skyrim. They were mostly a bunch of racists, but in a way Snow understood. The Empire had been making a lot of mistakes in the last hundred years. They were trying their best, and Skyrim needed them as much as they hated them. "-and you?" he looked at her. Snow looked at him, and the thief, and even the Jarl. They were all seated quite a distance away from her, their body language screamed that they were uncomfortable, and they stared.
"I grew up in Falkreath, but was brought to Bruma in Cyrodiil against my will. I ran away and was caught trying to sneak past the little…fight you had in the forest," she replied, not mentioning that she was technically more from Cyrodiil then Skyrim.
"Are you a Breton?" the thief asked. Snow thought about how to answer that more a moment. Finally she nodded; it was safer for them to think that. She wasn't sure how Stormcloaks would feel about an Imperial/Breton mutt amongst them.
"A mage then? Is that why you look like you could melt into the snow?" the Stormcloak soldier barked out a laugh. Snow couldn't help but chuckle a little. The carts they were on came to the walls a a city where Imperial Soldiers waited.
"It's the end of the line," the Stormcloak soldier said evenly. Snow didn't want to admit to herself that she knew exactly what he was talking about.