Neophytes and Children
Part One
Tyro was a Dunmer in Skyrim, and while that was not a totally unheard of phenomenon, a Dunmer that failed in the mystical arts was an instance that raised an eyebrow and a few questions.
He had lived in Skyrim all of his life, working the Windhelm stables and docks alongside his brother Laaros, who had actually been born in Morrowind and remembered its exotic landscape before their family moved to the harsh countryside of Skyrim. Tyro had never understood why his family had stopped at Windhelm rather than continuing on to Solitude or some place more accepting of foreigners.
The people of Eastmarch were a hard sort, as Nords usually were. They cleaved tightly to the winter wasteland of their ancestors. They drank heavy ales deep into the frigid nights, singing slurred praises of their heroic gods and champions and their battle efforts. And after the tide of the Aldmeri Dominion crashed upon the reeling empire, shaking its foundations throughout all the provinces, the Nords held fast to their well-beaten traditions. They would not watch their homeland crawl to the grip of oppressors like the lesser races would. They were brave and bold, and the ones who listened to Ulfric's chants with rapt ears became suspicious of outsiders, distrusting those especially of pointy ears and elongated faces. It did not matter that the elves of ebony skin and sunfire eyes had been their own allies in the Great War. They were still different, too different from the Nords, too similar to their newly-sworn enemies. And so Tyro and his family became oft denigrated in the slums of Windhelm.
There was a time when Tyro had a special eye for Niranye, an Altmer weapons vendor in the marketplace. Although she was a high elf, she did not receive the extent of the bitter treatment as Tyro and Laaros had.
And then Ulfric Stormcloak murdered High King Torygg. In an unbelievable feat, the jarl managed to escape Legion capture. He did not, however, escape its repercussions. Skyrim was thrown in a tumult that threatened civil war. The Nords of Eastmarch welcomed the challenge as any other, their eyes skewering even more at Tyro and Laaros.
Tyro finished an arduous day's work shoveling frozen feces at the stables. The job afforded him a unique insight to the city's visitors, especially one shifty-eyed merchant who stuck out to him. Tyro remembered him well.
For he saw him once again when he retired to the shack he shared with his brother.
Laaros and the merchant were locked in an intense whisper game of exchange. Tyro didn't catch any particular word that passed between them, but he noted the merchant's sun-kissed olive skin as he left. An Imperial.
"Who was that?"
Laaros managed a broad smile that didn't quite fit his face. "A new friend." He explained nothing else.
Tyro pretended to fall asleep before Laaros, and once he heard the soft snores of his brother, he searched his coat pockets. And there he found it. A receipt for Legion armor.
Tyro didn't wait until morning to confront him. "You're supplying the Legion?" he demanded of his brother's sleeping form.
Laaros awoke with a start, took a moment to assess the scroll in Tyro's shaking fist, and immediately delved into his obviously practiced defense. "You know Jarl Ulfric was wrong for murdering Torygg."
"It doesn't matter what I think is right. We live in Ulfric's walls."
"And all the more reason we should stand up to his tyranny. We've been treated even worse since the civil war he started. He's done nothing to protect us. We have to make a stand."
Tyro was shaking. He understood and even agreed with Laaros's argument. But he knew Laaros would never see the folly of his actions and how he had recklessly endangered them. "You should have at least told me. I live here too. I have a right to know if you're making these deals."
Laaros sighed and it was a sound of relief that Tyro wouldn't push the argument further, for now at least. "I am sorry, little brother. I did not want to worry or implicate you."
Tyro shoved the scroll back into his brother's coat. "It doesn't matter what I know. We both live here. I'm still implicated."
Tyro returned from the stables the next day to a ransacked house. The chairs were splintered and upturned. The beds were rifled of their straw that now littered the floor in careless heaps. Laaros was nowhere to be found. Tyro could only stare at the wreck in stunned silence. It was so evident what had happened, but he did not have the heart to accept it.
A short knock at the door interrupted his shock. His heart surged, leaping through his chest in terror. He was not safe there, in his own home, anymore.
But when he turned, it was only Niranye His relief was short lived.
"I'm so glad I found you first. You have to leave. They arrested Laaros. They're going to hang him for treason. You have to leave Windhelm now."
Tyro didn't argue as she dragged him down alleys and sidestreets. He numbly accepted her help, and soon, he found himself safely outside Windhelm's walls. The fires in the distant farmhouses twinkled mutely in the darkening dusk. A wind bit right through him, and he huddled deeper into his thin coat.
"Goodbye, Tyro," Niranye whispered.
He blinked. "Where am I supposed to go? Laaros was all that I had." He began to panic.
Seeing his hysteria, she briefly touched his cheek. "Go to Winterhold. You've always wanted to be a mage."
"But I'm a terrible mage," he admitted. "You know that."
"That's why you go to the College! To learn and get better. Here—" She handed him a small purse of coins. "It's not much, I know. But it'll buy you some food, a night at an inn. The College of Winterhold will take care of you, feed you, bed you, once you get there."
Tyro held the coins carefully in his hands, studying it closely. Niranye had said it wasn't much, but it was so much more than he had earned as a stable boy.
But he had ogled the gold too long. When he looked up, Niranye was gone. As he pushed through heavy snow drifts further north, Tyro could only hate himself for missing the opportunity to say goodbye to his love. For running away when his brother had needed him the most. For being a coward. That's all that he was. Fearful for his own life. Faithless to his own blood.
-Strigi