Night fell upon Skyrim like a gentle blanket. Luna moths and torchbugs danced over tall grass, the moons dazzled on the surface of waters, and homes of every size glowed with warmth. But such a serene end to the day betrayed the sorrow in one home in Kynesgrove.

Dinner had been sitting on the table for an hour, by Elsie's count, and yet no one had touched their food. The stew had long gone cold, and the mead had turned warm. She should have kept her mouth shut, she thought to herself, shouldn't have told them what happened. She began to wring her hair anxiously, trying to find anything to keep her hands busy while her thoughts ran wild.

She ran into the house that afternoon, and told her parents of what she heard. Bad news after bad news, Oma had thought to send a letter by courier: Svana had been captured by the Thalmor, persecuted under the crime of Talos worship.

Her parents wasted no time in rushing down to the small family room in the basement, taking the shrine to Talos and hiding it carefully. They feared the Thalmor's long-reaching grasp, even when their hands shook with grief at the loss of their daughter.

Elsie tried to swallow a spoonful of stew, but no matter how she tried to will herself to think otherwise, it tasted like ash in her sorrow. She wanted to say something, anything, break the silence that seemed to only worsen their grief.

Her father drew a labored breath. Elsie and her mother looked at him as he said, "I'm sorry."

Normally, Elsie could see how the conversation would play out. Her father would apologize for how he treated Onmund, then her mother would come in and say that he didn't mean to sound so angry…

...Yet her mother stayed silent, her gaze averted back down to nothing in particular.

"I did this," he whispered, leaning his head into his hands as he began to sob, "I did this…"

Elsie looked to her mother, watching fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, and began dabbing away.

"Twenty-odd years of raising and feeding them both," her father blubbered in Nordic, "And now they're gone because of me."

But her mother still kept quiet, save for the gentle sniffles and sobs.

"Well? Say something!" Her father begged.

Finally, too quiet, her mother said, "What's there to say, Lothgar?"

Her father's shame was palpable, coming off him like sickly vapors. He wanted to be punished, wanted to be berated. Her father, stubborn and stoic for his whole life, now sat at the dinner table eagerly awaiting for someone to finally put him down.

But her mother's kindness had always been her strength, "Our oldest children are gone," she wrapped an arm around Elsie, and pulled her close, "And they were both adults, they had made their decisions. The best we can do now is take care of Elsie."

Her father couldn't hear it, "It wasn't something that he decided on a whim, it took him months, years, to decide this…" he sobbed, "I couldn't… couldn't begin to tell you both, how terrified I was of letting him go."

"Pa-" Elsie tried.

"Maybe he's smarter than the rest of us, he was always good with letters and reading," he admitted, "I could never give that to him, what kind of father can't even teach his son to read?"

"It's not your fault-" Elsie had to try.

"Now Svana's gone," the admission of saying it aloud made it seem more real. As though it had been made fact.

But Svana was gone for sure, wasn't she? Worship of Talos was forbidden, and those Imperials turned a blind eye whenever the Thalmor snatched up folks in the middle of the night. No one heard from them again.

Elsie held on where she could. As her parents resigned to sit in their sadness at the dinner table, she kept the stew and washed the dishes. She put everything away for the night, closed the curtains and locked the door.

She held on still as she bathed, dragging a brush through her golden hair, even as she changed for the night and crawled under the covers. Without her siblings, the bed felt so much bigger. The night was so much quieter. Closing her eyes, she could have sworn she felt Svana beside her, fixing her socks or sharpening a blade. She pictured Onmund in his bed, reading something- sometimes a book about lovers, or magic, or even the other provinces of Tamriel. The room, devoid of their presence, seemed so empty.

The silence was deafening, and in the safety of her bed, she began to weep.

The first night at Winterhold brought nightmares to Onmund. Fitful sleeps and haunting memories, the never-ending stream of screams and shouts ravaged his mind like some terrible curse.

He remembered plates thrown at the wall, books tossed into the fire, hope shattered between father and son. The pleading face of his mother and baby sister, punctuated with the feeling of a strong fist meeting his soft cheeks.

Onmund woke up in a jolt, groping at his belongings around him as though to ground him back to reality. He felt the stack of books on the night table beside him- Brelyna had put them there, his favorite titles arranged neatly. Right next to it, a small totem of a cat with words of luck written in Ta'agra. A study token favored by Khajiiti scholars.

He rolled to his back, trying to steady his breathing, the beating of his heart. He closed his eyes, tried to lull himself back to sleep with the crackling of magic fire and the gentle shuffling of students burning the midnight oil.

But it seemed too loud, too grating. His pillow was now too soft, blankets too warm. There was no way he could get rest now, not with the memories running through his mind, still so fresh.

No use in trying to force it. He swung his legs over the mattress and made his way to the basin of cold water in the corner of his room.

Brelyna had done him the kindness of sparing him a mirror to hang on the wall- this one was still so shiny and new. The one he had back home had been dulled with age, with small hairline cracks creeping from the edge of a poorly made frame.

He reached up to touch the bruise on his face, now fading, but when he brushed his fingers over it, he still felt a familiar, dull ache. It wouldn't have been the first time Svana took her anger and fear out on him this way, but this was the first time she had done so with this much malice. The first time she tightened her first and made good on her threat of punching him.

Water pooled into his cupped hands and he began to wash his face. The cold hitting his skin woke him up out of any desire to sleep- if he was going to be up, he might as well make himself useful. He shrugged the hooded robes over his sleeping clothes and pulled his worn boots over his feet, and made his way out of his room.

The hallways were quiet, save for the too-loud snoring emanating out of J'zargo's room. Brelyna looked to be asleep too, judging from the darkness creeping under the crack of her door.

In the center of the hall, pools of magicka flowed upwards in a lazy, smokey spiral. At first glance, it looked like water, but when Onmund inspected it, he had seen flecks of rainbow hues reflecting off the surface, glittering in every color he could name. It looked like liquid starlight, sparkling and beautiful.

His curiosity stopped dead where it stood when he read the plaque over the pools: 'Do not drink.'

He pushed himself off the surface, so much for that. But his eyes caught the way the tower seemed to go on forever as he looked up. Mages sleeping peacefully in their quarters, or studying still, judging by the warm, glowing lights from doors that were left open. If he listened, he could hear the gentle scratching of a quill on parchment, the delighted, gentle chuckle of a mage who had made a breakthrough on their research.

A sigh escaping his lips, he looked around for something to do, something to tire his mind out and finally rest. Tomorrow would be the start of lessons, he wouldn't want to show up late and exhausted on the first day. Not after everything he did to get there.

He wandered the hallways for a spell, passing by mages who fell asleep in reading alcoves overlooking the sea. He watched as a tea set floated from a room, down to the kitchen area, then back up to its owner's desk.

Then he heard it: singing, accompanied by the melodic strumming of a lute.

Music? So late at night? It sounded so distant, like it was playing over the sea. Who could be up at this time playing music and singing? The mages in this tower seemed preoccupied with their lessons and theses, but music of all things?

As a mage, he was nothing if not curious, and so, pulling his robes tighter together, he took the staircase up to the observation walls. The higher he climbed the clearer the music was, until he pushed through the door and felt the cold kiss of a winter's night.

By the time the faces of Masser and Secunda shone upon the trio, the dragon that burned Helgen was long gone. But despite the waking nightmare that had been Helgen, they were still very much alive.

Svana, Ralof and Hadvar had stayed silent as they fumbled through the dark, the road signs indistinguishable from the inky darkness of the night.

After a few more moments of trying to discern the lettering to no avail, Svana spoke up. "We should look for shelter."

Hadvar hummed in agreement. Ralof kept quiet.

She couldn't blame them.

"Do we know where we are?" She asked.

Hadvar spoke, his voice hoarse, as though he hadn't spoken in years. They might as well have, surviving what they did, "I'm not sure. Let's find someplace to stop. We can't push on like this."

Even so, the trio made their way through the dark. Through what little they could see thanks to the moonlight, they had mostly kept to the roads. All was quiet in Skyrim, even the buzzing of insects were a gentle, lulling hum, all of Kyne's creatures tucked away peacefully in their homes.

Svana wished she was back at home in bed with Elsie and Onmund. She complained and groaned about having to share her space with her siblings, how Elsie kicked her in her sleep and how Onmund snored too loudly… Gods, what she wouldn't give to be there after a hot meal and her mother's floral teas.

"Do you see it?" Hadvar spoke, breaking the silence. "There, in the distance."

Svana looked to where he was pointing, and against the silhouette of snow-capped mountains and the gleam of the night sky, she could see an impressive barrow built into the rock.

"Bleak Falls Barrow," Ralof answered, sadness rolling into a laugh, "I remember when you used to cry about draugrs."

"Some say you still do 'til this day," Hadvar returned the gentle laugh, "Did Kynesgrove have such a place?"

Svana shrugged, "The elders say a dragon died in a battle when our ancestors were still called Atmorans," she recalled, "That the mountains in Eastmarch were grown from the bones of that dragon, they say if you listen hard enough, you can still hear it roar between the peaks."

A beat of silence passed.

"Not that I want to hear it, anyway," Svana pressed on, "I think I've had enough of dragons to last a lifetime."

"Agreed," Hadvar nodded, swinging his hands idly in the cold night air, "Though that's an impressive tale- I've never heard much about the old holds."

"Not much to hear," Svana answered, "It's old, like most of the locals."

"It's historic, steeped in our ancestor's traditions," Ralof spoke, "You should be proud to call yourself a daughter from such lands."

Svana smirked, "You'd gag the minute you step into the sulphur pools."

Their conversation had been idle, about everything and nothing all at once, doing everything they could do dance around what had happened. The gentle chirping of crickets and the lapping water of a nearby river made for a relaxing stroll, enough that her eyelids felt heavy and her shoulders started to droop.

"We should break soon," Ralof began to slow down himself, "I don't think I can keep going."

The way Hadvar's lips parted suggested he had something very clever and witty to say, but stopped himself. No doubt feeling the exhaustion creep into his bones.

"There," he spotted, "The standing stones."

"It's… so open," Ralof looked around.

"I'm not about to suggest sleeping on rocks," Hadvar let out an easy chuckle, "Close to the river, so we have some water when day breaks."

They trundled off the roads and settled into the wooded area. The grass was soft and cool to the touch. Svana could have sworn sleep would take her if she only laid her head down.

"Here," Ralof offered the Stormcloak-blue shawl from his neck, "Use it as a pillow."

"What about you?" Svana said as she took his offering, "What will you use?"

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to Hadvar, who had knelt beside the river, washing his face, "The big idiot's got a soft stomach from Imperial training, man's gotta use every resource at hand, eh?"

Svana smiled at that, easing up, "How much farther are we?"

"Not much, I think about half a day's walk from here to Riverwood," he sat on his haunches, "But I think if we keep going the way we do tonight, I might just collapse in the middle of the road and make a nice meal for the wolves… pretty embarrassing way to go if you ask me."

"I dunno, I hear they'll let anyone into Sovngarde these days," easier, much easier to talk like this, forgetting about Helgen, or the dragon, or the headsman's block and the men who died before her.

Ralof smiled at her, "Get some sleep, don't burn off all your strength for talking back to me."

Svana laid down on the grass, bunching up the shawl to use as a makeshift pillow. Her eyelids began to flutter shut, feeling herself slowly whisked away to slumber, when she heard Ralof bid, "I'm sorry this happened."

The last thing she saw was the two lovers reunited, in each other's arms, as they sat by the river.

The lute-song seemed to dance with the wind. Onmund had found his way up to the observatory level, a dizzying criss-cross of bridges and access points to different towers in the college. Alcoves on the level featured chairs and tables for informal gatherings, he even spotted a few bottles of wine and a blunt stub of a candle in one corner, the view an impressive sight of the sea that crashed madly against the fjords in the distance.

As the wind picked up, Onmund pulled the hood over his head, embracing the warmth it provided. He would soon find the answer to his mystery when he peered over a balcony ledge and saw none other than the Allard twins.

Alrek sat lazily in a chair, drinking straight from a bottle of something. While Camille sang sweetly, strumming on a lute. They couldn't see him, too preoccupied with their own affair, not that Onmund minded. From where he was, he was content to stare at Alrek all night long in a lovestruck daze.

He wondered then, if what Brelyna had said was true. If people like Alrek were so used to admiration being freely thrown at them, that they could simply pick and choose who to spend their time with.

Not that Onmund could blame him, of course. Even with his hair lazily braided over his shoulder, he was a sight to behold. Full lips and sun-kissed skin, he had read about Breton lovers in the romance books he'd secretly read when his sisters were asleep. Of handsome princelings from the West who'd dazzle their partners with their looks and charms and riches.

Little wonder where the author of such books got their inspiration from.

"Having trouble sleeping, lad?"

Onmund nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Tolfdir's voice behind him, slipping on the snow that had fallen on the stone floor.

"Oh! I hadn't meant to startle you lad," the elder Nord reached out and patted the boy kindly on his shoulders, "But you should be in bed- lessons start tomorrow."

"I know," Onmund smiled apologetically, "Just… had really bad nightmares. No one was up and I couldn't fall back asleep, so…" He began knotting his fingers in anxiety, averting his gaze away.

Tolfdir stood beside him, and stared at the lad's face, as though searching for something. Scrying for answers in the face of a young man, Onmund wondered what he saw in him.

Then, Tolfdir clucked his tongue sadly, "Oh, lad." He gestured to the bruise on his cheek.

Onmund moved to hide it, at first, but now that it had been discovered, perhaps it was too late, "...does it look bad?"

Tolfdir reached out and put a hand to the lad's chin, turning his head this way and that. Satisfied with his assessment, he returned his hand to his side, and sighed a deep, sad sigh, "I'm so sorry, lad."

Onmund looked down, as though ashamed, "I'm a farmer's son," he admitted, "They… they were afraid."

"I know, lad."

"You do?"

"I was once like you, though I wish I had the courage to do what you did."

Onmund looked over his shoulder, back to the Allards, "Why are we so afraid of magic when everyone else seems to embrace it?"

"Hard to embrace something that isn't seen as everyday practicality," Tolfdir explained, neatly folding his hands behind his back, mismatched eyes falling on the Bretons down below, "Why summon balls of ice when you need to tend to the crops?"

Onmund nodded, "...it's not fair."

Tolfdir ever was the kind soul, "Chin up, lad, you're here at the College, you're amongst your people now. It warms me, truly, to see our people here in Winterhold as a mage."

Onmund beamed at that, "There really aren't any other Nords?"

"Oh, there are a few, but fewer with your talent, fewer still with your determination. In due time, I think you'll find your place here with the other mages."

Onmund couldn't take his eyes off Alrek still, who was now laughing at some terrible joke Camille had shared. The strumming and singing had stopped, as the two brothers giggled into fits. Gods, that smile was beautiful.

"And who knows, lad?" Tolfdir watched along with Onmund, understanding as ever. "Perhaps you'll find more than just professional, academic relationships here."

The chill of the night was suddenly forgotten as heat rose to his cheeks. Onmund swore he glowed like embers with the way he felt his skin burn.

"It certainly wouldn't be the first time," Tolfdir laughed affectionately, "Rest easy, lad, you're safe in these halls… and if you ever feel like speaking, from one Nord to another," and here, he spoke in their native tongue, "I'm always here if you need me."

Onmund wasn't sure if Tolfdir knew, but he had hoped when he expressed his thanks, in their words, that he knew how much that support had meant to him.

Tolfdir excused himself not long after, leaving Onmund to stare longingly at the Breton beneath him, unknowingly admiring him from afar.