Winterhold

He settled right in.

Winterhold, for all intents and purposes, was a harsh land - one where people remained in their rickety houses for as long as possible, always suspicious of the neighbor next door, the son or daughter upstairs, and the shadow that seemed to follow them everywhere.

The only one true thing that you could ever trust to be there, peering over your shoulder, was the cold. From morning till night, the sole place one'd ever find warmth was in their hearth, and, even then, it wouldn't be all fine and dandy - what with the high price of firewood in the Northern regions.

The jagged stones in the road, the uncertain gait with which people walked, the inscrutable stares - it made for a mirroring image of the surrounding land.

The same went for its people, as reclusive and elusive as they were.

Although they regarded him as an outsider - a crippled one on top of that - he could still gather some peculiarities from the jaded people that lived in Winterhold.

The local butcher for one, Barildar, was really passionate about his job - if the way he almost salivated at any new game brought to his shop was anything to go by.

Then there was the head hunter, a man tasked with managing the comings and goings of all hunters within the city. Helvakr, the one given such responsibility, was an old and senile man with just one eye who believed he could see the future.

According to him, all of Nirn was doomed to a fiery and tragic end. The "Usurper" - he would whisper in hushed tones to anyone who might listen - had tilted the balance and meddled with Fate. Then, out of nowhere, he'd occasionally scream 'Madness!' before wandering off to the forest, a raspy, low laugh leaving chapped lips and rotten yellow teeth.

These, of all distrustful people in Winterhold, were just the more colorful of the bunch. There were lots more out there, most of who he couldn't even interact with, as they lived in the fringes of the city, close to the destroyed houses near the Sea of Ghosts.

Most unique of all, however, was Lyslenne, who sheltered him in exchange for running her errands - such as buying meat in the butcher or helping her in potion-making.

Potion-making, relearning how to walk, writing, counting - he owed it all to Lyslenne. It was almost funny how irreconcilable her outside demeanor was to her general attitude.

A stone-cold facade, a jagged and wiry outline, and an intimidating aura - she was the living personification of Winterhold. Was that perhaps why he fell head over heels so quickly for the city?

The land was as unforgiving and as unwelcoming as a bath in the Sea of Ghosts, yes; yet it provided just as plenty: animals running amok in the nearby forests, a defensible position from all sides, an unfriendly environment for those not used to the weather, such as bandits and invading tribes-people... the list went on and on.

Winterhold, while harsh, was also a loving Mistress.

He was still getting used to it, but if the small smile Lyslenne sported every once in a while when he wrote a word correctly was any indication... then, perhaps, he was a faster learner than Dudley - even though he'd never been allowed to go to school, in contrast with Dudley, who started 1st grade around two years ago.

Although learning how to count and write was still spades off into the future, he was still smart enough to know that Nirn wasn't anywhere near Surrey - on a planetary scale, might he add.

Such realization should have startled him more, he one day realized, yet it didn't. All it did was elicit a small cry of happiness, as he now knew not even Petunia's shrill voice could ever reach him again.

*

*

*

The snowstorm has passed, and now was time to reconstruct - with what has been lost as well as what has been gained. There, in the recesses of the foreign world - an unread novel still to have its pages leafed through - he finally had his chance, his enlightenment.

To never be restricted again, not by others, and certainly not by himself.

That's why he stood alone, holding his wooden crutches by his side, in the middle of the pinewood forest, just twenty meters off to the road should something happen. He had his eyes closed, unpolished and jagged emeralds staring into the void of his own imagination.

The cold burned his nostrils, and, with it, vibrated a thrum he knew all too well. Diving deep into his memories, he reminisced on the addicting feeling of power he felt as he woke up, alive and relatively well after such a gruesome ordeal.

The feeling grew, the drumming beat following his every beck and call, like a symphony running steadfast towards its own end - almost eager, unrelenting.

A whistle went through the pinewoods, a cold and yet welcoming undercurrent gracing the silent forest. The wind suddenly shifted, something once hidden in the air now unveiled, and the shrubbery oscillated like waves with the small boy as the epicenter.

A crackle of noise - static energy abound - and his eyes opened.

Pieces of rock flew everywhere as a small boulder exploded. Spiderwebs spread on its surface like lightning in the skies.

The noise came next - deafening. There was no need for applause, no need for thundering clapping - the following silence was all the more telling. Everything was silent, no more whistling, no more movement. It was as if the whole world had stopped for a brief moment, stunned.

And then...

"Yes, finally!" He screamed in the forest, caring little if anyone was nearby to hear.

After two long weeks and heaps of practice, he finally achieved the first goal he set out for himself: to consciously call onto his power.

His Magic.

'Three more months.' Three more months of training, and he was off to the College of Winterhold.

Lyslenne might even grace him with a wide smile then; one could always dream.