The stench of the sulphur pools and mined ore was all Svana needed to know that she had made it to Darkwater Crossing. Every visit she had expected something, anything to change, but like most of the older inhabitants of the village, nothing ever did. Just as the chickens roosted in the same spot, the dogs all lounged by the same pool of sunlight. Everyone and everything seemed rooted to old habits and even older traditions.
By her count, if Onmund had made his way here, she'd be able to pick him out.
As she passed by the inn, she noticed men and women in heavy woolen capes move in and out of the building. Mercenaries, she gathered, from the weapons they proudly strapped to their backs and belts. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, if mercenaries were in the area, trouble usually wasn't too far off. And if Onmund was out there lollygagging and talking about magic...
Gods above and below, she'd give Onmund a talking to when she drags his sorry hide back home. All this trouble he put her through! He should have known better! With all the fighting on the roads and-
She shook the thought from her mind.
She still had to bring him back, first. Wouldn't have changed the simple fact her brother had run away from home. Past the shops and travellers and miners, Svana made it down to quieter, narrower streets. Old Nordic houses built so closely to each other some nearly shared walls. They had seen better days of course, Darkwater Crossing was an old village populated by miners and simple folks, not engineers or carpenters.
Past a rickety gate with a garden that yielded healing herbs and medicinal plants, Svana let herself in with one, sure yell, "Oma! Oma, it's Svana!" The old nag that she dragged along with her for her travels was tied up to the post. She gave the beast a friendly pat on the snout before letting herself into the house.
"Oma?" She shrugged off her cape as she looked around, hands on her hips for any sign of the old woman.
"I heard you the first time, girl!"
Svana smiled at the voice that replied. Oma wasn't a gracious woman by any means, Nordic women, the real ones anyway, never bothered with dainty mannerisms. Those were best saved for those poncy Bretons or stuck-up elves.
And Oma was about as Nordic as they came.
Age had whittled her once impressive height to something a little more humble, and what was once a head of wheat-gold hair was now as silver as the ores that were mined. And though she was left with one blue eye, it was still as piercing as ever, accented with a strong jaw and even more impressive cheekbones.
"What's brought you all the way here, girl?" She gave Svana a once over with her one good eye.
That question alone answered everything. Her broad shoulders drooped in defeat.
"I take it Onmund isn't here then?"
Her oma blinked, incredulous, "Onmund?" A sigh, understanding and tired, "The lad's made good on his word to run off, has he?"
Svana shifted her weight uncomfortably, "You'd… you'd tell me if you were hiding him in your cellar, wouldn't you?"
Her oma let out a chuckle, despite the panic that she masked beneath it, "With the way that boy wields magic, I don't think I'd be able to hide him for long." But just as quickly as she flashed her smile, it disappeared from her wrinkled face.
Svana let out a quiet curse under her breath.
"You know… there's not much for a lad of his ambition here, but a big city like Windhelm?"
Svana perked up, her matching blue eyes locked onto her oma.
"Court wizards take on apprentices from time to time, and Onmund's got the pluck to try his hand at it."
Renewed hope at last, Svana's response was an eager one, "You think he made it to Windhelm?"
Her oma shrugged, "You got here, didn't you? Windhelm's not too far off, either."
And then, realization, "Pa said he'd go there first… to check."
Her oma wore a dark look, "Listen, Svana, I love you and your brother, and I know you two don't always get along," and here, there was a grave tone in her voice, "But I also know that if your father catches him first… well, the next time I'm visiting? It'll be a funeral."
A chill went straight down Svana's spine.
"But you can't go looking when you're hungry," from her pack, her oma produced three silver pieces, "Go to the tavern, ask the fellows there for some dried meat and a drink for the road… bastards owe me one after they broke their leg."
"I couldn't take your money."
"Call it an investment, Svana. Onmund's optimistic, and he's not wrong to seek his fate… but war is coming, and he couldn't have picked a worse time to go answering his destiny."
"What if he's not in Windhelm?" Her voice wavered with worry.
But her oma never seemed to run out of faith, a trait Svana long admired, "Come right back here, and we'll go looking together. I know a few tricks up my sleeve, and we'll have him back and babbling about Breton pansies doing light shows at dinner again."
Svana couldn't help herself as she threw her arms around her oma, whispering words of thanks against her silver hair.
"Don't thank me yet, girl," her oma gently pushed her away, but not before brushing back some of her brown hair, "Go and find your brother, cub. I'll be here if you need any help at all."
"Thank you, oma."
"Talos go with you child, now hurry, before those mercenaries make a mess of the village."
The wooden steps of the home creaked and moaned as Svana rushed out of the house and over to the tavern, almost forgetting to greet the old, brown nag that waited patiently, tied to its post.
All she needed was to push onto Windhelm, and they can put all of this behind them. Gods when she gets her hands around Onmund's fat little neck-
'Focus,' she scolded herself, it'd do her no good to stoke the flames of her anger now, even if they were ignited from complete and utter worry. Oma wasn't wrong to warn her and urge the search forward. If Pa found Onmund first…
"Don't think about that. Tavern, dried meat, drink, Windhelm."
The scent of mead hit her like a punch to the face as she pushed past imposing warriors and made her way to the counter, a woman imbued with newfound purpose.
It had been sheer and utter luck that the carriages were still running in the small hours of the night. He recognized the mountains that surrounded Windhelm, and the warm, hazy glow of a lantern. It was all Onmund could do to throw himself at the feet of the driver, desperate.
It'd be the last trip he'd make for the night, the driver told the lad, and Winterhold wasn't worth the trouble. But Onmund poured what little left he had with him- coin and some trinkets he held onto. Good enough. He just needed the ride, nothing more.
He didn't speak on anyone on the journey north. Not the surly mercenaries who boarded from Windhelm to the docks. Not even the quiet Dunmer servants, clutching tightly onto baskets and bundles as they travelled for their employers. It wasn't as though he'd have anything much to say, try as he might to fill the awkward silence during his travels.
He wondered what the college would have been like. Winterhold was a staple setting for many fantastical stories when he was growing up reading storybooks and listening to the skald's songs. In the stories, clever mages made their homes in the snowy peaks of Winterhold, scrying for a future or prophecy- that's when the brave and dashing hero would summon their companionship to aid them in a quest.
What sort of students would he find there? He couldn't imagine very many Nords would bother with magic… but surely he couldn't have been the only one with such a gift? So much of his people's histories spoke of magic in some form, even the Jarls in larger cities kept court wizards for guidance.
Onmund had never travelled beyond the borders of his small village, he had never even seen most of what Skyrim had to offer- he wondered if the Nords from the south were different. Or… did other students come from other provinces? He had only read about the Dunmer and their proficiency for fire magic, the Bretons and their flirtations with the occult.
His head swam in a dizzying daydream, wondering and wondering, eager to see what he could make of this new life that awaited him.
He wouldn't have to wonder long. As the early morning light spread across the Skyrim skies, Winterhold soon came into view.
Onmund could barely contain the excited twinkle in his deep blue eyes. The town was a shell of what it once was, all that was left standing were a few fishing boats and old houses that barely stood the test of time. But this was where mages in Skyrim came to learn about magic, and this is where he would too.
Looming above the ruined buildings, were the stone spires and arching bridges of the College of Winterhold. The sigil of its founding days carved into its walls and stones, easily swallowing up the small town beneath its shadow. An eye, an old symbol Nords had used for magic, stared unblinking into the vast expanse of Skyrim. It appeared where one would typically find heraldry- on pillars and gates, banners and statues.
He could barely take his gaze off the sight.
"I'd be careful if I were you," the driver warned as Onmund disembarked, "I've heard nothing good comes from that college."
Onmund blinked.
"Listen lad, you look like the good sort, and I'm not going to tell you your business, but if you're going to blow yourself up with magic, there are better ways of doing that."
Onmund furrowed his brows in annoyance, "Don't you have passengers to drop off?"
That was enough to dismiss the driver, who cast Onmund one last ominous glance over his shoulder as he drove away, disappearing into the westward fog.
Winterhold wasn't what he expected at all. In old books, the town was described as one of the jewels of the old holds. Mighty fjords fed the people with fresh fish, and while the winters were harsh, it was a proud callback to the ice and sleet of Atmora. True Nords called their home Winterhold.
But now, it made his native Kynesgrove look like the bustling streets of Windhelm. The houses that weren't destroyed were quiet, and while the old stories told of busy docks, only a few fishing boats bobbed in the water. The only thing that ever hinted at Winterhold's past glory was the wide main street leading up to the college. The stones had long fallen out of place and hardy plants peeked out of the cracks and broken pavements, but under the broken rock, the old markings from a powerful history had lasted the ravages of time.
Even so, he wondered why everything had seemed so quiet. Usually, at least in Nordic towns like the one he grew up in, there was plenty to do, even if the snow blanketed the entire place. Yet there was barely a peep, save for the gentle whines of horses in their stables and chickens cooing in their coops.
That was when his nose caught the scent of meat being smoked, the hardy smell of butter and fat, and the sweet tang of mead in the air. The tavern, of course. He looked up to the side, and it was easily the only building that had any sign of life coming from it. He heard plates and forks clattering, glasses and pints being slammed on the table and the distinct Nordic cry of, "More mead!"
His stomach grumbled then, and the pain of hunger began to pierce his spine. He was so close to the college, he couldn't possibly get distracted now. He had to get inside, and fast. He could plan his next moves from there.
All he had to do was cross the bridge. He sucked in a nervous breath, he could see the way the bridge stretched over the crashing waves and the angry waters of the Sea of Ghosts. It seemed as though Winterhold was built by myths upon myths.
One step, then the next, and before he knew it, he began his descent up the stone bridges, all the way up to the main building. His heart pounded wildly against his chest. As he climbed higher and higher, the sound of the town beneath him all seemed to be drowned out. He wondered then if it had been magic; the closer he reached the entrance, the more he felt a tingling sensation at the tips of his fingers and toes, like the needling of nerves when sitting for too long.
He curled his fingers in and out of his palms, and steadied his breathing. Not long now. Excitement pounded wild in his head and his heart, to think, that his entire life would change, just from a simple visit.
He soon came upon a large iron gate. Impressive in its construction, made even more so by the fanciful creatures of Nord legend that had been melded into the metal- dragons and sea monsters and spirits of old creatures. Onmund reached a hand out, wrapping his fingers around the iron and pushed.
And pushed. And pushed.
Yet the gate didn't move, not even an inch.
He could see the gaps between the iron. No lock held the gate in place, no hinges kept it tethered to the archway it guarded. No matter how hard he pushed, the gate didn't rattle at all, immovable as though it were a stone statue.
"State your business," a stern voice startled Onmund out of his wits.
He looked around, and then, glanced downwards. The voice belonged to a woman, much shorter than he was ever used to. Her arms were crossed over her chest, while the gold of her eyes bore holes into him, demanding an answer.
"Uh…" It took him a moment to say the words in the Common Tongue, "I'm… here to join your college."
The woman didn't look very impressed. She sighed, pushing back a lock of straight brown hair behind what looked like pointed ears.
"I'm afraid you're too late, we've stopped accepting students."
Onmund's heart broke, "What?"
"I said-" but before the woman could continue, another voice joined the conversation.
"Mirabelle! Mirabelle, is everything alright?" An older man, a Nord, took his place beside the woman, "Who's this?"
The woman, Mirabelle, explained, "He wants to join, but we've-"
"Please," Onmund begged, "Please, I… I-I travelled for days! Please!" He stammered, "Please, I don't know where else to go."
"I'm sorry but-"
"Mirabelle," the older man began, "I think we can entertain one more potential student, surely?"
"We're full."
Tears began to well up in Onmund's eyes. No. This couldn't be. He came all the way! He made it! He couldn't have been turned away! How many students were there that they could simply turn them away?
"Y-You have no idea what I'm capable of! Please, let me show you what I can do!"
Mirabelle and the older man exchanged a look, before the man spoke, "Mirabelle, I think we can make an exception."
"Tolfdir, you know the rules."
But the older man, Tolfdir, heard none of this. With a wave of his hands, the gates glowed a gentle blue. And then they parted ways and welcomed Onmund into the main area of the college.
"Well lad, since you've gone through the trouble of coming all the way here," Tolfdir shot Mirabelle a look, "Show us what you can do then."
Mirabelle began a complaint, but Tolfdir hushed her.
"What… what should I do?" Onmund asked, suddenly all too aware that his arms hung uselessly at his side. He began twirling his finger together, knotting in anxiety.
"Cast a spell," Mirabelle commanded, "Any spell. Direct it to that circle there," she pointed to the middle of what looked like a small nook on the bridge.
Onmund wiped the tears away threatening to pour out of his eyes. He steeled himself, and sucked in a nervous breath. Alright, he made a fuss, he convinced them, now's not the time to disappoint.
He stepped before the circle, decorated with ornate runes that were carved right into the stone, and began to concentrate. He felt his powers collect at the base of his skull, a humming in his head, as he felt that burst of energy flow through his veins. Clearly in his mind's eye, he saw the center of the circle, and with a quick gesture- two fingers outstretched and directing his power, did a frightening jolt of lightning burst forth, clapping and sparking, burning a mark into the ground.
He exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled again. And he opened his eyes to see where he had directed his magic. The scorch mark spidered outwards like veins under fair skin. Onmund turned around to two astonished faces. Mirabelle's jaw hung open, shocked. The older man, Tolfdir, had his mismatched eyes round and wide, but a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Did… Did I make it?" Onmund blubbered.
Tolfdir and Mirabelle gave each other a look. A moment passed between them, before they both nodded in unison.
"Well then," Mirabelle blinked her eyes and resumed a more neutral expression, doing everything she could to mask her surprise, "I suppose we can welcome one more student."
Tolfdir gave Onmund a wide, pleased grin, "Welcome to the College of Winterhold, my boy, we hope you'll find what you're looking for here."
Onmund couldn't believe it. He made it? He made it! He was in the College of Winterhold! Thank Talos above and below, he made it! He could scarcely believe it. His knees wobbled and he fell to the ground, catching himself on his palms.
And then, he felt it, the rush of tears burning his skin. Pure and utter relief, like a weight removed from his heart. The air tasted different in that moment. It was as though he could finally breathe, like he was suffocating for so long and he hadn't known.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you…" he repeated over and over as the two mages helped him back to his feet and led him into the safety of the walls.
Onmund heard the iron gates close behind him, the metal letting out a mundane moan and screech. Before him, he could hear the murmurs of students and mages alike in the halls, conversations from different tongues lazily carried by the snowy air. The stones of the walls of the college were soaked with magic and mystery, and he felt it seep into every pore of his body.
He was finally where he belonged. He was finally home.