The 172nd Year of the Fourth Era was not a gentle one for the heartlands of Cyrodiil.
On this night, the skies above the lonely estate brooded with bruised, purplish clouds, and a wet wind whispered through the ancient oaks, promising a storm.
Lightning, sudden and stark, split the darkness, momentarily illuminating the stone walls of the manor house before the thunder roared its answer, a sound that shook the very windowpanes.
Inside, in a bedchamber warmed by a struggling fire, the storm outside was matched by the tempest within. Livia, a young Imperial servant with a face pale with worry, bent over the edge of the heavy oak bed, mopping the brow of her mistress.
Upon the sweat-dampened sheets lay Helga, a daughter of Skyrim far from her native mountains. Her blonde hair was plastered to her scalp, and her powerful frame, usually so capable, was wracked with exhaustion.
Her belly, bloated and taut, rose and fell with each ragged breath.
"Again, my lady," urged the midwife, an older Imperial woman named Camilla whose hands were as capable as her voice was calm. "You must push. The world awaits its newest soul."
Helga heaved, a guttural groan tearing from her throat as she bore down with all the strength her Nordic blood could muster. The agony stretched for an eternity of minutes, a brutal cycle of strain and brief, panting respite. Then, with a final, shuddering effort, it was over.
Camilla worked quickly, her practiced hands moving with a quiet efficiency. "There now," she soothed. "It is done."
She lifted the newborn, a squirming, blood-slicked form, and held him firmly by one ankle, dangling him to clear his lungs.
The firelight danced over the infant's skin. He was large, surprisingly so, with a solidness to his limbs that spoke more of a month-old babe than one just born.
Camilla waited, her eyes fixed on the child, patiently anticipating the first, vital cry that would fill the tiny lungs with air.
It did not come.
The baby, instead of wailing, simply hung there. He blinked, his dark eyes focusing with an unnerving clarity on the midwife's face. His expression was not one of shock or primal distress, but of utter, profound confusion.
His tiny brow furrowed, as if this place, this situation, this very body, were the last he had ever expected to find himself in.
Camilla's professional calm fractured into a deep frown. "Come now, little one," she murmured, a thread of concern in her voice.
She gave his bottom a firm, loud spank.
The baby did not cry. His expression, however, shifted instantly. The confusion melted away, replaced by a look of absolute, indignant outrage. His face flushed a deep red, and his eyes widened in a scandalized glare, as if he had just been profoundly molested.
Helga, her strength spent but her mother's instinct screaming, pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Camilla? What is happening? Why does he not cry?"
The midwife turned, her face grim. "My lady, the boy... he refuses to cry out. I'm afraid that—"
Her words were cut short. A swift, surprisingly forceful stream of yellow liquid arced from between the baby's legs, catching Camilla square in the face. It dripped from her nose and chin, spattering onto her apron.
A stunned silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Then, a sound emerged from the baby. It was not a cry. It was a loud, clear giggle, a sound of pure, unadulterated mischief. He wiggled in the midwife's grasp, his expression one of triumphant pride as he looked upon his handiwork.
Helga let out a weak snort, a brief spark of her old spirit returning. "If he can laugh, then he can breathe. Give him to me."
Camilla, wiping her face with the corner of her apron, shot a glare at the newborn babe that could have curdled milk. But she complied, carefully placing the large, sturdy infant into his mother's waiting arms.
As Helga held the boy to her chest, he stiffened instantly. His small body went rigid, his intelligent eyes widening slightly as he felt the solid, corded muscle of her arms and the powerful, steady beat of her heart against his ear. Oblivious to his strange reaction, Helga looked down at him, her face softening with a profound, weary fondness.
"His name will be Torin, for just as the angry roars of Shor illuminate the cloudy skies, you have brought light into my life," she declared, her voice gaining strength.
She glanced towards the window as another peal of thunder shook the manor. "May you be as fierce as Shor's roars, and as unyielding as the storms of Kyne."
Camilla cleared her throat, her voice hesitant. "My lady, I am not sure the legate would agree to such a... distinctly Nordic name."
Helga scoffed, a sharp, breathy sound. "My husband? He would probably choose 'Decimus,' or 'Schmungus,' or some other milk-drinker Imperial name. It's a good thing he's out there fighting the damned elves and leaving me to name my own son."
Camilla sighed, looking at the quiet, observant baby. "Well, he is a milk-drinker, my lady. Quite literally."
A tired but genuine smile touched Helga's lips. "Not for long he won't be."
The baby, Torin, in the meanwhile, was still just as confused. His outrage had subsided into a deep, almost intelligent contemplation.
He was trying to make sense of the sensations—the warmth, the smell of blood and sweat, the sound of the voices, the feel of his own tiny, uncooperative limbs. It was a puzzle his infant mind was desperately trying to solve.
Before any of them could say or do anything else, however, screams from outside shattered the moment. They were not the distant sounds of the storm, but sharp, human sounds of pure terror.
Camilla rushed to the window, her medical concerns forgotten. What she saw made her blood run cold. In the courtyard below, servants and field workers were running for their lives in every direction, their panicked cries cutting through the wind.
And among them, moving with a terrible, graceful lethality, were figures in gleaming, golden-colored armor. They descended upon the fleeing workers, their elegant blades flashing in the sporadic lightning, cutting them down without mercy.
Camilla grimaced, her hand flying to her mouth. "Gold-clad elves! It's the Dominion's soldiers... by the Divines, what are they doing here...?!"
Unlike Camilla, Helga did not panic. The fear in the room seemed to solidify within her, turning into a cold, grim resolve. She moved slowly, deliberately, pushing herself upright on the bed.
The afterbirth pains and exhaustion were a distant hum beneath the roaring alertness now coursing through her.
"If the elves are here, then Kvatch has already fallen," she stated, her voice low and certain. They were likely under attack from a detachment of Thalmor soldiers, she reasoned, a swift-moving force sent to secure horses and supplies for the main host while simultaneously depriving the Empire of them. A classic, brutal tactic.
Seeing her stand, Camilla's face, already pale, went ashen. She rushed to Helga's side, hands fluttering nervously. "My lady, what are you doing? You need to rest! The bleeding—"
Helga shook her head, a sharp, final motion. "What I need," she interrupted, her voice like iron, "is to know that my son will be safe."
Without a moment's hesitation, she shoved the swaddled Torin into Camilla's arms. The baby, for his part, remained eerily quiet, his wide eyes taking in the scene with that same unnerving intelligence. "Take him to Skyrim. To my kin, and away from this war."
Camilla could only watch, her arms automatically closing around the surprisingly heavy infant, as Helga moved across the room with a steadiness that defied her condition.
She went to a display case on the far wall, a relic of her husband's attempts to "civilize" her warrior spirit.
With a grunt of effort, she smashed the glass with her bare fist and retrieved two steel hand axes, hefting one in each hand. The familiar weight seemed to straighten her spine, the Nords of old returning to her blood.
The sight of her mistress, pale and bleeding but armed and resolute, snapped Camilla out of her daze. "My lady, I can't! I can't leave without you!"
Helga shook her head, her gaze fixed on the chamber door. "I am too weak to make the journey. I would only be a burden. His safety is all that matters now. Go. Out the servant's passage."
Camilla opened her mouth to protest again, to plead, but her words turned into a shrill scream as the bedchamber doors were suddenly kicked open with a splintering crash.
An Altmer in resplendent golden armor stood in the doorway, his haughty features twisted in a sneer of triumph, his blade already drawn.
Before Camilla's mind could even make sense of the golden-clad threat, Helga moved. With a guttural roar that would have made Shor himself proud, she pivoted on her heel and hurled one of the axes.
It was not a wild throw, but a precise, deadly missile born of a lifetime of practice. It whistled past Camilla's face, close enough for her to feel the wind of its passage, and nestled itself with a sickening crunch straight into the Altmer's face.
The force of the blow shattered the nosepiece of his ornate helmet, and he crumpled to the floor without a sound.
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant screams from outside.
Helga's face, pale and dripping with a cold sweat, was a mask of stark determination. She moved to the door, her gait unsteady but her purpose unwavering.
She stooped with a grunt of pain, wrenching her axe free from the dead Altmer's skull with a wet, terrible sound.
Camilla, clutching the swaddled Torin to her chest, tried to protest yet again, her voice a desperate whisper. "My lady, I—"
Her sentence was cut short by Helga, who did not even turn to look at her. "Stop wasting time," she commanded, her voice hoarse but firm. "You know where the safe is. You know where we keep the key. Take as much as you can carry and go."
She finally glanced back, her blue eyes meeting Camilla's, and in them was a final, heartbreaking plea. "My child's fate is in your hand. Go. Please."
And with that, she turned and headed out into the torch-lit chaos of the hallway, a lone, bleeding figure with an axe in each hand, ready to sell her life for the seconds they needed.
Camilla rushed after her but stopped at the threshold, the solid, living weight of Torin in her arms halting her stride.
She could only grit her teeth, her vision blurring with tears as she saw Helga disappear around the corner, moving resolutely forward on shaking legs, the sound of her axes clanging against stone and metal already ringing out.
The sight broke her paralysis. She forced herself to turn away from the woman who had been more than a mistress, and began to run. Not towards the exit, but deeper into the manor, towards the master bedroom and the heavy iron safe that held their last hope.
Torin, in the meanwhile, continued to be just as confused. The jarring movements, the sharp smells of blood and ozone, the terrifying sounds of violence and his mother's fading presence—it was a cacophony of senseless input.
His tiny brow furrowed, his intelligent eyes wide and unblinking, trying and failing to impose order on the chaos of this new, brutal world.
...
The carriage jolted, its wooden wheels finding every single rock and rut in this godforsaken road. The cold air bit at my exposed cheeks, but I found it strangely refreshing.
It was a sharp, clean feeling, a sensation I could actually focus on, which I found odd, considering the woman who carried me in her arms—Camilla, I'd gathered her name was—was positively shivering, her body a constant, trembling vibration against mine.
I still have no idea where and when I am.
At least nine days have passed. I think. It's hard to keep track when your entire world has been reduced to eating, sleeping, and soiling yourself.
You try to mark time by the sun and the moon, you know, the basic celestial cycle. A solid, reliable method. Except here, the sky has two moons. One big, one small, hanging in the sky like some kind of cosmic prank.
So, I'm not even sure what constitutes a day around here. For all I know, a day could be forty-eight hours long. It would explain why I'm so damn tired all the time.
All I know for certain is that I'm currently, for some reason beyond my comprehension, trapped in the body of an infant.
And it officially sucks.
I remember, in my old life, looking at newborns. They seemed to have it made. Basically little royalty with servants tending to their every need. I'd get envious of the sheer lack of responsibility.
But as it turns out, they're not having a good time either. This body is a prison. It's uncoordinated, it has no strength, and its demands are primal and humiliating.
I've literally lost count of how many times I've crapped myself. God damn it.
But that's the least of my problems, if you can imagine. Because, like I said, I'm in the body of a damn baby, with no idea where and when I am.
To make this cosmic joke complete, the adults around me seemed to be talking gibberish.
At first, I thought it was a biological thing. Maybe my baby ears or brain weren't properly developed, turning their speech into a muddy soup of sound.
But then, I began to pick up a few words, and that's when I realized they weren't talking gibberish. My brain, my actual mind, started stitching words from this unfamiliar language.
The first word I picked up was my own name. Torin. Given to me by that muscular lady, who I assume is my mother. Or, more accurately, the mother of this body.
I honestly don't know how to feel about her. On one hand, the last image I have of her is standing in a doorway, armed and bleeding, buying our escape with her life. She was a stranger, but she did what my own actual mother back on Earth probably wouldn't have done.
That… that means something. It has to.
On the other hand, that's all I know. I have no idea who she was. I don't even know her name. Only that she seemed to be some kind of badass warrior, and she's gone.
Now, I'm stuck in a freezing carriage, heading north with a terrified woman, into a world with two moons, completely and utterly lost.
...
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