When Mithllon had heard the sharp ring of a sword gliding from its sheathe, Mithllon knew he had been found.
Perhaps, in a small part of his consciousness, he understood that Ulfric's parents were obviously searching for their lost child in the tundra of Skyrim. Perhaps he deduced that they would wonder who it was that stole Ulfric. Perhaps he realized that their first assumption would be that an Altmer had taken their beloved son. Perhaps they began to search for Ulfric on their own, silently stewing in their own fury reserved for the assumed elven kidnapper. But regardless, Mithllon had never truly acknowledged these half-formed thoughts, preoccupied with his own worries of home, family, and the safety of Ulfric. He hadn't considered the 'may's and 'might's and 'what if's of the situation he had set himself in the moment he bound Ulfric's leg. He hadn't thought of what might happen when he met Ulfric's father face to face, other than the fact that it would be an unpleasant experience.
Until now.
The Nord was tall and beefy, muscles large and knotted over his thick, hairy arms. His face, hardened from battle and years of age, was scarred and covered with a mighty beard, which ended just at his armored chest. He sniffed, massive, crooked nose wrinkling in disgust, as he glared at Mithllon, and the Elf felt a trickle of ice in his blood when he met those eyes. A deep, dark brown, they looked as if they had seen a thousand years, wrinkles bordering his orbs. Yet they burned with unmistakable energy and rage, searing into the Altmer with its intensity.
The Nord knew. Mithllon could feel it with every forcefully steady breath the man took that he knew Mithllon had kidnapped Ulfric. Distress and sorrow washed over Mithllon once he gazed upon the hostility in the Nord's eyes and the poised sword in his grip; no words of logic or counsel could waver the man's opinion of Mithllon. He surely wished death upon him.
But then he caught sight of golden skin and silver hair, and his neck prickled, blood completely draining from his face and any warmth he once held immediately fading. His mouth ran dry and tongue swollen, stomach plummeting into an endless abyss. His heart froze, ice coating the organ thickly and hindering all and any movement. One word chimed in his head-one that promised death and devastation to the Altmer:
Ancano.
He recognized that sly, reptilian smirk, those slotted golden eyes, and his arrogant, straight-back posture with his head poised upward to glare down at all he spoke to. And he knew the trouble he brought with him, the inevitable destruction and frozen hell he would strike down onto Mithllon, should he obtain him.
The Thalmor had found Mithllon Adal, founder of the Summerset Isles' own secret rebellion. In comparison to what the Thalmor held in store for the Altmer, the Nord's bloodthrist and hunger for elven flesh seemed far more preferable.
A piece of Mithllon darkened and grew black as his mind delved into foolish, suicidal plans. He pulled Ulfric closer to him, murmuring reassuring words to the child as he tightened his jaw, feeling the magicka bubble in his veins. He glared at the Thalmor and Nords, green mist spilling from his palm like a waterfall. Ancano's eyes widened in surprise and rage, igniting with recognition of the spell. A small sense of triumph and joy swelled in Mithllon's chest as he sneered at the Thalmor, eyes sparking with adrenaline.
He uttered an ancient phrase, whispering voice slithering through the air, before the mist erupted over the expanse and spilled across his foes. He heard screams of surprise, shrieks of horror, and roars of anger, but it mattered little to him.
For, with the thundering of hooves, and the whinny of an elven horse, the elf was already gone, whisked away into the wintery tundra.
Curse this damnable mist! I can't see a blighted thing!
Haren swung his weapon through the thick cloud, the blade gliding through the mist as he struggled to push away the fog. He might as well have tried to cleave the mighty Sea of Ghosts in two; the magical green gases simply shifted away from the metal sword before flowing back to its original spot, drifting mockingly at him. Frustrated, he snarled in anger and beckoned his horse forward, who hesitantly obeyed his command, snorting softly and nervously. He barked at his men to follow, and they responded with the jingling of reigns and saddles. Haren could barely see his steed's head, the fog was so dense.
A perfect time for the cowardly Altmer to ambush us...
His skin prickled in agitation, glancing all around him with his sword raised. The snow crunched noisily below them, and Ulfric strained his ears to listen to any footsteps advancing toward him-which was hard to do, considering that there were at least twenty men advancing forward. The shrieks of the strange ashen-faced men had ceased, replaced with an eerie calmness that shook Haren's spine.
Something was odd-or rather, more odd than usual. Why did the mages do nothing? Did they not know a counterspell to this mist? Was there a counterspell? Obviously not, for the Thalmor had not countered it. They glowered at the fog in rage as they slithered through it, their own palms dancing with ice or fire. Haren glared at the magicka in disgust, but made no comment on it.
His horse suddenly snorted and froze, hooves pacing backward. The jarl dug his heels into the horse's flank in an attempt to drive it forward again, but it did not obey, tossing its head backward and whinnying in distress. Haren pressed a palm to its neck, bending down to whisper comfort to it.
His nose met just inches from the soot-faced mage, whose empty, fiery eyes stared emotionlessly at the jarl. He froze, surprised scream catching in his throat once he stared at the...thing. Its skin was peeling off, charred by a spell, to display a grotesque display of rotting flesh. A hoarse, drowning-like growl bubbled out of the mage's chest, and the scent of decaying flesh and putrid blood overwhelmed his nostrils. The jarl had no time to wrinkle his nose before the shrieking began again, and the magicka burst forth.
Haren moved then, a swift instinctual jolt of the head, and the icy spear scraped past him, hissing into the air as it missed its target. Without a pause, his sword came down, and with a crack of metal sinking into decomposed flesh and bone, the mage fell, crumpling onto the snow, the crimson glow fading from its eyes. Wildly, Haren stared out into the fog and shouted, "The mages are our enemies now! Do not let their magic strike you!"
It was like the sounding of the war horn, before the noises erupted and the battle began, the scrape of metal, furious shouts, and agonized screams filled the misted air. Silhouettes danced through the fog, and Haren leaped off his horse to engage them.
And even as his sword met with magic, he could not help but allow the agony and sorrow overwhelm him, knowing that, somehow, the Altmer had escaped with his child, and could never be found again.
"Hush, Ulfric. It is alright; you are safe."
Mithllon had murmured it for the fifth time in a row, but was unable to calm the hysterical child in his grasp, Drastíll galloping away from the battlefield, the chime of metal and screams of dying men and women echoing across Skyrim. Mithllon felt guilty for unleashing his enemies onto the Nords, but his remorse ultimately faded once he reminded himself what would have happened if he was in the Nords' grasp. It was better this way.
Perhaps if he had repeated that enough to himself, he could eventually believe it.
One arm wrapped firmly around Ulfric's back, while the other clutched onto Drastíll's reigns. The Nord sobbed into the Mithllon's cloak, drenching it with salty tears as his chest heaved with each cry, a slow wail that slithered from the folds of his fabrics. The sound brought a cold dagger to Mithllon's stomach, knowing that he had no time to halt and comfort the child; he had to put as much distance between himself and the Thalmor as possible. All he could do was pat Ulfric's back reassuringly and whisper the same phrase over and over again.
"You are safe now, Ulfric. No harm shall come to you."
Ulfric babbled something into Mithllon's chest, something about the mages and their terrifying eyes. The Altmer's jaw tightened and he nodded in understanding.
"I know, Ulfric. I know. But they are gone now. The Nords are fighting them."
The young child shifted from underneath Mithllon's arm, peering up at the Altmer with swollen, watery eyes, his face a bright crimson color in the light of the rising of a new dawn.
"My daddy was there," he croaked, voice cracking under the strain of his sobs.
Mithllon swallowed thickly, dread filling him. "Oh?" he whispered, keeping his eyes on the area ahead, unable to look into the child's eyes. "He was?"
Ulfric nodded, sniffling loudly, before his face contorted in sorrow again. Mithllon was certain he would begin to cry again, but the Nord swallowed it back. "Why can't we go back to Daddy?"
Mithllon glanced down at Ulfric, smile wavering. "Because your father is fighting, young king, and needs to focus only on the battle. He cannot battle against his foes with you in the midst of the clash. I shall assist him by taking you back home, where he can meet you after his battle."
Ulfric's face relaxed ever so slightly at the sound of home, and he sniffed again, tears building up in his eyes. He buried his face back into Mithllon's cloak, mumbling, "Okay."
He spoke no more after that, and soon the Altmer listened to the soft, rhythmic breathing of a slumbering Nord in his grip.
When the sun had finally met the dawn, peeking out from the mountains to shine onto the newly-fallen snow, Mithllon, Ulfric, and Drastíll were leagues away from that dreadful cave, and leagues closer to Windhelm. During this time, Mithllon and Drastíll had not gained a moment's respite, driven solely on the will to separate themselves from the Thalmor.
Now that the Thalmor had found Mithllon here in Skyrim, it was only a matter of time before they found the rest of his family back in Summerset Isles, if they hadn't already. The Altmer had little time left to obtain his family and flee immediately to safety, wherever that may be.
Despair fell upon Mithllon. Was there anywhere the Thalmor had yet to taint? Dare he search for a land that was not under the watchful eye of the Altmer tyrants? Endless, fruitless questions swarmed his mind that day, fretting over his family's safety and the Thalmor's rising power. Fear-such that he had not ever felt before-swelled in his chest, tightening his lungs and rendering his throat swollen. He urged Drastíll onward at a faster pace, hoping to reach Windhelm by nightfall.
And that day, both Elf and horse drove themselves to exhaustion to rush to the ones they loved.
"Ulfric."
Warmth and darkness cast a comforting blanket around the child, wrapping around him in a soft, loving embrace. When the voice came to tug the blanket away, Ulfric cursed it, willing himself deeper into the folds of slumber. He did not want to leave this comfort.
"Ulfric," the voice whispered again. The tone was softer, more tired than the Nord recognized, and diminished to a more hollow sound. But the voice was still kind and warm, and held its smooth liquid-like pitch. A soft prod to the spine pulled Ulfric from his slumber, and with heavy eyelids, the child shifted, raising his head from something warm. He blinked, neck and back feeling sore, a gentle cold breeze brushing against his cheek. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the afternoon sunlight. He looked up, eyes fluttering in confusion, as he forgot where he was or who he was with. His eyes meet with those of the elf above him, who smiled at him with tired eyes and a weak smile.
Mithllon, his brain whispered to him, and he remembered. He remembered the week's trials and the peaceful nights. He remembered Mithllon's bravery and Drastíll's loyalty. He remembered the mages, whom he still did not quite know were, and his father's appearance, as well as the battle that followed afterward.
Fear, confusion, and a sense of abandonment set into the pit of his stomach, the thick Nordic blood draining from his face when the panic began to take hold.
But when he looked at Mithllon, the fright befell him, replaced with curiosity and wonder. Why was the Altmer smiling like that?
"Wake up, little king," the exhausted elf whispered, glowing with pride. He nodded to the expanse around them, the setting sun casting an orange glow onto his golden face.
"You are home."
