"You are home."
It was as if an ancient enchantment had been broken, or a dam had shattered to allow excitement, relief, and elation to wash over the boy. Heart fluttering against his chest, Ulfric turned to gaze upon what Mithllon motioned to, and felt his stomach fly to his throat eagerly.
They stood on the nook of a tall mountain that overlooked the landscape below them, the snow-ridden hills shimmering in an orange light that the afternoon sun cast across the mountains, throwing long, dark shadows across the tundra. Trees danced under the cold Skyrim breeze, and birds riddled the air with their melodious songs. A river had carved itself at the base of the valley, small glaciers bobbling in the icy water as it danced across the rocks.
And there, at the edge of the river and base of the mountains, stood the magnificent city of Windhelm. Frost-coated, its grey, rocky structures glowed golden in the sunlight as pleasant, familiar sounds drifted from the massive walls, sounding of blacksmith forges and bartering merchants. The smell of burning embers and moist oak wood swelled in Ulfric's nostrils, and he inhaled gratefully, a wave of homesickness washing over him. He half-laughed, half-sobbed as he gaped at his home, delight bulging in his chest.
He felt Mithllon's grip on him tighten as he urged Drastíll forward in a steady trot, his hooves sliding down the sleek snow-covered mountain. Ulfric could barely contain himself, squirming and fidgeting in the Altmer's grasp as they neared Windhelm.
Just as they reached the bottom of the mountain, and mere yards from Windhelm territory, Ulfric turned to stare at Mithllon excitedly.
"When we go inside, I have to show you Mommy and Daddy! We can go to my room and I can show you my sword collection."
"Ulfric..."
"And then we can eat dinner! Marie makes a really good dinner, and the sweetrolls are yummy!"
"Ulfric-"
"I can show you the forges Daddy works at! He likes to talk to Ulrorn, the blacksmith. He lets me hold his hammer sometimes, and I can watch him make a sword-"
"Ulfric, I cannot go into Windhelm with you."
The young Nord's plans were caught in his throat the moment the sentence entered his consciousness, confusion swarming him. He gaped at Mithllon, about to demand why he would say such a thing.
He then noticed the Altmer's face. He seemed...so tired, his face devoid of most of its color, and the mirth in his eyes diminished. He looked worn and wary, if not almost sickly. His emerald eyes stared at Ulfric in sorrow, and the smile that had taken hold of his thin lips had melted away.
"I cannot go inside, Ulfric," he said, his voice hoarse and exhausted.
Ulfric opened his mouth, his own joy dissolving into the breeze, as his eyebrows contorted into an unhappy frown. "Why not?" he asked in a meek voice.
"Because the world is complicated, Ulfric." Mithllon stared at the boy with so much tiredness and the words held such unmistakable wisdom, the Nord was finally reminded of the lifespan of Elves. How old was Mithllon, he wondered, to say such heavy words?
"But..." Ulfric murmured, throat tightening as his excitement for home left him.
But he wanted Mithllon to stay. He wanted to repay the Elf for his deeds, and show him the life of a proud Nord. He wanted to ride with Drastíll, with the horse's silky mane coiled in between his fingers. He wanted the nights filled with elven stories and tales of Mithllon's mischievous twins.
"But...I don't want you to go," Ulfric croaked, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. The sentence sounded selfish the moment it fled his lips, but he did not regret saying it. He sniffled, lip trembling precariously.
He did not want Mithllon to go.
Mithllon sighed slowly, eyes softening with compassion. "And it pains me to leave, Ulfric. But I have my own home to reach, and my own family to tend to."
"Couldn't you just bring them here?"
Surprisingly, Mithllon laughed, and Ulfric felt a sadness settle itself deep in the pit of his stomach. "No," the Altmer murmured, shaking his head. He slid off Drastíll, the horse snorting and tossing his tail to and fro. Gently, Mithllon pulled Ulfric off the horse's bare back (where had the saddle gone?) and into the soft snow. Unconsciously, Ulfric leaned on his injured foot, and once he did realize what he had done, he had awaited for the pang of pain to shoot up his spine.
But instead, he felt no agony or throbbing, and he stared up at Mithllon in wonder. The Altmer smiled and slowly unwrapped Ulfric's leg. Once his flesh was exposed, he felt the cold wintry air bite at it, and he gaped at the pink flesh in awe.
"Your leg is healed," Mithllon murmured, thick sadness in his tone. He nodded to Ulfric, beholding a wavering smile. "It is time you return to your kingdom, young king."
Panic swelled over the child as the Elf pointed at Windhelm before turning his back and departing.
"Wait!" he cried and sprinted (oh, how it felt so good to run again) toward Mithllon. The Elf turned, black hair streaking across the air, as he bent down to stare at Ulfric quizzically. He released a soft oomph as the child tackled him, burying his face in Mithllon's chest as he squeezed his arms around his slender form.
"Can you at least take me to the gate?" came Ulfric's muffle, his shoulder shaking, threatening to burst into sobs. The Altmer was silent for a long time, before he exhaled deeply.
"Alright," he replied. "I shall go with you there."
A small victorious glee emerged in the child's chest as Mithllon stood, grasping Drastíll's reigns, and followed Ulfric toward Windhelm, the snow crunching beneath the soles of their feet (and hooves). Once their feet met contact with the stone floor of Windhelm's bridge, Ulfric sighed as the familiarity rushed back into him, and he felt at home again.
He did not notice the Elf or horse's nervousness.
He smiled at the guards, who practically gaped at him, awestruck at the return of the jarl's lost son. Their grip tightened on their swords as they stared at Mithllon, but in their eyes was confusion. Shouldn't a kidnapper keep the one they kidnapped, instead of return him?
This, Ulfric did not notice either.
Once the three finally reached the gate, which towered over them in a mass of heavy metal and stone, Ulfric turned to Mithllon hopefully, wondering if his luck could still run through... He opened his mouth.
"No," Mithllon murmured, looking sharply at Ulfric, but his eyes still flickering to the guards. "I will go no further, my friend. This is where I depart."
Ulfric expected this, but his shoulders still sank with gloom regardless. He stared at his feet, struggling to will the tears away. His efforts were in vain, he realized, when he watched a trickle of liquid drip off his cheek and onto the stone floor. He felt a heavy warmth envelop his shoulder, and soft, melodious chuckles filled his ears.
And for the first time being with Mithllon, he heard the elf speak in his native tongue:
"Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle, Ulfric."
The words were thick with the syllables, but silky and smooth. Its beauty brought a warmth to Ulfric, tender with kindness and gentleness. He stared at Mithllon in wonder, and could have sworn he spotted tears in the mer's emerald eyes.
Drastíll bent his head to nuzzle Ulfric, snorting softly and staring at him with deep, brown eyes. Ulfric's palm rested on the elven horse's soft nose while Mithllon straightened and leaped back onto his horse.
The rattle of metal behind him alerted Ulfric that the guards stood close by him, eying the elf in wonder, curiosity, and suspicion. Drastíll blinked at the young Nord one last time before he straightened, allowing Mithllon to grasp his reigns, before the two turned their back to Windhelm's mighty gates.
With a click of his tongue, the horse galloped away, his hooves thundering against the stone, and his form shrinking as he sprinted away. Ulfric broke then, soft sobs raking his form, as the tears flowed freely from his face. He rose a hand and waved to his friends, the sun sinking down below the mountains to meet the dusk.
A flicker of movement told Ulfric Mithllon had waved back, just before dusk took its perch, and elf and horse disappeared into the mountains.
And so our journey ends with the closing of the book,
and onward to greater adventures.
Author's Note: It is finished. Gone From Home has ended, but is not gone from our thoughts. To those who stood with me to the from the beginning to end of this journey, I thank you. To those who have just begun to read, I wish you a fantastic journey through the tundra of Skyrim. This story would not have been continued, had I received no words of encouragement. But alas, I have gained so much more courage than I thought to have hold, and more memories that I shall treasure to the end of time.
There will be a sequel to this story, and shall come rather soon, in fact. I have already set the plot in stone (or rather, on parchment of my notebook, but it's just about the same). And, yes, the Dragonborn WILL be involved, as will the civil war of Skyrim. I simply hope that you recognize by now that I do not plan to make it anything like our most frequent Dragonborn stories. For Mithllon shall still be set in the plot, as well as the addition to new characters.
I hope you see you there, my friends, when the sequel begins, and our journey starts once more.
