The dead of an Eastmarch night brought on icy winds that cried like ghosts from the grave. No sensible Nord dared to venture out into the storm, not when the skies howled like the dead. Tattered banners of old holds flapped helplessly in the wind, and boats rocked uncomfortably on the water's surface. This was a night that set the stories of countless horrifying tales told around a campfire, a night mothers used to scare their children out of bad behaviors.
But for some, this was the only night they would make their escape. A single lamp lit the way for a lonely traveller. Nothing so unassuming that it would catch the eye of the patrolling soldiers- a boy no older than twenty-one, clutching tightly onto a haphazardly drawn map to Winterhold. His Nordic blood kept him from freezing, but even he couldn't help the chills down his spine, all frayed nerves and anxious hope. And maybe the cold too.
He took that moment to pause, seeking small respite against the trunk of a large tree. He looked behind him, pleased that the faint outline of his village was no longer in sight. He knew now that he was far away enough that no one would track him. But even still, his heart was disquiet.
Through thick, woolen gloves, he felt around his neck for a small inconspicuous amulet of Talos. He began a prayer: "Oh Talos, son of man, lead me to where I need to go, show me a path to where I know I need to be..."
He took one breath, watched it dance into the cold air, and then took another. And by the grace of the Divines, the wind had stopped. He saw the opportunity and carried on with a hurried pace, eager to put more distance between himself and the voices that were calling out to him.
"Onmund! Onmund!" He could hear his family cry, so far off in the distance, they sounded like a barely-remembered dream, "Onmund, come home lad!"
"Onmund!"
No. Not again. Not ever.
No more getting hit over the head at the talk of magic. No more being threatened to be put out into the snow if he read another book about it. No more arguments about who he wanted to be, who he really truly was deep down inside.
No more.
The boy, Onmund, gently caressed his still bruised cheek, only a few hours fresh, a bitter reminder of why he left the way he did.
As he pressed on into that terrible night, he recited a prayer in the Nordic tongue: Oh Talos Son of Men, please give me strength to carry on this burden, I ask not for glory nor gain, simply courage to do what I must.
In the dead of an Eastmarch night, Onmund knew that he was meant for something greater, and he knew he would find it in the hallowed halls of the College of Winterhold. He just had to keep pressing northward, no matter what.
In a cramped family home, the fireplace was lit, tea was served with sweet flowers and herbs, but the tension that hung heavy in the air suffocated everyone in it.
A woman cried into an embroidered handkerchief, adorned with rosemaling and Nordic proverbs, dabbing away at her face as she choked out another sob. Her fine blonde hair began to fray out of the intricate sleeping braids she wore, nightgown stained with a mother's tears.
"Why? Why did he leave?" she sobbed, her lips quivering with impossible grief as she struggled to get her words out, "Oh, my poor Onmund, why…"
Her daughter, Elsie, was a young girl with the same head of blonde hair. And though she was only a young girl of fifteen, had enough kindness in her heart to pour her mother a cup of tea. She patted her mother gently on the shoulder, a small attempt at comforting the aching wound in her heart.
"Ma," Elsie soothed, "Ma, it's alright, Pa and Svana are out looking for him, he can't be that far gone, right?"
The mother wiped her tears away, deep blue eyes tinged red with grief. She looked at her youngest and broke out into a sad smile, "Oh, Elsie… you always look on the brighter side of things, don't you?" She took the cup of tea offered, her plump fingers tracing the painted patterns on the surface, "Thank you, dearest."
"Things will be alright," Elsie offered the brightest smile she could.
But her mother sighed and shook her head, "This shouldn't have happened."
Elsie looked down and away, "You think Onmund's really a mage?"
"It doesn't matter what Onmund is, what matters is he's family and he should never be made to feel that way in his own home," she sighed, "Talos above, I should've said something sooner, should've told him-"
But before she could get her words out, the front door of their home burst open.
"Svana!" they both called.
The eldest of the family was a large, burly woman. Her arms were as thick as logs and just as strong, her brown hair was braided sensibly away from her face, and all she had to wear while on her desperate search was a nightgown and several layers of furs.
"No sign of him," Svana reported, her words hung heavy and sad, "He's gone."
Their mother's hands trembled, so too, her lips, as she blubbered out, "Gone? Gone! How could that be?"
For a woman of Svana's size, she felt incredibly small under the gaze of her mother's anguish. She knitted her hands together tightly, and her shoulders hunched down in some attempt to hide herself away from the shame of failure.
"We went as far as the bridge, the edge of the mountains, even the main roads," Svana's voice buckled under the strain, "We asked the farmers, the millers, but nothing- the storm blew away any tracks he might have left."
Her next words were final, "He's gone, Ma."
Her mother stayed quiet for a time, each second that passed grew heavier than the last. And then, "Where's your father?"
Svana had no other choice but to answer, "He's going to Windhelm to see if he made it there."
Silence.
Svana pressed on, "I… I don't know if this will help, but maybe he went to see Oma in Darkwater Crossing. She's a healer, that's a kind of mage, isn't it?"
More silence.
Svana shifted her weight uncomfortably, "I'm going to get my gear, and I'm going to start my search there."
And then the silence broke by the shattering of a tea cup, breaking into just as many pieces as her mother's heart did. She wailed into the night, her tears flowing freely down her round, red face. Elsie wasted no time, she reached for her mother's handkerchief and began dabbing away at her tears, shushing her and stroking her hair in calming motions.
Svana reached a hand out, as though to brush her fingers against her mother's cheek to wipe away her tears, but was stopped when Elsie's gaze met hers, icy and cold, "Don't."
"But…"
"You punched him," Elsie furrowed her brows in anger, "You punched him and said you'd do it again if he spoke of magic."
"I didn't-"
"Just get your gear, and go."
Svana swallowed a difficult lump in her throat, realization setting in as her little sister spoke. She was just as much to blame for this, she knew. Svana wasn't too proud to admit her failures.
She nodded at Elsie's words, still too ashamed to meet her sister's gaze.
"I'll… I'll go get my things now," but before she left, "Elsie-"
"What, Svana?" Her tone was curt, sharp and disappointed.
Gods, why was this so hard? "Take care of Ma while I'm gone."
As she excused herself awkwardly to her room, she pulled out practical clothing and tools, what money she had saved up, bits of food and treats for the road. She was as much to blame for this… and no matter what, she would bring Onmund back. She would set this right.
She had to. For all she knew, that was the only way she could redeem herself in the eyes of her family.
Svana made her way to the stables and gave a quiet greeting to the old nag that her family had kept for farmwork. It'd be too long a journey to Darkwater Crossing by foot, and with the way the winds howled mercilessly into the night, it'd do to have some companionship.
"Oh Talos, son of Man," she prayed as she mounted the poor, tired beast, "Grant me the guidance to where I know I need to go."
It wouldn't be long before she began her journey into the darkness of the night. Shor's blood, she hoped he was with Oma...
Darkwater Crossing was as plain a village as it had ever been. Inconspicuous, small, out of the way, perfect to hide out from. It had been days since his men had been on the roads and on the run, what a relief it was to find such a charming Nord hamlet for respite.
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak knew these parts well, even if these people were complete strangers. He had grown up amongst stories of the hard work and perseverance of the common man, and it was with quiet admiration that he carried himself through the village. He pulled the hood of his cloak down more, obscuring his face some as him and his men wandered into a tavern. But even so, he wouldn't lose sight of his goal. They were just on the border of Eastmarch now, two days away from Windhelm proper if they pushed themselves.
They just had to hold out that little bit longer. They'd be home, soon.
At such small hours, he was surprised to find even a bard wailing away in the corner, though by the way he carried his notes, it wouldn't be long before sleep took him.
"Travellers?" The owner beckoned, "There's so many of you, I don't think we'll have enough room for you all," he bemoaned, almost as if preemptively mourning the loss.
"We don't mind sharing the rooms," one of the men spoke, a handsome blonde lad with charisma as sparkling as the blues of his eyes, "We just need a place to rest for the night, we'll be out of your hair by morning."
"I suppose I could get Frilda to put some furs down," he quickly counted the men in attendance, "Twelve? Is that right?"
"We'll make do," the soldier smiled, "We're so tired I'd just sleep on this floor right here, right now."
An easy laughter from the innkeep, "That's terrible hospitality friend. Wait here, I'll get the girls to ready the rooms, you can put your things down over in that corner."
As the innkeeper excused himself, Ulfric motioned for his soldier to stand beside him.
"Out of here before dawn, do you understand, Ralof? We'll tip the man with coin, keep him happy for a spell."
"Of course."
"See to it that it's done. We can't risk wasting any more time."
There was blood in the air and war drums sounding in the distance, but they'd all be home soon. They just needed to make it by first light.