The Snows of Winterhold

by eyeofjanus

For all his life, Henri Étielle has been treated like a second class citizen in the city of Whiterun. However, when the opportunity arises to study magic at the College of Winterhold, his life (and the rest of Skyrim) will change forever. Set five years before the events of Skyrim. Some liberties taken with different characters and OCs will be added.

3. Mis-en-scene

Quick initial trigger warning for fantastical racism later in the chapter. Thanks for the support!

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Henri woke well-rested the next morning, quiet chatter coming from the rest of the inn. As he ate warm porridge for breakfast, he heard from the other guests that the Altmer had left a few hours earlier, demanding that Felsi give them back their money due to "unacceptable living quarters." Henri stayed quiet, glad the elves were gone. He hoped he'd never see them again.

The rest of the road up north had been quiet – Henri assumed the cold had driven most bandits away. The snow became thick and heavy, with winds that cut through his clothes like a knife. He and Bjorlam had long stopped talking to each other, each trying not to freeze to death.

A blizzard picked up the instant they entered Winterhold, plunging everything in a white chaotic cloud. Henri buried himself into his cloak, trying to block out the freezing winds. Bjorlam had pulled the wagon up to a low-lying longhouse – Henri assumed it was an inn. "Why are we stopping here?" he yelled over the wind, clutching his cloak tighter. "Shouldn't we head to the college?"

"Have to be presented to the jarl first!" Bjorlam shouted back.

Henri glanced at the shabby building to his left. "The jarl lives here?" The jarl's castle in Whiterun was a great palace that towered over the rest of the city.

"Not much going in Winterhold," Bjorlam yelled. "Now get moving – I need to get these horses covered."

A chill ran through Henri, both from the weather and from the driver's words. "You're not staying?"

"Job's done. Need to get new passengers and head back to Whiterun. Plus, I stay out here, I'll freeze to death."

"Oh." Though he was still intimidated by the gruff driver, Henri had started feeling safe in his presence. Still, despite only knowing him a few days, he could tell that Bjorlam was not the type of man to reconsider his decisions. He jumped down numbly, his feet landing in a foot of snow. "Well, thank you, Bjorlam."

"Just doing my job." The driver looked at him for a moment. "Be careful, boy – and don't act like a damned fool!" He cracked his whip and rode off, wheels kicking up a cloud of snow that blended into the blizzard above them. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the white.

Henri was alone, swallowed by the storm. The winds picked up – he gasped and pressed himself against the longhouse. His warm traveling cloak made of fox fur and leather now felt like a rag flapping in the cold. Shoulders huddled against the snow, he shuffled towards the door to the longhouse, face growing numb. Leaning against the door, he rapped against it, hardly able to feel his hands. The sound was swallowed by the wind; he doubted anyone heard it. He rapped harder – nothing happened. The wind picked up again; panicking slightly, he began to throw himself against the building, screaming for someone to help him.

The door flew open and he tumbled inside, a flurry of snow pushing him to the floor. For a moment he lay on the ground, basking in the warmth; then, two pairs of burly hands dragged him to his feet.

He blinked and looked around. The jarl's home consisted of one long room filled with smoke from the dimly lit fire pit in its center. Two long, ancient wood tables lined either side of the fire, neither bearing anything beyond a few loaves of bread and a pitcher of wine. The rom was mostly empty; a small group of people at the other end of the hall was looking at him in surprise. A young man rose from the chair he was sitting in. "Who is this?" he demanded, his voice shrill. "Bring him over here!"

The guards carried him to the other side of the room; Henri shuddered in pleasure as the fire's warmth cascaded over him. He looked at the jarl in a mixture of interest and trepidation – he had never met someone of such high rank before. The jarl was young, with a mangy beard and dirty hair. His clothes were thick but shabby, faded colors and unraveling sleeves. The woman beside him had long blonde hair and was clearly pregnant.

"You're speaking to Jarl Koldir of Winterhold, boy," a balding man to his right said sharply. "State your name and your business."

Henri suddenly found that his throat was very dry. "He-Henri Étielle, from Whiterun. I'm here to join the college."

The pregnant woman snorted. "Another one? Is that all anyone wants to see in Winterhold anymore?"

"There's not much else to look at here," Jarl Koldir said grimly. "In any case, Thaena, he's a Breton, they're all spellcasters and sorcerers."

His tone didn't set well with Henri. "I'm as much a Nord as a Breton – my lord," he added quickly.

The jarl's wife and steward looked shocked at his impertinence; the jarl, however, simply smiled cynically. "Another Nord wanting to study magic – doesn't seem very Nordic to me. But that doesn't matter – I've sworn to respect the college's wards, even if they've done nothing to deserve it."

"They're lucky you don't run them out," his wife sniffed, rubbing her stomach. "After what they've done to us, they should be kissing our feet."

"What did they do?" Henri asked, not thinking. Everyone looked shocked, including the jarl. "…my lady…"

"Don't you know?" the jarl asked. "Haven't you heard of the Great Collapse?" Henri shook his head. "Surprising – though I suppose you're too young to know such things. That college is responsible for sending half of Winterhold to the bottom of the ocean!"

Henri frowned. "How, my lord?"

"Around 80 years ago, long before any of us were born, a giant storm hit this city. The sea took half of us – hundreds died. And yet the college remained untouched. If that's not a sign of foul play, I don't know what is."

Henri didn't know what to say. "I'm…I'm sorry to hear that…"

"Are you?" The jarl stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "No matter – men, escort the boy over to the college outpost. Nirya will take him from there."

"Thank you, my lord." As the guards took him away, Henri started to feel a little doubtful about his decision. Could what the jarl said be true? What was he getting himself into?

The guards threw their cloaks on and grabbed torches. Gritting his teeth, Henri closed his eyes as the door opened, hair blasted back by the burst of cold wind. The storm seemed to have gotten worse – the guards pushed him forward and pulled the door closed behind them. Henri moaned softly and buried his face in his cloak, protecting his cheeks form the singing snow. The guards pushed him forward again – he didn't both to look where they were going, burrowing his head further into the fabric. They led him down a long path, wind whipping their clothes back. Henri began to mutter a silent prayer, begin the Gods to stop the wind—

And all of a sudden it was gone. His eyes fluttered open – though it was still bitter cold, a small clearing had opened in the wind and show, the blizzard forming a dome around them. For a moment he thought his prayer had done it – then he realized that an Altmer mage siting in front of a bridge was likely responsible.

She had the same olive skin and sharp features of the elves from the inn – however, she seemed a little more scattered, her hair slightly disheveled. She was flipping through an ancient book propped open on her lap, muttering to herself. Her robes were lumpy beneath her thick cloak, her hair in twin pleats down her back. The dome centered around her; she seemed unfazed by it, kept warm by a small fire burning on nothing next to her.

Henri was terrifically impressed; it was the first display of magic he'd ever seen, and it seemed powerful at that. The guards were less thrilled.

"Mage," one of them stammered, "we have a new recruit for you."

She looked up sharply. "I'm not a dog!" she snapped; her Nordic was slightly accented, but clear. "You know my name, Hafter."

He swallowed. "S-sorry, Nirya. This boy's for you."

She rose to her feet; standing, she was easily taller than both guards. "Is this him?" Henri nodded meekly; she looked him up and down for a moment. "I'll take him from here, gentlemen." The guards nodded and stepped back into the snow, engulfed by the storm.

Faralda came up to Henri; he looked back at her warily. For a moment she was silent. Then she said, "You're a Breton?" He nodded. "Name?"

"Henri Étielle."

"Age?"

"14."

"Prior magic experience?"

He paused. "None?"

She shook her head. "That's fine – Bretons learn quickly. Mirabelle will be glad to have you. Do you have your tuition?"

He pulled out his coin purse. "500 septims."

"Wonderful – hand that to Mirabelle at the college." She smiled, a little patronizing but warm enough. "I am Nirya, guardian of the bridge to the college."

"Is that an important position?"

"No," she said, scowling. "Follow me, please."

She turned around and began walking up the bridge – Henri sped up to match her pace. The dome followed her as she started to walk across – he made sure to stay near her. The bridge was narrow and ancient; in the blizzard, it seemed to lead nowhere, vanishing in white snow. Its stones were slippery with ice – Henri wondered what it would be like to fall from them and shuddered.

"You'll be able to see the college soon," Nirya said, walking nonchalantly along the bridge. "The enchantments around the building keep everything but a few flurries out."

Henri nodded. His heart was racing – he could make out a dark mass looming in the distance. The college had to be massive; it towered over them like a mountain.

All of a sudden the storm cleared in front of them. Henri stopped still. The college was huge, a group of towers made of sleek grey stone balanced precariously on a cliff jutting out into the sea. It was stark and foreboding, and yet had its own enthralling elegance. The bridge led to a giant stone archway that looked on a large courtyard. Nirya led him through it, not bothering to look up. He wondered whether one day he, too, would get used to everything.

The elf led him down a covered colonnade and through a large oak door, then up a flight of stairs. She stopped at a room on the third floor. "Mirabelle?" she asked, rapping on the door. "We have a new student."

"Send him in," a calm voice said from within. "Oh, and Nirya? Send Faralda to me if you find, I need her advice on something."

"Of course she bloody does," Nirya muttered, her face turning dark. "Go on in, she's waiting." She turned around and headed down the corridor, muttering furiously to herself.

Henri shrugged and pushed open the door, slightly nervous. It was decent-sized and warm, heated by a fireplace that again didn't seem to burning off of anything. The room was terribly neat and lined with books, a small window looking out onto the storm beyond. A young woman was writing at her desk on the other side of the office, a book floating in the air beside her. Occasionally she consulted it before quickly returning to her writing.

Henri approached her cautiously. Was he supposed to say something? "Uh..hello…?"

"One moment, please," she said in an even tone, glancing up from her parchment. He blushed and fell silent. The woman seemed very put-together. Her short brown hair fell evenly on either side of her face and her robes were perfectly in order. Even her handwriting was neat and orderly. As she wrote, Henri's eyes began to wander. The books on the shelves all bore strange and fascinating titles: The Apprentice's Assistant, The Art of War Magic, the Book of Daedra, The Incident at Nekrom… It was exciting to think that one day he might own those books himself.

The woman picked up her piece of parchment, looked it over, and then signed it. Blowing on the ink, she grabbed her book out of the air and have Henri a half-smile. "Welcome," she said. "You are Breton."

Her bluntness took him by surprise. "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Et tu parles breton?"

"Oui, madame."

"Tu viens de Hauteroche?"

"Non – je suis né à Blancherive." He paused. "Mais mon père était de Daguechuteau et ma mère était de Pointenord."

"Hm," the woman said, still smiling. "I am also from Pointenord." Her accent in Nordic was impeccable. "You say they 'were' from High Rock?"

He nodded, heart panging slightly. "Both my parents died recently."

She stopped smiling. "I am sorry to hear that." She paused. "I hate to be mercenary about such matters, but you are aware that there is a fee to study at the college, correct?"

He nodded and pulled out his coin purse. "I have all 500 septims here."

"Excellent." She took the bag and snapped her fingers; a book flew off her shelf and landed gently on her desk, opening itself to a page bearing a long list of names. "Your name, please?"

"Henri Étielle."

She nodded and wrote it down, along with the words "Paid in full." "Very well, Henri. Welcome to the College of Winterhold. I am Mirabelle Irvine, Master Wizard and Chief Deputy to the Arch-Mage. I am in charge of the college's administrative and disciplinary needs."

"Then what does the Arch-Mage do?" Again too late, he realized he was being impertinent – yet Mirabelle just smiled.

"The Arch-Mage guides the college through difficult decisions and protects us from dangers both physical and political. You will not see much of him during your time here, I'm afraid. Follow me, please."

She was leaving the room before he had time to realize she was moving. He raced after her into the landing. "The college is comprised of three main buildings. We are currently in the Hall of Containment, where the master mages have their rooms and offices. Should you need to find a teacher after dark, we will likely be here. Go no higher than the fifth floor, however; the sixth and seventh belong to the Arch-Mage, and are forbidden to anyone without an invitation." She began walking down the stairs – Henri followed her outside. "While a student at the college, you will not be permitted to practice magic outside of the building in front of us." She stopped in front of two massive oak doors. "This is the Hall of the Elements, the heart of the college. Here you will find the library, the dining hall, the chapel, practice rooms, and all your classes."

"What will those be?" he asked, shivering in the cold.

"You will receive instruction in alchemy, destruction, restoration, conjuration, alteration, illusion, and enchantment, along with basic history, botany, and astronomy. You can read and write in Nordic and Cyrodilic?" He nodded. "Good. By the time you leave here, you'll be expected to read Altmeri and Daedric as well. Before any of this can begin, however, you will need to be evaluated."

"Evaluated?"

She smiled at the concern in his voice. "It will not be difficult. We just need to determine your aptitude for magic. We try to advance each year's new students along roughly the same track, so it is important to know where everyone stands. The others have already been evaluated; seeing as today was the last day to accept new students, you will start learning as soon as we have tested you."

The idea was unsettling. "How many students joined this year?"

She smirked. "Not many. We do not have the best reputation throughout Skyrim. Right now there are six new students, most from all across Tamriel."

Henri was both shocked and relieved to hear so small a number. Though he was secretly glad not to be thrown into a sea of new people, it was incredible to think that so large a building was inhabited by so few people. "Where are the others?"

"They have had free time since they arrived; everyone will be happy to have you evaluated so we can start the lessons. Followo me – I'll set you in your new room and fetch your robes." She led him down another covered walkway and stopped in-between an oak door and an iron gate. "This is the Hall of Attainment. Your living quarters will be here, along with the rest of the students."

He nodded, and then pointed to the gate out of curiosity. "Where does that lead?"

Mirabelle frowned. "That is the entrance to the Middens, a series of tunnels that we use for storage. You are not allowed inside."

"Why? What's in there?"

She did not seem pleased. "Dangerous things. The gates are enchanted; you will not be able to open them. Now follow me."

She led him through the door and into a large, circular stone room. He looked up in awe – the ceiling was hundreds of feet away. A large stone staircase led to several landings that circled the tower, each holding several bedrooms.

Mirabelle walked over to a room on the first floor where a man with tan skin was playing cards with himself at a table. "Erneir," she said sharply. "You are on duty."

"Aye, I know." He glanced at them; Henri looked back in interest. He was a Wood Elf – a Bosmer. He was thinner, shorter, and tanner than the Altmer, with messy brown hair and dark eyes. He stared at Henri, sending a chill down the boy's spine. The man's gaze was predatory, staring at him like a piece of meat.

"A Breton," he said finally. His accent was thicker than Nirya's. "Not like we don't have enough of those already."

Mirabelle ignored him. "Erneir, this is Henri. Erneir is the quartermaster for the college. He will be able to get you whatever you need – within reason, of course." Erneir glanced at him and winked – the boy decided he didn't want to know what that meant. "If I remember correctly, Room 34 is free?" The elf nodded. "Excellent. Give him a standard set of robes, he has paid already."

The elf reached down and handed her a bundle of cloth; she turned back to Henri. "This way, please."

They walked up to the third landing, stopping in front of a small room. The door was open; Henri looked inside. The furniture was sparse, yet comfortable: a small bed, an armoire, and a desk and chair bearing shelving. A small window showed that the blizzard was still raging.

Mirabelle handed him the clothes. "This will be your room for the next four years," she said. "During that time, we ask that you wear these robes instead of your street clothing. They are enchanted to be more conducive to spellcasting; in any case, they are likely warmer than anything you have brought. Should they become spoiled, hand them to Erneir. He will have them washed for you." She smoothed her hair. "Dinner will be served soon – the other students should be back before then, they will show you where to go. Take time to get settled in first. Welcome to Winterhold."

"Merci," he murmured, hugging the robes. She smiled gently and left the room.

Henri took a deep breath and looked around. He had never had a room to himself before; he liked the adjustment. He began changing out of his clothes – the new tunic was cleaner, warmer, and felt good against his skin. Something fell out of a pouch in his old clothes – he bent down and picked it up. It was the dagger Belethor had given him in Whiterun. He smiled sadly, thinking of his siblings back home. Running his thumb along the hilt, he stopped suddenly and peered closer at it. Etched on the leather were the initials "PE."

He froze. The knife had belonged to his father. He pressed it to his chest, wondering what his parents would say if they saw where he was.

Someone coughed behind him; he hastily put down the knife and turned around. A girl his age was standing in the door, looking at him appraisingly.

"So you're the last one," she said, stepping into his room. Her accent and her features were sharp; an angular nose, straight dark hair, and faintly blue-gray skin. She was a Dunmer, a Dark Elf – the Étielles had lived near a few in Whiterun.

"I'm Brelyna, Brelyna Maryon," she said, holding out a hand. "Of House Telvanni in Morrowind? You've probably heard of us."

Henri smiled awkwardly as he shook her hand. "I haven't, I'm sorry."

She frowned. "Really? How odd."

"Not to J'zargo," a strange voice said from the hallway. "No one here has heard of House Telvanni."

"Oh, shut up, J'zargo," she said. "We're one of the Six Great Families of Morrowind!"

"Were, until the Red Destruction, J'zargo thinks…"

"Why, you little—"

"Is someone there?" Henri asked, confused.

Brelyna rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, yes. J'zargo, stop lurking around out there and introduce yourself."

"J'zargo is not lurking," the voice said as someone turned the corner, "J'zargo is just being polite."

Henri suddenly felt uneasy – the voice belonged to a Khajiit. His parents had given him conflicting opinions on the catfolk. Pierre Étielle said they were fine from a distance, but never to be trusted with money. Morenne Étielle, however, had said they were no different than men, only warmer in the winters. He himself had only seen one once before, a thief who had been flogged in the market at Whiterun. The crowd had hissed and thrown rocks, and had the jarl not come down to maintain order the thief might not have escaped with his life.

The boy standing in front of him didn't look like the man he had seen. J'zargo was thin, with fine gray fur and a long set of whiskers. He had beautiful, multicolored eyes and two fangs that jutted out of his mouth. Henri was at a loss for words. Not sure what to think, he opted for politeness. "H-Hello," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Henri."

J'zargo looked a little surprised, then grasped his hand. His palms were rough like a paw, though he had human fingers and thumbs. "J'zargo greets you, friend. You are a Breton?"

Henri nodded, smiling slightly. "And you're a Redguard, right?"

The other two snorted. "I'm glad your head's not up your ass," Brelyna said. "The other three here have been horrible."

Henri frowned. "What do you mean?"

"They are all human," J'zargo explained. "They look at us and—"

"And we what?" someone asked. Henri looked up into the landing; three others were glaring at them.

"And you act like asses," Brelyna said, turning around. "What do you want, Onmund?"

They were all human, a Nord boy leading them. He was tall, no older than Henri, with sandy blond hair, chiseled features, and a sneer that made him much less handsome than he should have been. To his side were a short Redguard girl and a rather stupid-looking Imperial boy. "You don't get to talk like that to me, Darkskin," Onmund spat, entering the room. "You either, Catboy."

Henri was stunned at the slurs; his mother had forbidden that sort of language in their home. "If anyone should watch their mouths, it's you."

Onmund looked at him and smiled; his eyes were clear grey and steely. "There you are, new kid. Erneir told me you were Breton. Trust me, you don't want to stick around with Mer and Beasts – we'll show you the college, forget these two."

Henri already didn't like Onmund, and Brelyna and J'zargo had been nothing but friendly with him, even in the short time he'd known them. "I'm all right, thanks," he said coolly. "I appreciate the offer, though."

Onmund's eyes flashed. "You're…turning us down?"

"Obviously."

The Nord's face went black. "I should have figured," he snarled. "Bretons always side with the Beasts, it's in their blood – fucking halfbreeds!"

A wave of anger flushed over Henri; before he could do anything, a gong rang through the whole building. "Dinner!" Erneir called from down below. "Everyone out!"

Onmund sneered and jutted out his chin. "Catch you later, lowlifes." He and his friends left the room, leaving the others in silence. Henri's head was pounding. "That boy," he said finally, calming himself down, "is a bastard."

"That's the least of his problems," Brelyna snapped. "But come on, we're going to be late to dinner – and by the way? Thanks. It's nice to have another ally against them."

He smiled at both of them. "I feel the same way."

They headed downstairs and out of the hall, the cold less painful in his new robes. A small stream of people was pouring into the Hall of the Elements. "So how many people are at the college altogether?" he asked as they passed through the doors.
"J'zargo thinks about fifty," J'zargo said. "The building is bigger than it needs to be."

"I like it," Brelyna said. "A place of magic should be imposing, not like the hovel I studied at last."

"Have you studied magic before?" Henri asked, surprised.

She nodded. "House Telvanni – shut up, J'zargo! – House Telvanni is renowned for producing powerful mages. My parents have put me through magical training since I was a toddler."

"What brought you here, then?"

She shrugged. "Just as prestigious as the Arcane University without all the politics going on in Cyrodiil. Plus, it's a lot cheaper."

Henri sighed. "You probably did really well in the evaluation, then."

"Oh, that's nothing – you'll be with Tolfdir, he's really nice."

Henri turned to J'zargo. "What about you? Do you have any magic background?"

He shook his head. "But J'zargo has always wanted to be a great mage. This is why one day, J'zargo snuck into a great manor and stole the septims he needed, along with supplies from his family caravan."

Henri bumped into a wall in shock. "Seriously?"

The Khajiit grinned. "Of course not. J'zargo asked his mother for the money."

Henri stared at him, and then burst out laughing. "Sorry, I shouldn't have fallen for that—oh!"

The room they had walked into was huge, well lit by a giant fireplace and massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Five tables ran vertically along the hall, while a sixth lay perpendicular to them. "Can we sit wherever we choose?" he asked.

Brelyna shook her head. "These tables are divided by year; we never interact with the other years. The long table is for the master mages and for staff."

He looked at them in interest. "Who is everyone?"

"Let's sit down first." They took a seat at the nearest table, the other end from Onmund and the others. "So the old man with the beard is Tolfdir, he teaches alteration…the old man next to him is Phinis, he does conjuration…Mirabelle you know, along with Nirya…the Orc is Urag, the chief librarian…Faralda's the beautiful High Elf, teaches destruction…Colette's the nervous-looking Breton woman, she's restoration…Drevis teaches illusion…Sergius does enchantment…and as for alchemy – ack!" Something bounced off her head; she glared at the other end of the table, where the others were snickering at her. "Sons of bitches…"

"What is the matter with them?" Henri asked. "What are they doing that for?"

"Men are wicked," J'zargo said simply. "J'zargo knows this."

"True, but that doesn't mean…" His voice trailed off as he saw someone enter the dining hall. To his shock, it was the High Elf from Felsi's inn. "What is she doing here?"

Brelyna turned around in confusion. "Arialda? How do you know her?"

"I ran into her at an inn," he said, heart sinking. The Altmer took a seat at the long table, disdainful of her colleagues. "She teaches here?"

Brelyna shook her head. "No, she's brand new here; just arrived a day ago. She represents the Thalmor. Keeping an eye on things."

Henri felt sick. "Merde!"

"What's wrong with you?" Before he could answer, the room fell silent; Mirabelle had risen to her feet. "Before we begin, I would just like to welcome our newest and last student for this year, Henri Étielle!" He blinked in surprise and rose to his feet, embarrassed at the polite applause echoing through the room. The others at the end of the table remained silent. As he sat back down, he noticed Arialda staring at him intently. "With the arrival of your classmate, first year students, expect to begin your lessons the day after tomorrow. Now, time to eat!" The doors opened again; this time, a steady stream of servants entered, all carrying trays of food.

"Eat up," Brelyna said, helping herself to some bread and chicken. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

Henri nodded, trying to shake the feeling of the Thalmor's eyes on his back. He grabbed a loaf of bread and began talking to his two new friends, forgetting about everyone else in the room.

The meal went quickly; Brelyna and J'zargo were interesting to talk to, and by the time their conversation was over dinner was finished. Henri was suddenly exhausted; the day had finally caught up to him. In the flux of apprentices (most of whom did not seem to be Nords) entering the Hall of Attainment, he thankfully did not cross paths with Onmund or the others. J'zargo and Brelyna stopped at the second landing. "Our rooms are here," Brelyna said. "We'll see you tomorrow?"

"Definitely," he said, smiling. They smiled back and went to their rooms.

Entering his, Henri closed the door and locked it, still grinning to himself. In the warmth of friendship and food, he couldn't bring himself to think about Onmund or Arialda. His smile didn't fade as he drifted to sleep in his warm bed, the wind howling in the night outside his window. He had made the right decision.