In any Nordic village, taverns were often the busiest places. Workers and merchants could often be found stumbling to counters looking for a hot meal. Guards who recently ended their shifts sought something warm to ease the aches in their joints before crashing into an open bed. That was, if travellers heading to Windhelm hadn't taken them up first.
But the tavern in Darkwater Crossing was full. Strangely so, especially in the morning.
Mercenaries and warriors lined the entire counter, imposing with their broad builds and impressive weaponry. Oma wasn't wrong, there was trouble afoot if strangers like these were passing through.
Still, there was little time to admire the strong muscles and even stronger axes that they wielded. Svana made her way to the front of the tavern, where a very flustered innkeeper was struggling with serving orders to the men that loomed over him.
"Busy, aren't we?" Svana asked as she leaned over to see what he was so preoccupied with.
"Tell me about i- Oh, you're Runa's girl aren't you?"
"You know my Oma?"
The innkeeper tapped to his own jaw, gesturing to Svana's own handsome features. "You've got her looks, girl."
Svana traced a finger along her jawline subconsciously. Her family had what locals called a 'hero's face', built so square and wide that everyone in her family, her oma, her mother, her sister, her brother, had an underbite.
"What do you want?" The innkeeper snapped, dragging her out of her thoughts.
"I need some dried meat for the road, my oma says you owe her."
The innkeeper stopped what he was doing then and sighed, frustrated. "Ol' Runa's a pain in the neck, but she's not wrong-" he looked behind him and yelled to the serving girls, "Frilda, get some venison for Runa's girl, the dried ones, please."
"Who are all these people?" Svana couldn't help her curiosity.
"Paying customers," the innkeeper snapped, but stopped himself short "I don't mean to be rude, these people came in the dead of night and haven't stopped asking for-"
"Innkeep! How's about another bottle, eh?" one of the warriors called.
"Just a moment!" He responded, before returning his attention to Svana, "I'll get one of the girls to be with you."
As the innkeeper excused himself, a pair of warriors took a seat beside her at the counter. There was something different about them, now that she had the chance to see them up close. Svana had seen the occasional mercenary pass through Kynesgrove, though usually they travelled in smaller groups. Often their armor was mismatched and modified for easy travelling, all these warriors bore well-made equipment.
She wondered, briefly, if they had been soldiers on the run instead. Or bandits. Or… were these the Companions of legend?
"What are you staring at?" One of them challenged Svana.
She wouldn't have been Svana if she shied away from a fight, "You're making a mess."
The warrior smirked, "Brave lass to talk to one of us like that."
"I'm not the one smashing bottles and running the poor innkeep ragged."
The other warrior laughed, "She's got stones."
"Aye, I do," Svana challenged back, "What's got a bunch of troublemakers like you ruining my oma's village?"
The warriors shared a suspicious look between each other, before they looked over their shoulder. Strange.
"Why do you want to know?"
Svana shrugged, "Not everyday I see a bunch of well-armed people get cozy in a tavern for no reason."
"We're just passing through," one of them answered, a vague enough question that satisfied Svana's curiosity… for the moment.
"You passing through, huh? Heading north?"
She could see the warriors getting frustrated with her questioning, scrunching their noses with exasperation, "That's privileged information, girl."
Svana leaned in closer to them, as if telling them a secret. "If you are, I could help. I'm a smith," she pointed to the axes on their belts, "And I know those weapons have seen better days. So if you're headed to Windhelm, I can keep your blades sharp and your boots cobbled if you can get me there in one piece."
That seemed to have gotten their attention.
The two warriors looked to each other, one of them stroking their blonde beard thoughtfully.
"You don't want us to pay you?" They asked.
"I'm looking for my brother, and I think he's in Windhelm," she offered as an explanation, "I don't want coin, I just want to bring the idiot home."
Before the warriors could answer her, an uncomfortable silence fell over the tavern. Workers and warriors alike crowded around windows to look outside, some standing on their toes to get a better look.
The warriors beside Svana readied their hands on their weapons.
Did someone- or something follow them?
Svana gripped the gnarled wooden countertop. The air was heavy and the atmosphere suffocating. The knot in her gut twisted further. Suddenly the tavern became a flurry of activity. The warriors scrambled to arm and position themselves defensively. Commanding to the others, a hooded figure spoke. "We need to move, back door, now!"
"Oh no you don't!" A loud voice cut through the noise and chaos.
Imperial soldiers swarmed doorways and entrances, weapons drawn and ready. Thalmor agents strode in, critical eyes watching the scene unfold like divine hawks. They skulked through the shadows as scouts dragged everyone out of their rooms and into the open.
"Thought you could run from us?" The owner of the voice stepped forth. An Imperial commander, if the way he carried himself was any guess.
The soldiers' focus was on the hooded man. A scout behind him pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself.
Svana felt a stone fall down into her stomach.
The pieces began falling into place. Jarl Ulfric. Of the Stormcloak rebellion. Then… She looked to the warriors beside her, whose cloaks were pulled back one-by-one to expose their faces and uniforms.
By the Nine, what was she to do? Svana wondered if they'd spare her but-
The Nine.
Talos.
Feeling around her neck, Svana's blood ran cold as her fingertips met her amulet of Talos. If the Thalmor or Imperials saw it… she hastily pulled her shawl closed, hiding the trinket under layers.
"Well if it isn't my old friend, General Tullius." Ulfric said through a smirk, "I'll admit, it was kind of you to catch me here."
"This was no kindness, Stormcloak."
"You've done more for my cause by doing this," he gestured with a free hand to the cowering civilians behind the bar, "Perhaps you really are the better strategist; I couldn't have planned this better myself."
General Tullius did not dignify him with a response, "Hadvar," the General ordered, "Tell them what we're here for."
Another soldier stepped forth. "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," he began, unfurling a scroll and reading out a list of charges, "By the divine authority of the Empire, you and your men are to surrender yourselves to our forces for the crimes you've committed against Skyrim and Her people."
As the man prattled on, Svana watched as the Thalmor agents began inspecting the other guests in the inn. Stupid, idiotic, cruel Thalmor, she bitterly thought. If they didn't have their magic and trickery, she was sure she could snap those poncey dictators in half with her bare hands.
It wasn't long before one of the Thalmor took notice of Svana. She didn't back down, or glance away, meeting the gold gaze of the Altmer in his black uniform.
"Remove the shawl." he ordered, voice cutting across the inn.
Svana pulled it tighter around her. "I'm cold."
"You're a Nord in a tavern, girl," the Thalmor agent spat, "Cooperate or I'll remove it myself."
Svana stayed rooted to the spot, though she wasn't sure if fear or defiance had kept her where she was. Perhaps it had even a bit of both.
The agent didn't wait for her to respond. He reached down, and with a swift motion, pulled the heavy cloth away from her neck, revealing her amulet.
She had no time to react. Svana could hardly believe what had happened, more so when she felt gloved hands yank the amulet on her neck, wrenching her forward into view.
"We've another one," the Thalmor announced, interrupting the soldier named Hadvar.
"Another one-" Hadvar furrowed his brow and looked away when he realized what the agent had meant, "I see."
She could see it then, the guilt on the faces of the Nordic soldiers in Imperial gear, the anger of the Stormcloak rebels.
"Please, please, please, I didn't do anything wrong!" Svana pleaded for her life. She wanted to scream at herself for being so weak and frightened, but what could she do? She had no weapons, nothing to defend herself with if things came to a head.
The soldier, Hadvar, gave her a sympathetic glance. "You know the law."
"I swear! I swear I didn't know who these soldiers were! I'm just trying to look for my brother, I swear it!" Svana begged, yelping when an Imperial soldier quickly bound her hands.
"A likely story," the Thalmor agent scoffed.
"Leave her out of this!" The Stormcloak blonde, handsome soldier from earlier spoke up. "She's innocent."
Hadvar met his angry glare, intense and loaded, but it lasted for all but a moment before he turned to the Thalmor agent, "I hate to say this… but we don't have time to process claims like this, Ulfric and his men were our targets."
"Typical Imperial," The Thalmor agent challenged, "Always thinking so small."
But Hadvar didn't back down either, and repeated with more force in his voice, "We're here for Ulfric."
"Is that so? Should I explain to our Imperial allies what the terms were for the White-Gold Concordat? Or have you all forgotten?"
As the soldiers argued and glared at one another, Svana saw an opportunity. Only her hands had been bound, not her feet. Once the soldier binding her released his grip, Svana slammed her forehead against the as he stumbled back. Through the stars and blurred vision, Svana ran on instinct and the intense need to survive the encounter.
Barreling through the soldiers trying to stop her, she made a beeline towards the door. Nearby, the Stormcloaks cheered her on. She just needed to get out, she just-
As soon as she had crossed the threshold of the tavern, a quick-thinking scout slammed the door against Svana, and she fell hard and fast on the floor.
The world began to cloud around her vision, sounds and color blurring into a mess of sensations ringing in her skull.
"All of them! Process all of them immediately! I don't care, haul everyone out of here and deal with it," she heard the General yell, before everything turned dark.
Oh Talos, Son of Man, protect me… protect me… lest I see the hallowed halls of Sovngarde.
Elsie sat beside the river that flowed through Kynesgrove. The light of the day sparkled on the surface like glittering diamonds. At least, that's how she imagined diamonds looked, her books always spoke of "sea diamonds" that were so beloved by sirens. In her lap, she stroked her pet hen, a fluffy, overfed thing that was as tame as a babe. But even in the calm of her surroundings, Elsie's heart was troubled.
It felt like an eternity since Onmund left home. Since Svana and her father had gone off after him that night. She remembered it so clearly. Her father yelled, screamed, "You can't leave!" She knew deep down it was fear. Fear of losing his son, fear of the Thalmor creeping into their home, stealing Onmund away. Fear of what magic would turn him into. But all that was hidden under rage, and the volley of insults he'd hurl at Onmund.
Svana didn't make anything better. When Onmund stood unwavering, unafraid, she punched him.
Elsie shuddered at the memory.
She remembered how Onmund didn't falter, didn't let his gaze drop. After years of insisting and begging and reasoning, in that moment, he hadn't said a word. He met their father's gaze, eyes burning with a kind of determination one would call "stubbornly Nordic". He waited until everyone had fallen asleep, packed his belongings and left.
"C'mon, Frigga," Elsie cooed at her pet, hugging the bird tightly against her as she jogged along the dirt path back home. She'd been out too long, and since everyone had left, her mother had loathed to let her out of the house for too long.
Kynesgrove continued through the day as it always had. Even with all that had happened, no one had come to ask Elsie or her mother for the story. She wondered if it had been a blessing then, some sort of normalcy to keep her mother going one difficult day after another.
She placed her beloved hen into her coop, kissing the bird on its head before practically dancing into their family home. She was accosted by the scent of stew and pie filling the whole house, Elsie bobbing playfully on her heels to a tune playing in her head.
"Come help, Elsie," her mother instructed as she gave the stew one final stir.
The girl counted five bowls and- she caught the way her mother looked at her, before quickly averting her gaze to the fire and food.
Elsie quietly placed the others back. Two for today, she decided sadly, fishing out cheap cutlery from a container on the kitchen table.
She had been too afraid to ask her mother what she thought of the situation. Would Onmund really have made it to Winterhold? Did Pa and Svana find him?
She spoke before she had a chance to think about it, "How long do you think until Pa comes home?" She placed the bowls down, one for herself, and one for Ma.
"I don't know," her mother sighed, no longer masking her sadness, "They should have been back by now…"
Speak of the daedra, and they shall appear, or so old wisdom said. The front door of their home slammed wide open, revealing a very tired and very worn out man. Svana and her mother scarcely recognized him until he said, "I'm home."
Elsie ran into him, throwing her arms around his neck tightly, "Pa! I was just asking about you!"
"Hello, cub," He kissed her on her temple, "Did you see your sister? Or your brother?"
Elsie stared at her father in horror, "Pa, Svana and Onmund never came home."
Whatever Onmund had imagined the College of Winterhold to be like, it certainly paled in comparison to the reality of it. He envisioned towers, yes, and impressive stone halls like in the stories… but this was like a palace for the Jarls of old.
The arched ceilings were tall and mighty, with banners of historic holds fluttering from above. The runes and sigils that ran along the walls were so old that even Onmund had trouble recognizing them as Nordic. Statues of fanciful creatures from his people's legends decorated alcoves and corners, faeries and winged horses cleverly looking on at the students beneath their stony gaze.
The woman from earlier, Mirabelle, had rushed him through a tour, pointing out different locations and buildings, stating their history and purpose. But Onmund barely paid attention to her droning, not when his imagination ran wild and rampant with the possibilities the college could now offer him.
His eyes grew wide at the sight of the different students and mages that gathered around courtyards and loitered in hallways. Tails and claws of the Khajiit and Argonians, clever glances of the Altmer and Dunmer, the frightening arrogance of the Bretons and Redguards… Some held impressive tomes of magic in their arms, while others twirled fanciful staves to show off.
Home. It felt like he was finally home.
"-and here's your room," Onmund still needed to get used to her curt manner of speaking- were Bretons always so straightforward?
"I… I get my own room?"
He could see Mirabelle suppressing an exasperated sigh, but she answered as diplomatically as she could, "It wouldn't do to have our students sleep out in the snow. Yes, this is your very own room. You may keep your belongings here." From the door, she pulled a key and presented to him, "Do make sure you lock up when you're not using the room."
"I… I really get my own room?"
Mirabelle released the sigh. "Yes."
"Thank you!" His gratitude almost had him throwing his arms around her in a hug, but Onmund settled for a mile wide grin instead, "Thank you!"
She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "Now, get yourself sorted. There should be robes in the closet. We have an orientation programme later in the day, followed by a meal. Do not be late, understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very good. I shall see you at the Hall of the Elements later."
As she made her way down the hallways, Onmund took a moment to inspect the room he was generously given. He never had a room to himself before, much less one with a window that overlooked an impressive vista of the stormy seas below. In Kynesgrove, his home was typical for many families like his, with the living areas in the basement, and his parents' bed separated with a woven divider for privacy.
His sisters shared a bed, and while Onmund had his own, they were all crammed together in the corner. He remembered reaching over to pet Elsie's hair whenever she woke up crying from a nightmare, or how after a fight with Svana, she'd crawl beside him in bed and pout at their older sister.
Onmund felt his heart sink at the thought of Elsie. He hadn't had much time to think about his family since he left; all his focus was on making it to Winterhold in one piece. But now that he was finally in the hallowed halls of the college… he began to wonder how his youngest sister was doing.
His family had never supported his talk of magic, not even if it was just a passing mention. Svana would scold him and scoff at everything he said about it. Sometimes she'd even talk over him the minute she got uncomfortable, drowning out his words with her own stories.
Pa on the other hand, was quick to hit him over the head or on the mouth if he ever defied his order to shut up. Ma stayed quiet, and while she always tried to soothe Pa and tell him that it was enough, she would also be the one to gently discourage his talk of magic.
It was always Elsie who found him hiding at the edge of the village, sulking by the river. She'd always bring some bread, jam and some salve and tell him,"If you ever learn magic, could you teach me too?"
Though they both knew that it would never happen; Elsie hadn't ever shown any skill in magic, but the thought alone was enough to make him lean into her small shoulders and cry.
He felt his throat tighten then, felt the sting of tears in the corner of his eyes. He'd have to find a way to send a letter to her, or find some way to tell her that he made it safely, that everyone can just… live their lives in peace.
With him gone, there'd be no one to talk their ears off about magic, they can just go back to talking about whatever the other villagers were up to, or whatever the latest scandal was with the local Thanes and their retinue of sycophants. They didn't have to worry about the Stormcloaks men swooping in to persecute him for being a mage- his father's favorite, paranoid excuse for his fear of magic.
"All mages do," his Pa would spit, "Is ruin everything. You look back in history and name one thing those troublemakers haven't caused?"
Onmund could never answer- he never learned much about history, not about the other provinces anyway. So he stayed quiet, and to his Pa, that was all he needed.
"Look at them, the Bretons, the Imperials, the elves, you see what their lot has done to us all the way here in Skyrim?"
He didn't know anything about Bretons or Imperials or elves, but if they would be more accepting of his gift… well, why wouldn't he want to be among them? He knew his father spoke with fear, but Onmund knew that it took a Nord to face another Nord's stubbornness.
Now that he was in the college, perhaps he'd find the acceptance and validation he so desperately wanted. Even if it did come from Bretons, Imperials or elves- weaker races, as his father called them.
"No use crying about it now," he told himself; he had to get settled in before evening, after all. Moping now would lose what precious time he could be spending honing his skill or talking to fellow mages.
By the Nine, other mages! He wondered what they must be like! As excited thoughts swirled around his mind, he made his way to the cabinet that Mirabelle mentioned. Sure enough, folded neatly on one of the shelves, was a traditional mage's robe.
As he changed his clothes, he learned then how much magic had truly embedded itself within the college. As he began to disrobe, he noticed just how comfortably warm the rooms were… and yet there hadn't been a fireplace in sight. He pressed a bare palm to the stone walls and sure enough, it was hot to the touch.
Onmund pulled the blue robes over his broad shoulders, tying the knots and sashes with such sure movements, he was convinced this was truly his calling. Most Nord clothes were only ever made to one size, with little ribbons and cinches to ensure a comfortable fit. He couldn't help but take a moment to admire the sight of himself as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a hanging mirror.
A pleased grin spread across his face as he smoothed the fabric down his front, giving a playful pat to his round stomach. The fabric was heavy and durable, with traditional Nordic motifs woven in with white, sturdy thread. The leather that made up the mantle was soft, far more luxurious than the rough hide he made do in Kynesgrove. Gone were the simple fabrics and painted rosemaling, now, he looked the part of a real mage. No more playing pretend.
But he didn't dwell long on his thoughts for long. Not a moment later, he heard a stumble, the tumbling of what sounded like too many books, and the helpless yelp of a fellow student.
He sprung on his heels, swinging the door to his room open and gasped at the sight before him.