Disclaimer: I only own a copy of Skyrim.

I always had a feeling that this wasn't my real family, that this hadn't truly been the way I've lived my life. But I knew better than to argue. What fact did I have other than a feeling to prove myself?

To be honest, my memories of life prior to my seventh year of life are blank, or just blend in confusing blurs. My earliest memory that is clear enough for me to speak of was being very ill in bed, my favorite nursemaid Neesha hovering over me with cool cloths on my head and fresh potions in hand as I wheezed and coughed throughout the night.

According to Neesha, I had always grown up under her, my other nursemaid, Brelda, and Neesha's husband, Cyrus in the stone city of Markarth, but that I had been born in Windhelm. My name is Mathies, born to a beautiful Nord mother who died upon my birth. My father was Jarl Ulfric, who sent me to live with my nursemaids for my protection due to the Imperials wanting his, and those he held dear's, blood on their hands. Neesha and Cyrus were like a mother and father to me, while Brelda was similar to a grouchy aunt that I would hide from when she came over.

I hated Brelda, and that dreadful Dunmer woman hated me equally. I could say she even feared me some. She spoke often to Neesha in hushed tones when they thought I was asleep about how my soul was dark, that I was an odd child. That I must be a child of Sithis, that there was a dark spirit possessing me. I never remembered what actions I did to make them believe this, but apparently it was enough to make the Redguard couple worry.

My entire life, whenever I got angry, I needed to shout. This isn't odd, for everybody needs to just scream every now and then. But I never seemed to shout like normal people. No, no no. When I screamed like I desired to, the earth seemed to shake some and objects would shatter and fly about me. The first time I did it, Brelda rushed in and smacked me, telling me that I was never to do that again. When I questioned why, she smacked me again, and the conversation ended.

This was not the only oddity.

Neesha and Brelda told me that I was a Nord like my parents, but I didn't feel nor look like a Nord. My Nord playmates stood much taller than me, even as I grew. I suffered pneumonia from the cold while the true Nords were in fine health.

My hair was a dark copper, but Neesha and Brelda insisted I become blond. Whenever my hair grew, Neesha insisted on shampooing my hair with a potion so that it appeared blond. I had asked several times the reasoning behind this, but Neesha's sheepish answer was that I looked cuter as a blond. I disagreed. I happened to like the small example of my true hair color I saw before Neesha covered it with her potion. But my opinion didn't matter. A blond I became.

Cyrus often took me hunting with him. Although he skilled me in the blade and bow, I took pleasure in a hunting tactic that he found quite strange. I loved to slip behind my kill and commit their murder with one good slit of the throat. A master of sneak I quickly became. I could sneak up on bears and with one good slash of my Skyforge steel, I could kill him with one blow to the neck. Cyrus only took joy in this due to how intact I would leave the fur, making it easy to skin and even easier for him to sell. The steel was another thing that always peaked my interest. I never quite understood how I had the weapon, despite never remembering or being told of a trip to Whiterun, where said steel was made.

It was engraved too.

Kill well and often.

The engraving didn't disturb me like it did Brelda, but instead made me curious. What led the engraver to inscribe such a thing? It made sense, giving that it was a dagger. But I couldn't help but feel like it meant something more. A code I needed to decipher that may be connected to my mixed feelings concerning my true life.

My father often sent me a new blade or an enchanted bow, but I always found myself using that Skyforge steel. Along with these gifts, he sent letters to both Neesha and I. To me he sent letters telling me that I need to follow Neesha's rules and Brelda's orders, that he loved me and some generally things that was going on. His letters to Neesha told her what he wanted me to learn, some rules she wanted to start reinforcing, and in return she would write to him about my health, what I have learned, how much I have grown in height and strength and the troubles she was having with me. But she rarely had troubles worthy of noting to him. I was a good child.

I was also expected to send letters back, telling a father I barely knew and never remembered meeting that I loved him as well, how I was doing and sharing my experiences with him.

Shortly after I celebrated my eighteenth year, I sent my father a letter requesting his permission for me to make the journey to Whiterun so that I may join the Companions. I was now considered a man by many. Not just in age, but Neesha believed that I had the maturity of one and Cyrus swore to my having the strength of a brave warrior. A month later, he returned my message. He wrote about his internal conflict on the matter, but ultimately decided that it would be good for me to join such an honorable group that fought and killed for good reason. He gave his blessings, but I must be ready to go to my home with him in Windhelm when I reached my twentieth year.

With permission granted, I kissed my favorite nursemaid goodbye, saluted my fatherly trainer and nodded respectfully towards the dreadful Dunmer before I mounted a horse and set off on my lonesome to Whiterun.

But on the trail, just shortly before I reached Rorkistead where I planned to stay for the night, I met a strangely familiar young girl standing next to a Redguard. Beside them was a wagon, a small coffin in the back and the front right wheel in complete pieces next to it. I believe one of the best decisions I ever made was pulling over and asking how I could help them.