"How old are you, boy? Six?"

"No, sir, I'm nine."

Colonel Tullius sighed as he leaned back in his chair. How did the time get away from him so? Maybe it was his own fault for having his son raised by a nanny in Bruma instead of the Imperial City where Tullius worked with the Legion, but it was so hard to look at the spitting image of his wife who had died in childbirth. Even the flaming red hair was the same vibrant color as hers.

"Are you eating enough?" Tullius asked. The child was small, too small.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't have to call me 'sir' all the time, you know," Tullius urged. "I wouldn't mind if you called me 'dad' instead."

"Yes, si-…Father," the boy said simply. His amber eyes didn't flinch away from Tullius. They weren't challenging, just fearless.

"Come closer so I can get a better look at you," Tullius commanded.

The boy stepped forward until he was within arm's reach of the colonel. Tullius rested his hand on the boy's head before running it over him; similar to how he would with a horse he was thinking of purchasing.

Tullius' son was small, about a hand's breadth shorter than most boys his age. No doubt even shorter compared to the local Nord children. His skin was pale, but that looked like natural coloration instead of any sign of sickliness. He was thin, but from a naturally lean frame instead of lack of nourishment. His red hair fell to his shoulders, no doubt the envy of many. Tullius chuckled as he ran a hand through his own salt and pepper hair. At least the boy would never have to worry about going bald.

"It looks like Heddvi is taking well enough care of you," Tullius admitted after his examination. "How is your milk mother?"

"She is fine, Father," the boy said indifferently.

When Tullius' wife died, he had hired Heddvi to talk care of his infant son. The Nord had recently given birth to her own son, Brandrel, and was able to provide milk needed to keep his child alive. She had been willing to raise the boy while Tullius was busy with training Legionnaires and an arrangement for her to raise both boys worked out very well. Several years ago, there had been a family crisis and Heddvi had needed to move to Bruma to help out with her kin. Rather than try to find a new caretaker, Tullius had agreed to have Heddvi take him with her to Bruma.

Now with the Great War raging on, Tullius was glad he had sent them away. The Imperial City was well guarded, but an attack by the Thalmor was inevitable. If the capital were to fall, he did not want his boy there. Honestly, he shouldn't have taken time off from going over war strategies or training to visit, but it had been years since he had last seen the child. If, Divines forbid, he were to die, then Tullius wanted to have a current memory of his legacy.

Thankfully, it was winter and there were rarely any large scale skirmishes during the season. Tullius couldn't stay long, a few days at most, but it would give him time to try to learn a bit more of his child and maybe give the boy something to remember him by.

"I'll talk to Heddvi about some household concerns," Tullius said, not certain how to talk to this stranger who was his kin. The boy was quiet and still. Maybe too quiet and still. A boy his age should be loud and wild. "I think tomorrow we should go visit your mother's tomb. How does that sound?"

The boy nodded. Tullius sighed, not sure how to continue. Finally, he stood up and clapped the child on the shoulder. "Go and play for a while. We'll talk more during dinner."

Once again, the only response was a nod before the boy turned to leave. As he reached the door, Tullius called.

"I love you," the colonel said uncomfortably. It wasn't something he said often, not since his wife died really. Even nine years later, it hurt too much to think her name, much less say it. He cleared his throat. "I love you, Cicero."

Cicero stared at his father. Tullius felt like the boy was staring into his soul and found him lacking. "Thank you, Father," he said formally before leaving.

Cicero burst out of the house, glad to be away from the stranger who was supposed to be his father. Supposedly, Tullius had visited about three years ago, but Cicero didn't have any memory of the man, just as he didn't remember living in the Imperial City. Tullius spoke of visiting Cicero's mother, but as far as Cicero was concerned he didn't have a mother. Or a father really. Or any family at all.

What would it be like to have a real family? One that loved and cared for you because you were a part of them and no other reason?

Heddvi had raised him, but she had always been very clear that she was not a surrogate mother. She would feed, clean, and house him, but she was still a servant of his father and that was where her duties ended. Brandrel had been read stories at bedtime, given hugs and kisses when he did well, or comforted when he was hurt or sick. But not Cicero! No!

Cicero was her master's son and Brandrel was her own. Never should the line be blurred.

The boy was so deep in thought that he was not paying attention to where he was going and ran into someone. Bouncing back, Cicero looked up and had to refrain from groaning. Of all the people to run into, why did it have to be his milk brother?

Although Cicero and Brandrel were of similar age, Brandrel was much bigger. He was at least six inches taller and more than twenty pounds heavier. Despite being only a month older, Brandrel reveled in being the "big brother" of the two. Unfortunately, he thought that meant bullying Cicero every opportunity he got instead of watching out for him.

"Aw, look, it's the little milkdrinker," Brandrel taunted. There were three other boys with him, all Nords, who laughed crudely at his comment. Cicero didn't see what was so damn funny. "Looking for your mommy? Oh, that's right. You can't because she's dead."

"Maybe," Cicero admitted, "but at least my mother can say she never raised an idiot for a son."

"What did you say, you little turd?" Brandrel howled. He reared back and punched Cicero right in the face. The smaller Imperial went down, falling on his side. "I'd like to hear you say that again!"

Cicero stayed on his side, curled up defensively in case Brandrel decided to start kicking him. He didn't like his odds. Four bigger boys, one definitely hostile and the other three probably more than willing to beat the stuffing out of him. There was only one thing he could do.

Cicero started wailing as loud as he could as he shakily sat up. Blood ran down his chin from where he had intentionally bitten his lip. He didn't try to speak, instead he just sobbed as loudly as he could.

Brandrel looked around nervously to see if any adults had noticed the commotion. None had yet, but if Cicero continued his bawling, someone would stick their noses in to see what was going on. "Aw, the baby isn't worth our time. Let's go see if we can hunt some rabbits."

The four boys stomped off towards the front gate. Brandrel gave a half-hearted kick as he went by, which Cicero didn't both to dodge. It was better to let the bigger boy get in his last shot instead of resisting. After the others were out of sight, Cicero immediately stopped his weeping, spit the mouthful of blood to the side, and wiped his face clean.

"Idiots."

Cicero rolled up some snow in a handkerchief before pressing it against his face. It would help ensure that there wouldn't be too much swelling. Heddvi wouldn't care. She always attributed any bruises or scrapes on Cicero as "boys being boys", but Tullius would surely notice and ask questions. Cicero didn't really care about what Tullius thought. He didn't care what anyone thought, really. Let them all think that he was some sort of weak milkdrinker. Cicero knew that truth and that was all that really mattered.

However, if Tullius got involved, then he would surely question the household about what was going on. Heddvi would reprimand Brandrel who would take it out on the smaller Imperial once the colonel left for the capital. Tullius was only going to be around for a few days and Cicero had at least another seven years to live here before he could think about getting away.

Cicero was tired of being beaten up. Sometimes it was the other kids, but they only joined in after Brandrel started it. Brandrel who thrived on showing how much better he was compared to his milk brother. Brandrel who wanted to prove his worth with his fists. Brandrel who had a mother of his own who loved him but still felt a need to pick on Cicero every chance he got.

Brandrel. Always Brandrel.

Cicero ground his teeth in frustration. If only if there was some way to get back at the other boy. Even if Cicero was willing to fight Brandrel without any of his friends who would jump in and swing the odds against Cicero's favor, what good would it do? Even if Cicero won without having to resort to using a weapon, Brandrel would just wait until he had Cicero cornered and beat him even harder than ever. The worst time had been when he broke Cicero's arm, but the Nord had explained it away by saying Cicero had fallen out of a barn loft.

Cicero was smarter and faster, but Brandrel was bigger and stronger, and in situations like this Brandrel had the advantage. Until Cicero could think of some way to be sure he would never have to fear Brandrel's wrath again, he was stuck playing the weakling and making it not worth Brandrel's effort to pursue him.

Wine had loosened Tullius' tongue in an oddly funny way. Cicero watched his father sitting in the overstuffed chair in the study as the man reminisced about war stories. He found himself drawn into the different harrowing tales of narrowing outmaneuvering and outsmarting the enemy. Even before the war with the Thalmor, Cyrodiil kept a solid army. The Empire would always have enemies whether from the inside or out.

"Would you kindly refill my glass?" Tullius asked as he offered his drink to his son. When Cicero took the proffered cup, Tullius added, "Feel free to pour one for yourself as well."

Cicero looked askance at his father. He had never drunk anything alcoholic before. Given his father's newfound desire for chattiness, he wasn't sure he wanted to. What if he said something he would regret later?

"Not much, mind you," Tullius clarified, waving his hand. "Just half a cup. A man should drink with his son at least once and who knows when we'll see each other again."

Cicero followed the instructions as he refilled from the decanter. He had to admit that he liked how the red fluid flowed in the goblet.

"What is it like fighting the Thalmor?" Cicero asked carefully as he retook his seat.

"Tough," Tullius said. "They're clever foes; older than us, bigger, stronger and much better with magic. It's like part of them. Gives them a huge edge. Also, we've lost many of our allies, primarily Elsewyr and Valenwood, over the years to the Thalmor. The Empire is not the united force it once was. Keep this in mind, son, that a force of many united together will always defeat a singular force no matter how strong that singular being may be."

"How do you hope to win if they have every advantage?" Cicero asked. This sounded similar to his situation with Brandrel.

"You cheat, son," Tullius laughed. "As the old saying goes, 'all is fair in love and war,' and that means winning by any means necessary. If your opponent is faster, then you know the terrain better. If your opponent is stronger, you bring more guys. If your opponent is better equipped, you steal from him. Anything to get the job done. Never hold back, never hesitate, because if you do, then you're dead."

Brandrel was walking by himself to go to the store for his mom. It was one of the few times he didn't surround himself with his friends simply because he didn't want them to tease him for being a mama's boy. He was thinking of how later he wanted to start a snowball fight when something hard and sharp hit him in the back of the head.

"What in Oblivion?" he cursed as he looked down and saw a small rock lying on the snow. The Nord touched the back of his head and found blood on his fingers from the wound. Although he suspected the culprit must be long gone, Brandrel looked around to see who had attacked him.

"You?" Brandrel gasped when he spotted his milk brother standing on a nearby snow drift. Cicero grinned wickedly as he tossed another rock up and down before pitching it as hard as he could at the larger boy. Brandrel cried out in pain as the rock hit him hard in the shoulder. "You little milkdrinker! I'll murder you!"

Cicero merely laughed tauntingly before hopping off the snow drift and running towards the city gates. Brandrel howled in fury as he gave chase. The little bastard had always been faster, but he was determined to catch the redhead and beat him unconscious. No one hit him with rocks. No one!

The Imperial's father had been gone for several days, so there would be no one to interfere when Brandrel reminded the little brat who was boss around here. Obviously Cicero had gotten some ideas in his head from hearing his father's stories of being a mighty soldier. Well, maybe another broken bone like a finger or two would be a sufficient enough reminder.

Cicero managed to dart past the gates as some merchants were entering the city. Brandrel followed, barely dodging the carts. He smiled cruelly when he saw the redhead look over his shoulder with horror in his light amber eyes before adding some extra speed. Instead of staying on the main roads, Cicero leapt off the side of the bridge to the embankment below and scurried over the ice covered water trying to get to the other side. Clearly he thought if he made it to the forest, he would be safe.

Brandrel gave a mighty battle cry as he followed suit. He was making so much noise that he didn't hear the first cracks of ice breaking under his heavier weight. Bulky boots slammed against the ice as he followed the Imperial. Cicero had just reached the far side when Brandrel stepped on a thinner section that Cicero had easily run over seconds before.

A loud crack filled the air, although not loud enough to be heard at the city gates, as the ice gave way under Brandrel's superior weight. The Nord gave a small cry as he was sucked down into the freezing water below.

Cicero knew he should stay on the bank where it was safe, but he couldn't resist going back out on the water. He slid until he was on his stomach and crawled back out to where Brandrel fell. The water was still flowing under the thick layer of ice and snow, and it had pulled the other boy away from the hole he had created so when Brandrel floated back to the surface he was stuck under the ice.

Cicero smiled evilly as he watched the shrieking, terrified face of his milk brother pressed against the unforgiving ice. The bigger boy slammed his fists ineffectually against the surface. His wide eyes begged Cicero for help, but none was given. Cicero watched and waited as the trapped Nord bobbed against the surface before sinking down below.

They wouldn't find the body for three weeks.

"I cannot believe that he's really gone," Heddvi wept. The Nord woman had aged a decade in the last month.

Brandrel had always been a good boy. Sometime he had been distracted by playing with the other boys, but that was to be expected. Her boy, her good boy, had always been on time for dinner. He might have been dirty as a stray, but he had always been ready to eat a good stew.

When Brandrel had not immediately returned with the groceries, Heddvi had not been worried. She simply figured that he was out playing. If he returned with the needed food, all would be forgiven. If not, then she would simply tan his hide and send him to bed with no dinner. Well, not entirely. She almost always relented and would take him a little something to eat, like bread and cheese, if he had been punished. Boys needed their food.

But when Brandrel didn't show up at dinner time, Heddvi got worried. She had sent Cicero to go check Brandrel's friends' homes to see if he had gone to eat with any of them. Heddvi had waited at the house in case he returned. After that failed to produce her son, Heddvi called in the magistrates. They had searched the town, and when there were no results, they had searched the surrounding countryside.

Still no sign of her only child.

Days passed until it had become weeks. Then, when the weather turned nice, the ice melted and a fisherman had found her child. He had been almost impossible to recognize; the water and fish had not been kind to her poor, poor child. Only his amulet of Talos that Heddvi had given Brandrel when he was an infant identified the body.

Heddvi had not stopped screaming the rest of the day.

Even now, a whole week later, she moved like a draugr. She felt as alive as one too. Nothing held anything for her any more. Her child, her life, was gone. Heddvi moved through the motions, but that was all there was.

Now she was sitting in her room in her chair with a large mug of mead in her hand. She had taken to drinking heavily since they had buried Brandrel. It felt like the only way the hole in her chest wouldn't devour her entirely.

A knock on the door drew the Nord out of her thoughts. "Yes?" she said slowly, not sure if she was imagining the sound. There had been so many times she had thought she had seen Brandrel out of the corner of her eye, both before and after his body had been discovered.

"It's me," came Cicero's high voice. He popped his head into the room. "I thought I would check on you."

Heddvi smiled. Cicero and Brandrel had fought, but they had been close, almost like brothers. Heddvi felt a stab of guilt when she saw the smaller boy's forlorn face. He must have been heavily affected by the loss of Brandrel too, and she hadn't done anything to comfort the child.

"Come here, hon," she said as she patted the chair.

Cicero trotted over and climbed into her lap. He wrapped his thin arms around her arm and hugged her tight. Normally Heddvi never would have allowed him that sort of intimate gesture, but both of them needed the comfort. She choked back tears as she hugged Cicero back.

"You miss him too, don't you?" she whispered.

"Yes," Cicero admitted, tears running down his pale cheeks. "It's so quiet with my brother gone."

In the past Heddvi would have corrected Cicero with "milk brother," but she was so moved by his sincerity that she couldn't. The two of them sat that way for a few minutes quietly lost in their thoughts.

"Heddvi," Cicero said hesitantly, "I know I'm not your son, but with Brandrel gone…"

"Yes, dear heart?"

"Please don't get mad, but I thought that maybe I could pretend to be your son. So it wouldn't be so hard on you."

"You're so sweet!" Heddvi cried as she hugged the small boy close. "Yes, we'll be family for each other since we're pretty much the only ones left for each other."

"I'll take care of you forever and always," Cicero promised, "Mother." He smiled into the woman's hair.

Life was going to be so much better with Brandrel gone. You could solve so many of life's problems by killing someone.