Chapter Text
In ages past and long forgotten, a mighty city conjured from ice sat safely in the mountains of a young Skyrim; glittering towers reached elegantly towards the sky as crystal-lined paths wound through the mighty buildings. Protecting the city was a noble family of snow elves. They were a reclusive sort, rarely meeting with their neighbors unless it was for business, and tending silently to the upkeep of their home. Among them was an only child by the name of Vyrthaal, with eyes bright as the sun and skin as blue as the sky. He was an energetic lad, frequently seen running through the halls of his family’s home as he played, but shy and rarely speaking to anyone, even his family. Their nobility intimidated him, and even at such a young age he knew in his heart that he did not fully belong with them. But he didn’t mind. That much.
He got along well enough with his family anyways; he stayed out of their way and they gave him cold affection. Perhaps their disciplinary tactics were a bit too harsh for a young thirteen year old, but Vyrthaal knew not to complain. There was a great divide between him and his parents, this much he knew, but all in all he would have been content to live with them for a great many more years. But, whether fortunately or unfortunately, this would not be possible. Even one so heavily sheltered such as Vyrthaal would find it impossible to hide from the fact that his homeland was in grave trouble. Almost every day a new courier came bearing bad news of another far-reaching snow elven outpost. Colonizers coming in from the sea were overtaking their land, ousting snow elves from homes that had belonged to them for generations and slaughtering those who resisted. Fear did not show in Vyrthaal’s eyes at this news, but it was felt deep within his heart. And at night he curled up in bed, fearing he would not wake up again to see Auri-El’s light.
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“We can rely on the Deep Folk,” his father said one evening, and his mother scoffed. Her long fingers were in Vyrthaal’s hair, intricately braiding it. It was late, and he would have to undo the braids before bed, but it soothed both his and his mother’s nerves.
“Since when have the Dwemer cared for others? They are cruel, and snobbish. Besides,” and now her voice dropped, as if Vyrthaal’s sharp ears wouldn’t pick up her words, “You have heard what they do to our people. Lock them up deep underground, poison them, force them to work in their awful caverns. It is better that we refuse their aid!”
Vyrthaal felt a bolt of fear shoot through him, eyes widening as his ears twitched nervously. But his father shook his head. “That is only rumors,” he said, but doubt sat heavily in his voice. “They wouldn’t do that to us.”
No one in the room believed that. But what other options did they have? While their city was strong they didn’t truly have an army; just a few guards to patrol the area and keep crime to a minimum, or fend off the occasional wild beast that strayed too close. The prospect of making the journey to the Chantry of Auri-El was there, but was it wise? It was a long and difficult road, much too harsh for a child such as Vyrthaal, and who was to say they wouldn’t be attacked by the very Atmorans they were trying to flee as they made the journey? There was little else to be said, but at the end of the night when Vyrthaal retired to his room he still heard his parents discussing what to do.
Anxiety prevented him from sleeping well. It had only been about three hours into a restless sleep when suddenly Vyrthaal was awoken by a chilled touch shaking him. He sat upright quickly, meeting his mother’s eyes, and as consciousness rushed to him he heard the sounds of fighting. On reflex he turned to look out his window but was stopped by his mother’s hand on his cheek.
“Do not look, my son,” she whispered. And all at once he was pulled from his bed, led by the hand down the long flight of stairs to the main living area. But his mother made a sharp turn, tugging the young elf into a small hallway normally used by servants, and brought him to a blank space in the wall. There they met his father, who rested a hand on Vyrthaal’s shoulder and squeezed gently, before turning to the wall and muttering a strange incantation. Where once there was nothing now stood a door, shimmering behind a protective shield of magic. But Vyrthaal’s father opened it and he was rushed in by his parents.
“What is going on?” he begged to know as the sounds of fighting was muffled. They were now heading down a long flight of stairs, Vyrthaal lifting his robes so as not to trip. His mother responded.
“The Atmorans have found us.”
While fear nearly paralyzed him Vyrthaal pressed on with his parents, tears pricking at his eyes. “Where are we going?” His voice was shrill with fear and his mother’s reassuring squeeze to his hands did nothing to calm him. “What will we do!?”
“Hush, Vyrthaal. You will be safe.”
Vyrthaal was more than familiar with his father’s short answers that told him very little, but now it frustrated him. He was about to demand more answers when at last the stairs ended and a slightly breathless Vyrthaal was lead into an odd chamber. He could sense magic here. It was old and deep, and more powerful than he could imagine. It saturated the air and he shivered at the feeling. But it was calming. He looked up between his parents, who now seemed reluctant to continue. But at last, Vyrthaal’s mother slid her hand from his grip.
“You will be protected here.”
There were tears in her eyes as she knelt, hands on Vyrthaal’s shoulders. A kiss was pressed to his brow and he reached up to grasp her forearm.
“Mother-” he tried, but his father cut him off.
“There is no time for questions, my son. The Atmorans are here, and it is too late to flee. This room...it was built ages ago by our ancestors. It is stronger than any of our magic combined, and you will not be found here.” He led Vyrthaal to a heavy looking door carved from an unknown substance, but when they came close he could sense it was made of pure magickal energy. Being so near it seemed to make Vyrthaal’s very soul shrink back from the amount of power it contained. And as he approached it opened for him. He looked questioningly at his parents as it revealed a small, dim room—more of a storage closet in terms of size. “You will be safe here. It will only be for a little while, until we can muster our forces and drive the Atmorans away. Go, Vyrthaal. You will be alright.”
He didn’t want to. But Vyrthaal stepped into the room, turning to look at his parents. “What about you?” He finally asked, and Vyrthaal’s mother smiled.
“We will be safe. There are similar rooms for us.”
It was a lie. Vyrthaal knew it was. But he didn’t argue. Something in him knew that this was their only option. But it also knew that this would work. And when his parents stepped back to seal the door into place he didn’t protest, only allowed the strange magic of the room work on him, making him grow tired. His eyelids grew heavy, but he kept his gaze on his parents for as long as he could until a strange, enchanted sleep took him. Vyrthaal slept now, undisturbed by noise and disarray, his mind giving him hopeful dreams of a bright future safe from invading Atmorans or scheming Dwemer. Vyrthaal slept as a battle raged on overhead, devouring buildings and people he knew all his life. Vyrthaal slept as Knight-Paladins gave their lives in a vain attempt to protect their race and innocents were slaughtered at the hands of men. And when the last Snow Prince was cut down, and the Atmorans brutally claimed Skyrim as their own, and what little remained of his people retreated to rot in the grasp of the Dwemer, Vyrthaal slept.