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Sometimes he dreamt of the hot gush of blood. Rivulets of red flowing thick over his blades and his claws. Sometimes he dreamt of the muffled grunts made by his unsuspecting victims, and the screams made by the ones who saw their deaths coming at them out of the darkness.
He had been born to it, hatched under the right stars, taken almost immediately from the arms of his family and was borne into the welcoming arms of the Dark Brotherhood.
He remembered the purges, the betrayals. He remembered the white hot grief as Archon burned to the ground, taking with it his childhood. He remembered hearing the painful news from Bruma, Cheydinhal, Corinth...
His family was falling apart.
“Keep walking.”
His mother-sister had told him that when they fled the Corsairs and Wayrest was annihilated.
“Keep walking and don’t look back.”
Sometimes though, quite recently, he heard whispers. Rumors that a sanctuary still lives in Skyrim. Members living from shadow to shadow. Broken, but alive.
Sometimes he wondered, how would he go about trying to find them? Wondered if his blades were still as sharp as they were when he first received them from the hands of his trainer. Wondered how fast he could still move, how silently he could still kill.
“You’ve been staring awfully hard at that scroll, Ilas-Tei.” A warm voice broke into his reverie.
He looked up to see one of his new classmates leaning against the door of his room. Slowly, without trying to be obvious, he released his sudden death-grip on the handle of the blade he had tucked in the cushion of his chair. He wracked his brain, trying to be polite and at least remember her name.
“Oi, Yisra! I thought we were going to the pub?!” Someone called from across the hall.
“Hold on to your britches!” Yisra yelled back over her shoulder. “I was just going to get Ilas-Tei!”
He shuffled his scrolls around uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the Shadowscale garb tucked neatly under his bed, of the various poisons and weapons he had hidden around his room. When he looked up, Yisra was grinning at him.
“We’re going down to the Frozen Hearth for a pint of ale or two. Join us?” she asked.
Two tall blonde shadows loomed from behind her.
“Come on Ilas-Tei! There’s time enough for studies yet!” boomed one of the twins.
Yisra rolled her eyes at the speaker and said, “Come on. Enthir said he’ll treat us all to a round if we get there before he does.”
Hesitantly, Ilas-Tei stood up, tail flicking about uncertainly as Yisra bickered with... Borvir, it seems the Nord’s name was, as the entire Hall of Attainment heard. He was about to discreetly reach for his blade under the cushion again when...
“Come on then! Borvir and I just had this wonderful idea for perfecting mead!” the other blonde Nord had been walking towards him, blue eyes warm as he held out his hand to pull him from the room.
“Mead?” he echoed, allowing himself to be led out of the warm hall and into a howling blizzard.
“Yes!” his classmate shouted against the wind. “There is no higher magic than mead! It is our life’s purpose my friend!”
Chuckling quietly, Ilas-Tei kept a careful grip on the Nord’s hand. His eyes tracked the flare of Yisra’s torch down the perilous path to the town.
Raising his voice, he said, “I never really caught your name earlier!”
The Nord laughed out loud, “Yisra setting fire to Professor Gestor’s hair does tend to make one forget all else! My name is Rundi, Borvir’s twin brother. The future Arch-Mage of Mead! Pleased to make your acquaintance Ilas-Tei!”
~~*~~
Later in the pub, his hands occasionally twitched against his hip where his blades normally lie. His eyes occasionally flicker around to the dark corners of the inn, and he still hesitates before taking a sip from every fresh mug of ale (and mead). But Yisra’s loud and vociferous arguments with Borvir chased away the prickling anxiety, and Rundi’s infectious laughter pulled him out of his own morbid musings. Eventually he got involved into a lively argument about the merits and demerits of ordinary Nord mead, Black-Briar mead and Honningbrew mead. (He much prefers Honningbrew.)
Whilst Borvir and Rundi were casting frost spells on the fresh round of mead, he pondered again, the rumours of the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim. He thought of dreams in shadows and blood. Of the sweet thrill of the hunt and the glint of gold for lives taken. He thought of his childhood and the profession he was raised for. He thought of his family, all gone into the Void.
Then he thought of snow and wind, books and scrolls, mead and magic.
“Keep walking and don’t look back.”
He stood up muzzily when his mug appeared before him, a cloud of frosty mist spilling from the rim. He looked around at the people in the warm inn, drinking and talking and laughing amongst themselves without care.
“A toast!” he announced unsteadily, much to the cheering of Yisra and Borvir and when had Enthir arrived? “To the College of Winterhold!”
“To the College of Winterhold!” they chorused heartily. Even Nelacar raised his mug at them in a grudging salute.
Ilas-Tei resolutely ignored the looks of disapproval cast on their table by the jarl. To new beginnings, he thought to himself and chugged down his mug.
~~*~~
The next morning, Ilas-Tei woke up on the cold stone floor of the Hall of Elements. Yisra was lying across his stomach, feet propped up on Borvir’s (or was it Rundi’s?) back. His tail was curled around someone’s thigh.
Groaning, he opened his eyes to Professor Tolfdir’s amused expression.
“Oh Sithis,” he whispered to the apathetic floor in embarrassment. He wanted to sink right through it.
“Glad to see young people so enthusiastic to attend their classes!” their teacher opened a book and started to leaf through it. “Your first lesson for today is about wards. Shall we begin?”