This is relevant because of the duty roster that met me when I dragged myself to the garrison the next day.

Kitchen scrubbing duty. Armory cleaning. Waste detail. Every lowest-on-the-totem-pole job.

I laughed, sharp and humorless; Lazhah’s hand was all over this. Not literally--gods, no--but in the way the assignments were stacked, in how my name appeared again and again at the bottom of lists no one else wanted to be on. Death by grease and tedium. Also, a couple of "accidental" double handjob shifts. Of course.

The first day, I endured it.

The second day, I scrubbed until my knuckles bled.

By the third, I was so angry, I could barely see straight.

I worked until my back screamed and my patience evaporated. I worked until Kangme started taking weapons out of my hands and Lane wordlessly put drinks into them. I worked and cursed myself for choosing to join the fucking miliary instead of just taking care of shit on my own.

It took six days of meaningless labor for my next real assignment to come in; six days on regret and self-recrimination, of bitching endlessly to poor Kellan, Lane, and Kangme, sainted souls all.

Near midday of the seventh day, a runner appeared at the end of the aisle while I was elbow-deep in muck as I tried to unplug a clogged pipe that was supposed to drain the massive kitchen sinks, but which were also commonly used to drain the excess cooking grease. 

“Commander,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You’re requested.”

I didn't bother cleaning off, just nodded and followed, dripping greasy droplets in my wake like splattered blood from an injured man.

The command office felt colder than the rest of Solitude, the stone holding damp like it remembered winter better than sunlight. The officer behind the desk didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You’re being tasked with a clearance operation,” he said, sliding a folded document forward. “Fort Hraggstad.”

I broke the seal and read it once. Then again, slower. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

So...I was supposed to clear a fort. All by myself, apparently, since I had no one under my "standing attachment." Well, except my watchdog. Er...watchlizard. Also, they got my middle and last names backward. I should have just given them a fake name in the first place -- it's not like anyone here carries ID.

Anyway, I hadn't been wasting ALL my time in this new Skyrim -- I had done some map studying so I could finally figure out just where the hell everything was (it was fun trying to retrace my steps from the first fucking go-around). So I actually knew where Fort Hraggstad was and frowned at the officer as I held out the paper.

“I assume this is a mistake.” I said the words calmly, because shouting would only make it worse. "Hraggstad isn't on the road to anywhere. It's entirely the opposite direction from the war. What threat could there be?"

He shrugged. "That's what you're going to find out."

"That is asinine. And I'm supposed to do it alone? What if there are, like, a hundred bandits or something?"

The officer didn’t even flinch. “Then you deal with them. You’re Keṣ Tshaâki.”

There it was. Clean. Bloodless. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

He snorted. ”You’re Keṣ Tshaâki. This is exactly what you signed up for.”

I held the gaze a moment longer, searching for something -- hesitation, doubt, an opening. There was nothing. Orders had already crystallized into fact.

“Fair enough.”

I left the command office with the order crumpled in my hand and my jaw locked so tight it hurt. The corridor outside felt narrower than before, stone pressing in from both sides. I took three steps before I heard boots behind me, unhurried and familiar.

“Well,” Kangme said, falling into step beside me. “That's the kind of face that usually means someone just volunteered you for something unpleasant.”

I didn’t slow. “You know me so well already. I’ve been assigned to clear Fort Hraggstad.”

Kangme whistled softly. “Ah.”

“Solo,” I added.

That made Kangme stop walking. I took another step, then stopped too when I realized they weren’t beside me anymore.

“Solo?” Kangme repeated, incredulous. “As in you and you?”

“Well, technically me and you, since you still have to accompany me, right?”

They laughed as they caught up, eyes sharp now. “True. This is not standard.”

“Well, I am a Kesh…Takki. Or whatever it’s called. Which is how they’re justifying it.”

“And how are you justifying it?”

I snorted. “I’m not.”

We reached the outer doors of the garrison, the light shifting as the world opened back up. I paused there, one hand on the door, feeling the weight of the order like a stone in my pocket.

“This isn’t about the fort,” Kangme said quietly.

“No. It’s about reminding me what happens when I say no.”

Kangme’s mouth twisted. “Small man.”

“Petty. Which makes him dangerous in a very specific way.”

We stepped out into the street together.

“Where to?” Kangme asked.

“The inn. Kellan needs to hear this before I start breaking things.”

Kellan was in his room, boots off, sharpening a knife when we entered. He glanced up, took one look at my face, and stood. Then sat and rubbed his face after I told him the fun I had just been assigned. I wanted to assure him, since he quite explicitly had NOT signed up for this, but, “You don’t have to…” was as far as I got before he gave me a withering stare.

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” His voice as he said it was as cold as the proverbial grave and I clicked my mouth shut on the teasing joke that had half-formed.

Lane arrived a little later, quiet as ever, slipping into the room with a basket over her arm. She took one look at the three of us and set it down without comment.

“We’re leaving,” she said.

“Tonight,” I confirmed. “But you don’t have to…”

“Don’t be silly, of course I’m coming.”

I hadn’t said it out loud, but relief had been creeping in since the moment I’d read the order. No more pots and pans. No more being handed a rag and reminded of my place. Best of all, no handjobs, tonight or any night soon. Well, maybe for Kellan, but that was very different. I thought back to my first assignment, when Lazhah had insisted I do all my duties, including the handies, before we left, and silently thanked Kangme for having no such insistence.

Which, I realized later as we headed out the gates of the city, was odd considering what a stickler for the rules Kangme was. Really makes one wonder just how early Lazhah’s attempts to control me had really started.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

Start from the beginning

For two days after the Stormcloaks broke and fled, Whiterun remained tense, like a man waiting to see if a wound would fester. The Legion didn’t relax - we counted bodies, cleared rubble from the walls, dragged broken catapult frames into heaps and burned them until the air stank of pitch and charred wood. Patrols rode out in widening circles to make sure the enemy had truly gone and not merely slipped out of sight to regroup.

I stayed busy, which was a mercy.

Busy meant I didn’t have to think too hard about the field beyond the walls, about the way the grass had been trampled flat and darkened, about how many of the men lying out there had been alive before I volleyed rocks on top of them. Nor the men just below the walls who had somehow believed--right up until the last moment--that sheer will could carry them through stone gates. 

When the order finally came to prepare for the march back to Solitude, I felt a flicker of relief that surprised me with its intensity. Whiterun had held, yes, but it had never been mine. It was a place that had a leader who looked at me and thought whore. And it was a place where I had killed a lot of people…and watched thousands more grind themselves to their own deaths.

The trip back was agonizing. I had arrived in Whiterun with Kellan, Lane, and Kangme (Kellan and Lane had been forced to leave when the army arrived), fast and sharp and unencumbered. Leaving with the army felt like being wrapped in wool that was already soaked through--heavy, restrictive, impossible to ignore. 

Supply wagons groaned under the weight of salvaged gear and the wounded; officers shouted themselves hoarse trying to keep columns aligned when the road narrowed; horses stamped and snorted; soldiers grumbled. The sky hung low and gray, threatening rain that never quite came. When you travel alone, every mile is yours. When you travel with an army, every mile belongs to everyone else. Pace is dictated by the slowest cart, halts are called for reasons you’re not privy to. Orders that ripple down the line get distorted by repetition until they barely resemble the original intent, like the world’s worst game of telephone.

And, of course, once the long line creaked to a stop every night, we women still had work to do. I knew better than to think Whiterun would change that.

We didn’t have to cook, at least – the army contained an entire kitchen ensemble, cooks provided – but there were plenty of soiled and sweaty clothes to scrub. And, of course, there were thousands of men, and therefore thousands of dicks, and each needed tending to every night. I don’t know the actual size of the army or the percentage of women therein. All I can tell you is I rubbed out about twenty-five or so each night before I was allowed to stagger to my own bedroll. Not counting the nights I was also assigned watch. Have I mentioned how much I hate this place?

Each day blurred into the next. March. Halt. Set camp. Eat something barely warm. Then the hours that were never really mine. I learned to measure sleep in scraps--what I could steal before dawn, what I could salvage after. It only took until the fourth day before my temper was frayed enough that I had to keep my hands clenched just to stop myself from snapping at everyone who came within reach…and it was a twenty day journey. I think I still have scars in my palms from digging my fingers into them. When Solitude finally came into view, pale stone rising from the rock like something carved by the Divines themselves, I nearly sagged in my saddle with relief.

Home. Or close enough.

We entered the city under formal colors. Banners unfurled, armor cleaned as best it could be on the march (guess who got to do that?). The civilians cheered, some of them. Others just watched, eyes hollow with the kind of fearful understanding that stems from having loved ones at war.

I peeled away from the column as soon as I was permitted. The inn smelled like smoke and bread and something spiced I couldn’t name. It was warm to the point of discomfort. I stood there for a moment just breathing, letting the noise wash over me.

Then I saw Kellan.

He was already on his feet, crossing the room with long strides that ate the distance between us. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just took me by the shoulders and pulled me in, hard enough that I felt it down to my bones. I rested my forehead against his collarbone and let the world shrink to that one point of contact.

“I was worried,” he said finally, voice low.

“I know,” I said. “I’m here.”

We didn’t linger. He took my pack without asking and led me upstairs. The door closed. The latch clicked. What followed was quiet and human and necessary, and I fell into a deep sleep immediately after.

I woke to the door opening softly. For a heartbeat, I was back on the wall--stone under my hands, air tearing past my ears--then the room resolved itself around me as Lane slipped inside and closed the door with care.

“You’re awake,” she said quietly.

I snorted as I pushed myself upright, keeping the blanket wrapped around my naked body. “Define awake.”

Kellan was sitting at the table. He poured something hot into a mug and handed it to me without a word. I drank and felt the warmth of the liquid blended with the heat of something alcoholic pool in my belly. It felt like a balm for my soul.

Lane leaned against the wall, watching me with the calm, attentive stillness she brought to wounded things--bodies, spirits, or otherwise. “You haven’t come all the way back yet."

“I…” I stopped, then shook my head. “They charged the gates. No patience. No attempt to wait us out. Just men running at stone like it owed them something.”

“They didn’t fire catapults or anything?” Kellan sounded incredulous, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“They did. I…um…kind of sent the rocks back.”

A moment of silence, then Kellan snorted softly. “Of course you did. Bet that gave them a right start! That’s not how sieges normally work.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You act like you have been in one?”

He didn’t smile. “I was. Darklight Tower.”

“What is that?”

“A fort in the Rift.” He leaned back against the table, arms folded, gaze unfocused in the way it got when he was looking at something that wasn’t in the room anymore. “Three weeks, that one lasted. Proper siege -- encirclement, starvation. We ate leather before it ended. This?” Kellan shook his head. “What you’re describing isn’t that. It’s what happens when someone mistakes fury for strategy.”

Lane crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, then took my hand that wasn’t holding the cup in hers, which was far more comforting than I could have expected. I felt tears begin to form as she said, “And you were standing above it.”

“Yes.” A tear trickled down my cheek but I made no attempt to wipe it away. Not that I could have with both hands occupied. “Which felt even more wrong. I’ve never felt so helpless. Especially for men who would have killed me – at least – had they had their way.”

Kellan leaned forward, his own mug held in both hands. “At Darklight, the worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the waiting afterward. Wondering if it had meant anything.”

I met his eyes. “Did it?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “It meant the people inside lived.”

I let out a snorting laugh and nodded. “Then I guess Whiterun meant something too.”

Lane gave my hand a pat then released it and rose. “It did. And so do you.” She stepped away, then paused at the door. “Try to sleep without listening for stones.”

I gave her a watery smile. “I’ll try.”

She left us alone. Kellan sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. Familiar. Steady.

“You handled it better than I did my first siege,” he said.

I laughed and jostled his shoulder with mine. “Sounds like that’s a low bar.”

He smiled then, just a little. “You came back. That’s the part that matters.”

I leaned into him, the weight of the long days finally settling into something manageable. For the first time since the walls of Whiterun shook, the silence didn’t feel like something waiting to break.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feel yourself instead.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

Start from the beginning

If you had asked me—before—what a siege looked like, I would have told you about dirt and time.

Months. Maybe years. Lines of tents stretching like a second city around stone walls. Starvation. Boredom. Disease. Engineers. Quiet men with careful hands and dirt under their nails, digging patiently beneath foundations. Sappers. That was the word. I think. Sounds right. Or maybe they trapped the dirt? No, that’s something else.

Point being, I expected planning.

What I got instead was a bunch of angry Nords screaming “SKYRIM BELONGS TO THE NORDS!” while running headlong into a murder funnel.

From above. I mean, I watched it from above – they were below.

To give them the minimal amount of credit – and believe me, they were owed very very little – they did try one thing first: they shot rocks at us.

The walls of Whiterun thrummed under my boots (high heeled, of course), a living thing resonating with the pounding of siege engines and the answering cries of defenders. The air tasted like ash and pitch. My ears rang constantly—shouts, horns, screams, the deep thoomp of catapults loosing their stones.

Twelve of them. I counted – I had time. Plenty of it.

That was the only part of the “siege” that felt right, really. Not chaos—waiting. Standing on the wall with my hands resting on cold stone, watching the Stormcloak lines shuffle and reform, watching the catapult arms creak back like spiteful fingers.

The first stone sailed toward us, blotting out a wedge of sky.

I inhaled and tasted soot.

“Fus—”

The word caught, heavy and familiar as a scar.

“—Rah—”

The world leaned.

“—Do!”

The rock reversed direction midair, spun once, twice, like a coin flipped by an arrogant god, and went screaming back the way it came. It hit the catapult’s arm dead-on. Wood exploded.

I blinked, then laughed. Oh. Oh this was going to be fun!

The soldiers nearest me flinched the first time. The second time, they started cheering. By the third, word had spread, and I suddenly had an audience—Imperial legionaries leaning on their shields, archers pausing mid-draw, all watching the not-quite-naked woman on the wall play catch with siege ammunition.

I adjusted my stance, judging the arc. Timing mattered – too early and the rock dropped; too late and it clipped the wall. There was a rhythm to it, like tennis, if tennis involved screaming geological death rocks at each other (that would liven up Wimbledon).

Another stone.

Now.

“Fus Rah Do!”

I corrected at the last moment, twisting my shoulders. The rock flew lower this time, clipping the ground in front of the catapult and plowing through three Stormcloaks before smashing the frame apart.

“Four!” someone shouted.

I grinned.

Four down. Eight to go.

The strangest part was how… casual it felt. Not the killing. That part still sat in my chest like old lead. But the doing. I’d expected fear. Adrenaline. Panic. Instead, it felt like solving a puzzle under pressure, or that weird hyper-focus I used to get during finals week back in Columbus, fully caffeinated and two steps ahead of exhaustion.

A rock screamed in.

“Miss.”

Another.

“Too high.”

The men called corrections now, spotting for me like I was throwing darts instead of inverted meteors. No one touched me. No one laughed. No one made lewd comments. No one stared for longer than professionalism allowed.

“She-devil’s got it,” someone muttered with reverence, not lust.

Naasektenti.

The name clung to me, whether I wanted it or not. But, you know, at this point I wanted it. It was the only fucking thing akin to respect I ever got in this gods-forsaken land. Although, of course, it is anything but gods-forsaken. Which is probably at least 70% of its problem.

I destroyed the fifth catapult by accident— I caught the stone late, sent it skimming sideways into the machinery like an angry god skipping a lake. The sixth and seventh were harder – they had learned to stagger their shots, tried to overwhelm me with timing. Unfortunately for them, I could both slow down time and move really really quickly. Between Time Out and Force Speed, I was literally everywhere on that wall at once.

By the time I shattered number eight, I felt it click into place, muscle memory and instinct braided together. Shout, breathe, adjust. Don’t think about the men crushed into paste by rebounding rocks. Don’t think about faces.

Then the Stormcloaks changed tactics. To the absolute worst tactics I have ever seen. It was like a video game with the worst AI ever.

Instead of withdrawing, regrouping, or doing literally any of the fifty siege doctrines I half-remembered from books, tv shows, and movies, they blew their horns and charged the outer bailey.

Just…ran. Into closed gates.

Under arrow fire.

I leaned over the wall, dumbfounded.

“What…what are they doing?”

Kangme, standing ramrod-straight beside me, flicked his tongue into the air and said, perfectly calm, “Dying inefficiently.”

I shook my head. “No, I gotta say, this is quite possibly the most efficient way of dying I have ever seen.”

They considered, then nodded. “Agreed. I stand corrected.”

It was a slaughter.

Imperial archers loosed in disciplined volleys, the sky darkening with fletching. Stormcloaks fell in clumps, tripping over bodies, screaming as arrows punched through mail and leather and exposed skin. Those who reached the gate hacked at it with axes, howling, while boiling oil cascaded down in shimmering sheets, turning men into torches.

No ladders. No rams. No shield walls.

Just rage.

I watched a young Nord beat his shield against the gate until his arm gave out, sobbing—not in pain, but frustration. He wanted the door to open because he wanted it to. Because that’s how things worked in his head.

I felt sick.

Not because of the blood - I’d seen worse. Well, no, I honestly can’t say I have seen anything worse than that carnage. But I felt sick because it was such a waste. It wasn’t tragedy or valor or even desperation.

It was stupidity with a body count.

“Who plans this?” I whispered.

No one answered.

By the time dusk crept in, the ground outside Whiterun was carpeted with dead Stormcloaks, their war cries reduced to a low wet moan of the wounded. Of the twelve catapults, eight lay in ruin because of me. The rest were abandoned, crews either dead or fled.

As the horns sounded retreat, I sagged against the wall, suddenly exhausted. My throat burned. My hands shook now that there was nothing to occupy my mind.

A legionary approached, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Commander,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Legate Rikke wants you reported as…ah…operationally decisive.”

I snorted. “Tell her I play a mean game of fetch.”

He smiled, sharp and tired. “Yes, She-Devil.”

They gave me space as we descended the wall. Not fear; respect. The good kind—the kind that doesn’t try to take things from you. I caught a few glances at my outfit, unavoidable, but no leering. No comments.

After what I’d done, they knew better than to confuse exposed skin with access.

As night fell and Whiterun still stood, unbreached, unbeaten, I found myself wondering—not for the first time—how a rebellion built on this kind of thinking had survived this long at all.

Then again, I supposed brute force had always convinced some people. Even when it got them killed.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feel yourself instead.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

Start from the beginning

First of all, the scale of the thing is far beyond what stage or screen can convey. There were thousands of people on both sides and…

…

I can hear you all bitching at me from here. Yes, I skipped forward. I don’t like thinking about the…uncomfortable conversations in between (not to mention that asshole Balgruuf), but I guess it needs to be dealt with.

So, fine.

The easiest (yet also hardest) conversation was with Kellan. I stood on that wall for an hour or two while I thought about things and realized I didn’t actually know him that well (and, of course, the reverse was true). We had known each other for less than three months. I had no idea beyond very general things about him or his past (which was extra worrisome because I realized I had no idea about his sexual past either, which means I may have been giving free access to someone loaded with STDs). As far as he knew, we were just traveling companions with benefits. He had probably been completely blindsided by my sudden outburst. It was clear I needed to apologize to him.

I unexpectedly found Kellan close by; he was also on the outer wall, where the stone still held a little warmth from the day. He was leaning on the parapet, arms folded, watching nothing in particular. It took a moment for him to notice me—not because I was being quiet, but because he looked like a man deliberately not thinking.

I almost turned around, but delaying the conversation would only make things worse, so I took a deep breath and walked forward.

“Can we talk?” The words came out too carefully, as if they’d break if I breathed wrong.

He jumped then straightened. “About…” he started, then let the sentence trail off like it might explode.

Silence slotted itself between us, precise and awful.

“I shouldn’t have done it like that,” I said finally. “Cornering you. Demanding explanations you didn’t know you owed.” I watched his jaw tighten. “I’m sorry.”

He studied me, not suspicious so much as wary—like someone approaching a familiar horse that had kicked without warning. “I didn’t think you were angry,” he said after a moment. “Just…intense.”

That almost made me laugh; and almost made me cry. “I was…” I was what? Distraught, I guess? I could not even begin to untangle all the things I have been feeling at the time. “…out of my mind.”

This elicited a sharp laugh. “That much is clear!” Another pause. This one was less sharp, but heavier. “I didn’t know what you wanted from me. Not because I hadn’t thought about it. Because I had. Just…not in a way I’d sorted out yet.” He shifted, uncrossing his arms, then folding them again, as though undecided what to do with his own body. “You didn’t give me time to be ready. You just…arrived.”

I nodded. “I do that when I’m afraid that if I wait, the courage will leave me.”

He huffed out a breath. “You might have warned me you were standing on that kind of edge.”

I felt a small smile pique the edge of my lips. “I know. I’m sorry. I would have, but I didn’t realize I was on that edge myself.”

The wind nudged at my hair, tugged at the sleeve of his coat. We both ignored it.

“I’m not…opposed,” he said, and winced immediately, as though the words came out flatter than he intended. “To…more. To whatever this is circling around. But I wasn’t prepared to have it named. Especially not like an accusation.”

“I wasn’t accusing you,” I said, then stopped. Let the truth catch up. “I suppose part of me was. I had something built up in my mind, I guess. An entire fable that you would have had no way of knowing about.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and something in his expression softened. “I don’t think you were accusing me of wrongdoing. I think you were accusing me of certainty.”

That landed too close to home. “I want honesty. Even if that honesty is ‘I don’t know.’”

“I can do that. But I need room inside it. I don’t make decisions well under siege.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the rest of my mouth. “Of course.”

We stood like that for a while—not reconciled exactly, but aligned enough to breathe.

“I didn’t pull away because of you,” he added, more quietly. “I pulled back because I realized I could step forward. And that felt…significant.”

I swallowed. “I should have trusted you with your own pace.”

“Yes." Then, gentler, “But thank you for trusting me at all.”

That, somehow, mattered more than the rest.

I exhaled, long and slow, then stepped forward. A moment later, I was weeping in his arms without remembering how I got there. Nothing had ever felt as good as his hand stroking my hair while he whispered literal sweet nothings.

The conversation with Lazhah did not go quite as well.

I went to him because apology felt like the last thin plank between us and something worse. Because I still believed, foolishly, that words might matter.

I found Lazhah sitting at his desk in a corner of the military office space. Fortunately, the place was empty at the time – the last thing I wanted was another public confrontation.

He didn’t rise when I entered. He stayed seated, elbows on the table, fingers laced, watching me approach like a claimant he’d already judged unworthy.

“I came to apologize,” I said. I hated how small my voice sounded in the space he controlled so easily. “I mishandled your proposal. I should never have answered you the way I did. Not in front of others.”

His mouth curved—not a smile, not really. Something meaner. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. The silence was deliberate, a leash he let go slack only to snap it again when I shifted.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you. I was surprised. And angry. Not at you—at the presumption. That you thought...”

“That I thought I could claim you?” he finished, finally standing. He was very calm now. That was worse. “You didn’t just refuse me, Sian. You made certain everyone heard it. You reduced me to an object lesson.”

“I reacted badly. That’s why I’m here.”

He laughed then, a short, incredulous sound. “No. You’re here because you think contrition restores balance. Because in your world, intention counts more than consequence.”

He took a step closer. I held my ground; I would not give him that satisfaction.

“You could have said no,” he went on, voice low and precise. “Privately. Politely. Instead you sat there and carved me open with your words, as if I were some overeager boy who forgot his place.”

I tasted iron. “That was not my intent.”

“I don’t care.”

That was the moment I knew I had misjudged him. Not his pride—I’d always known that ran deep—but his spite.

“I came to make peace,” I said.

“And I will spend my days making you regret that you didn’t,” he replied, without heat, without hesitation. “You thought rejection was the end of it. You’re wrong. Rejection was the beginning.”

I stared at him. “You would punish me for not wanting you?”

“For embarrassing me,” he corrected. “For reminding others that I can be denied.”

“You proposed. You don’t own my answer.”

His eyes flicked over me, cool and appraising, and the look stripped something down to the bone. “I don’t need to own it. I only need to make sure you understand the cost of giving it.”

I felt a coldness open in my chest, slow and spreading.

“I will oppose you where I can,” he continued, almost conversational. “Delay you. Undermine you. Smile while I do it. You will never be able to call it overt, never be able to point and say, there—he harms me. And if you complain?” He shrugged. “Well. You’re the one who refuses alliances.”

I swallowed. “This isn’t strength.”

“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “It’s patience.”

I should have left then. Instead I said, “I never meant to make an enemy of you.”

“You didn’t. You made yourself one.”

I turned away before he could see what his words had done. His voice followed me to the door.

“I wanted you,” he called after me. “Now I’ll settle for the satisfaction of watching you learn what that cost you.”

I did not look back. I had come to apologize; I left with the certainty that nothing I could have said would ever have been enough.

Fortunately, Lazhah’s day-to-day contributions to my discomfiture were minimized when I was summoned to Legate Rikke. Word of my accidental humiliation of Lazhah had, of course, spread throughout the barracks and Rikke was smart enough to recognize sending us on assignments together  would be a bad idea. “It would likely cause distractions,” she said in an understatement of epic proportions. Instead, I was given Kangme, an Argonian (that is, lizard person). As far as I can tell, Argonians are asexual. I have no idea how they have children. This was good in that he (actually, I’m not sure of gender. Make that they) had no interest in being stroked every night. On the other hand, they were extra picky about following the military rules to the letter. Never again, while Kangme was with us, were we able to skirt an Imperial camp. I was saved from days of hand-fucking Lazhah in exchange for long nights in Imperial camps.

Double fortunately, I didn’t have to spend much more time in Lazhah’s vicinity – my next assignment came in the next day: go to Whiterun and try to convince the Jarl, Balgruuf, to accept Imperial troops in his city because word was the Stormcloaks were going to attack it.

Which leads us, several days, four Imperial camps, and the beginnings of carpal tunnel in my hand to the biggest dick of them all, the one in charge of Whiterun.

By all accounts, Balgruuf is a good leader – fair in justice and even-keeled in a land of misshapen keels. I had had the same impression last time. Unless, it turns out, you happen to be a woman wearing a metal bikini (or an Argonian or Khajiit or any other non-human species).

I made the mistake of thinking I would be allowed to speak.

“Jarl Balgru…” I began, stepping forward just enough to signal intent.

He didn’t even look at me. A broad, dismissive wave of his hand cut me off mid‑word, like swatting at smoke. His eyes stayed fixed on Kellan as he said, voice calm but edged with iron, “Tell your whore to stay quiet.”

The words hit harder than a shouted rebuke. The mildness of them made it worse. Kellan froze.

I wonder to this day what Kangme would have said in that situation. Knowing them, they would have leapt to my defense, insisting I was the appointed ambassador, not for any love for me but simply because it was the correct protocol. Knowing what I now know about Balgruuf, that may well have turned into us getting kicked out and Whiterun turning to the Stormcloaks – the man really hated non-humans. So I suppose it was fortunate that Kangme had decreed it incorrect procedure for them to accompany me to the meeting since they were not, technically, invited.

I saw the moment land on poor Kellan—the abrupt weight of being addressed as the sole mouthpiece for a group he had no actual affiliation with, not to mention the sudden awareness that I had just been publicly reduced to an accessory. He glanced at me, startled.

I was of little help. I was furious, of course, but it was clear the Jarl was not going to listen to me. I am guessing the same would have been true had I been wearing real armor. Fucking Nords.

Poor Kellan did the best he could in a bed situation, for which I gave him a very grateful blow job later that night.

“My…my apologies, Jarl Balgruuf.” He cleared his throat. “We appreciate the audience.”

Balgruuf’s attention never wavered. “Good. Then you understand why I won’t have this council chamber turned into a chorus. Speak.”

Kellan hesitated. Just a beat too long. Then he stepped forward, alone.

“The Empire requests permission to station a limited force within Whiterun.” His delivery was steadier than I expected, if a touch stiff. “The intent is defensive – there is intelligence that the Stormcloaks may be heading this way.”

Balgruuf’s fingers drummed once against the arm of his throne. “The Stormcloaks are rumored to be doing all manner of things. You expect me to believe that Imperial soldiers within my walls would not constitute a declaration?”

“No. Only that refusing them may also be read as one.”

That earned him a slow, appraising look.

I stood there, silent, my hands folded behind my back to keep from clenching. Every instinct in me screamed to correct him, to refine the argument, to anticipate Balgruuf’s counters—but the Jarl had made his line unmistakably clear. I was not part of this exchange.

“Neutrality is a fragile thing,” Balgruuf said. “Once broken, it doesn’t mend easily.”

“Yes. But remaining unaligned may leave Whiterun isolated.”

“Isolation is preferable to occupation,” the Jarl replied flatly. Then, after a pause, “I won’t deny the danger. But I won’t be stampeded into inviting one side of a civil war into the heart of my city on promises alone.”

“I understand,” Kellan said, and this time his voice held a note of real conviction. “Whiterun’s loyalty, if given, should be given freely.”

That finally drew a nod. Small. Reluctant.

“Tell your superiors that I will consider their request. In my own time. If Imperial boots cross my threshold before that decision is made, they will be met as invaders.”

Kellan bowed. “I’ll make that clear.”

Only then did Balgruuf’s gaze flick, briefly, in my direction—not acknowledgment, not challenge, just confirmation that I had stayed precisely where he wanted me.

“See yourselves out.”

And so we did.

Have I mentioned how much I hate this fucking place?

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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I turned in the Jagged Crown at Castle Dour, still dusted with road grime, feet aching, and just so tired. General Tullius took it from my hands like it was a sack of grain. No fanfare. No crowd. No solemn ceremony or raised banners or anything that might suggest this object had once been fought over by armies and bled for by the dead.

“Good work,” he said. That was it.

Nothing followed – no discussion on what the crown might mean or even an immediate assignment. No new orders. No dramatic next step. Just a vague dismissal and the sense that I’d been filed away under useful, but currently inconvenient.

That’s how it always seems to go—you survive impossible things, you do exactly what you’re told, and then you’re left standing there wondering what you’re supposed to do with your hands.

With no new orders, of course, the army swallowed me into its routine. I spent the next few days doing exactly the kind of work no one sings about: hauling crates, scrubbing tables, carrying messages across the city, cleaning literal piles of clothes, peeling potatoes until my fingers wrinkled and split, and, of course, the endless hand jobs.

No one was cruel. No one was kind. I was just there in a sort of quasi-military purgatory, wondering if I should have just gone to Windhelm and assassinated Ulfric, thus ending the war in one quick blow.

On the fourth night of this shit, I’d finished a double cooking shift—chopping, stirring, serving, scraping burned porridge out of the bottom of a cauldron so big it could have drowned a child. My back was screaming, my hair smelled like grease, and my patience was already gone before I even made it to the benches.  I’d just sat down with my bowl when the voice rang out.

“There she is!”

The room went quiet in that way only military rooms do -- half a hundred people pausing at once, attention snapping toward the sound whether they meant to or not.

I looked up and found Lazhah standing on a bench. Actually standing -- boots planted wide, chest out, grinning like this was the proudest moment of his life. He was flanked by a few other men, all of them smiling like they were in on a joke I had definitely not agreed to.

He pointed at me like he’d found a prize hog at market. “There she is!” he said again, louder. “Sian!”

Every head turned my way and my stomach dropped.

I decided to come up with something witty, so I said, “What?”

He hopped down off the bench and crossed the floor, stopping right in front of me. Someone shoved a mug into his hand. Someone else started clapping. Gods help me, someone actually whistled.

“Sian,” he said, voice loud, steady, rehearsed. “We’ve fought beside each other, bled together, and bonded in ways I never thought possible. When I first got this assignment, I…I didn’t think…I just…”

He actually gulped at this point. Alarm bells clanged in my head so loud, I was sure everyone could hear them.

“When…when I saw the amulet, I… couldn’t believe you felt the same way I have come to.”

“No don’t…” I started to say, but he lurched forward, dropped to a knee, and lifted up a gaudy gold band with an array of mismatched stones in both hands.

“Will you marry me?”

The mess hall erupted.

Cheers. Laughter. Someone shouted, “About time!” Another yelled, “Say yes!”

In retrospect, there were better ways I could have handled my response. In my defense…I mean what the fuck?!

“What the fuck?!” I shouted. “Hell no! Absolutely not! Are you out of your goddamned mind?!”

The cheers died instantly; silence formed over the room like a bruise.

“I…” he started and I, afraid of doing something I would regret even more, shoved my untouched bowl away, pushed myself to my feet, and stormed out, boots echoing against stone, the sound of whispers following me like thrown pebbles.

I didn’t stop until I found Kellan.

He was in our room at the inn stitching his cloak and looked up as I entered, then frowned. “Is something wrong?”

I lifted the amulet of Mara. “I know what this fucking amulet is for.”

He blinked at it, looking befuddled. “Um…”

“Are you going to do anything about it?”

“Well,” he said carefully, “it’s not always meant so…literally.”

“So that’s a no?”

“No, I didn’t say that, I…”

“You didn’t say anything.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sian, I care about you. But right now isn’t…”

“Understood.” I reached up, grabbed the chain, and yanked. The clasp snapped and the amulet hit the stone floor with a sharp, ringing clatter. I turned and walked away before my tears could burst out in front of him.

I walked blindly, for once heedless of the stares my outfit always engendered. I found stairs and climbed until my legs burned, until the sounds of the city faded into wind and gull cries. I found myself on an empty stretch of ramparts overlooking the bay, the water dark and endless below.

The city lights blurred. I leaned forward, gripping the cold stone, and then it all came out.

The tears hit hard and fast, ugly, gasping sobs that bent me double. I wept for the crown that earned nothing; for meaningless days spent scrubbing floors and washing clothes and yanking dicks; for being seen as something to claim, something to manage, something to use.

I cried for the love I had felt but that had been as one-sided as that of Lazhah's for me.

I cried because I was so goddammed tired of fighting and still being cornered.

The wind tore at my hair and carried my sobs out to sea and I wished, for a time, I could join them.

When the tears finally burned themselves out, I stayed and watched the water, breathing through the ache in my chest, and reminded myself that I was still standing, and no fucking asshole man was going to keep me from being myself.

I’m not gay but at that point, I was sorely tempted to give it the ol’ college try anyway.

Don’t feed the bastards. Or marry them.

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Lane’s shortcut threaded through the upper ridges of the mountains between the plains outside Whiterun and the swamp that infested Morthal. It featured high, narrow paths where the wind screamed like it had personal grudges and the air felt thin enough to crack. The kind of place where you don’t fall so much as disappear, and everyone else just pretends you were never there because it just wouldn’t be worth the time and effort to try to find your body.

The cold didn’t bother me as I trudged along in my metal bikini while the others huddled under layers of furs looking absolutely miserable, but the wind was brutally strong. Snow dusted the stone in uneven sheets, hiding treacherous patches of ice that waited patiently for feet to slip or ankles to decide they had had enough, thank you very much.

After we had passed through the worst of it and come out on a snowy plateau, I heard a faint sound; voices, captured in illegible snatches.

At first, I thought it was the wind doing that thing it does—howling through cracks and gullies, turning into something that sounds like voices if your brain is tired enough. But this was different. Rhythmic. Measured. After a few more steps, I felt my blood grow cold as I realized what I was hearing.

Chanting.

Low. Deep. Familiar.

I stopped walking.

“Anyone else hear anything?” I asked, and much like the cheese shop purveyor, I expected the answer, “no.”

Kellan shook his head. Lazhah shrugged. The horses said, “Nay.” (Sorry about that one). Lane frowned, cocked her head, and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

I felt compelled to complete the bit of sketch I had started (skipping a bit, as Brother Maynard may have suggested), so I mumbled, “Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place.”

They looked at me with very much the expressions you might have expected, were someone to describe the above to you and you had to picture them. Which I did and you do.

I apologize again. Apparently I’m feeling meta today.

Anway, cutting to the chase, I followed my ears, turning left and wading through hip-deep snow that eventually thinned out, and came to a wind-swept rock surface. Each step brought the chanting clearer and louder until it resonated in my chest rather than my ears.

Three syllables repeating. Ancient. Heavy.

I crested a rise and nearly fell straight off the mountain.

Below me, carved into a broad shelf of stone halfway down the cliff face, lay a dragon’s den.

It probably wasn’t originally a dragon’s den, although what purpose it may have served this far up a mountain, I have no idea. The ledge was wide enough to hold a small army (or one very smug apex predator). Jagged rocks formed natural cover along the edges, and at the far end stood a massive stone wall carved with glowing runes.

A fucking Word Wall way up here in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Of course, the reason I referred to it as a dragon’s den was because there was one of those as well.

It was enormous. Slate‑gray scales rimed with frost, wings folded in like a cloak of living ice. Each slow breath steamed into the air, crystallizing before drifting away. Its eyes were closed but its presence pressed down on the world like gravity had decided to get personal.

I dropped flat behind a boulder, heart pounding, as the others caught up, then made hushing sounds and pointed frantically at the edge as they began to ask questions.

Five minutes later, we were back where we had started trying to come up with a plan.

To be fair, it seemed like a good plan. It involved a very large boulder, a Shout, and gravity. The boulder was big but not so big it couldn’t move and, after some discussion, we agreed on an angle that seemed like it would make the boulder drop right on the dragon’s head. However, have I mentioned how fucking fast dragons are?

I positioned myself behind the boulder and gave it rip-roaring good Force Push. It obligingly left its place and shot for the cliff. However, the entire process was quite loud and the boulder was back a solid forty yards. By the time it dropped off the cliff, the dragon was not only already airborne, it was bearing down on us.

Now, I’m aware I have short-shrifted or even totally skipped my descriptions of a number of dragon fights up to this point, so you may, perhaps, be somehow under the impression that they were some kind of walks in the park. Easy game for us tempered warriors. The fact that I’m writing this, after all, is a spoiler alert of the first degree that I survived them.

Let me be clear, then, so there is no mistake: fighting dragons is not scary, frightening, nerve-wracking, or even panic-inducing.

It is fucking terrifying, to the extreme end of the meaning.

You may think I would have an advantage with my fancy shouts but what I learned very quickly was that I had exactly one (1) free shout  -- once they learned I could do that, they switched to a completely different kind of fighting using their own shouts and…well, let’s just say they had a LOT more experience with the fucking things than I did. They were able to counter everything I tried to use.

The only chance I had was to use the shouts I had in ways they did not anticipate, such as the aforementioned Force Pushing their shouts right back into their faces.

I bring this up because this was the first time I used that particular tactic with the full Force Push strength enabled, and it is the only reason we survived that fight.

See, the thing about dragons is, they can fly. We could not. Some of them landed from time to time, giving us an opportunity to actually hit them, but most of the time, they wisely stayed well out of range and just blasted us from the air or made sweeping dives, which were extra fear-inducing on a fucking ice-covered cliff.

In other fights, we were able to use terrain to get them down to our level -- it’s hard to kill something in a forest, since even if you burn the trees, the burned trees are still there. But there was nothing like that out on this snowy plain.

But then it swept down at us and I had a lucky angle. It started to breathe ice and I Force Pushed that shit right back up it throat and…well, we’ll just call it what it was. The thing suffocated on the ice ball that formed in its throat. It couldn’t breathe and stumbled over the cliff and crashed to the ground next to the word wall, where it convulsed for so long, I actually began to feel bad for the thing. Finally, it shuttered to stillness.

Two seconds later, I had a massive orgasm on the edge of the cliff that almost had me joining it in death. Fortunately, Lane and Kellan were there to pull me back.

It took us the rest of the day to get down to the nest, or whatever. It was clearly manmade, with old stone flagstones that remained impressively mostly whole. Presumably it was some sort of old altar or… I have no idea, I don’t know why I’m bothering to speculate.

As we approached the all, Lane reminded us that having orgasms like this was not very good for me. Lazhah immediately volunteered to help with that, which prompted Kellan to get over his dislike of extreme public displays of affection.

Which is to say, we made love to the sounds of my getting the next word and I gotta tell you – it was the best feeling I have ever had. The orgasms were already mind blowing, but the shared experience added another dimension. It did help with the pressure on my brain, so I felt less fearful of a sudden aneurysm, but somehow having that dick inside me during it made the rest of my body…I don’t know, balance things out. It still felt all-universe good, but it felt that way on a deeper level that didn’t feel like it would harm me.

Or something. I don’t know how to explain it. The point is, fucking when taking a dragon soul or a word from a word wall felt better while also removing the pressure that made me unable to think and made me feel like my head would explode.

Or, even more succinctly: Lane was right.

Anyway. This was where I picked up Freeze!, otherwise known as Fo Krah Diin. I did NOT like it. I still don’t, and I never use it. It gave my tongue frostbite the only time I tried it (which was right there at the word wall, and it’s a good thing my head was on Kellan’s shoulder – if we had been kissing, it would have likely frozen his head off). Freeze! Is the breath weapon the dragons use – the very same one the dragon we had just killed was using. It really hurts if your mouth is not a dragon’s mouth. 0/10, do not recommend.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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See, the last time I had been in the area we were traversing, I had come from a different direction - a near-vertical drop from the mountain that towered over us on the right. So, coming as we did from the road, I didn’t recognize the Stormcloak camp until they ambushed us from it.

I’m not sure if they attacked because of Lazhah’s Imperial uniform (they certainly had no reason to recognize my outfit as such) or because they were horny and thought Lane and I looked like easy pickings once they took care of our three-male escort. My bet is on the latter, which brings with it a slice of irony; I had been perfectly safe in the camp last time because they had fuck slaves to deal with their lust. Now, in a land where slavery was illegal, I was not safe around them. 

Men are sick creatures, as a general rule.

Fortunately, there weren’t many, presumably because some were out on patrol. As a bonus irony, I ended up with the same dappled grey mare I had stolen last time. Only this time, all the witnesses were dead.

To be clear, they weren’t dead because of me. I followed my new playbook and used my Shouts liberally. I started with a nice Force Push to clear some space between them and us, then used a combination of Timeout and Force Speed to get behind people, take off their helmets, then smack them as hard as I could with the flat of my blade. Sometimes it took a couple hits, but I was able to successfully knock out quite a few of them. The rest were mowed down with much less mercy by my companions.

After the battle was over, Lazhah reversed my handiwork; he walked up to the unconscious Stormcloaks and, one by one, dispatched them with a quick thrust of his sword. When I protested, he gave me a flat stare and said, “We don’t have the manpower to take them prisoner and we can’t just let them go free. They’re rebels; this is war. You need to accept that and have the strength to do what needs to be done.”

Which, I mean, he was right, in the strictest sense, and once again I had no recourse or valid argument.

The dappled grey’s name was Tina (that is as close an approximation to the sound she made as I can manage) and we got along famously as soon as I fed her some carrots and an apple and promised we were heading to a place with a warm stable. I warned her it would be a long trip, but she didn’t care; she was very tired of standing around in the outdoors while other horses got to go places that presumably had roofs.

I expected this new arrangement to be good for everyone, but when I went to Helen and began to uncinch my saddle so I could transfer it, she looked back at me with her huge eyes and did an impressive rendition of a growl. “You aren’t abandoning me for that…that dray, are you?”

“I…no, of course we’re not abandoning you. We wouldn’t just leave you here.”

“Then why are you taking off my saddle?”

“Well, I’m going to ride Tina instead, of course. I…”

“You most certainly will not! I am a Sayvay, I will not be reduced to carrying luggage like a dray!”

“I thought you would like this. You do not seem very fond of me.”

“That is of no account! This is a matter of pride, not popularity!”

For the love of…I sighed and put my hazy Psych 101 (technically Psych 304 - I was working on a Psych minor) skills to work.

“You don’t understand, Helen – this isn’t about preference. It is about…” I leaned forward and added in a low conspiratorial voice, “...intelligence.”

“I…what?”

“You and I know you are much smarter than her.”

“Of course!”

“Of course. That’s why I’m doing this – because I need you for more important tasks.”

“Im…important?”

“Yes. I apologize, I should have told you this plan earlier but I wanted your promotion to be a surprise.”

“Promotion?”

“Yes! You are now Horse First Class! Here is the insignia for your new office.” I dug in my pack and pulled out a box of sweets I had purchased in Ivarstead. It had stood out because a bright blue bow had been wrapped around the box, a rare occasion of someone making an effort at presentation in this god-forsaken world. I untied the ribbon, then stood and, with as much dramatic flair as I could manage, tied it in a bow to Helen’s mane. “Congratulations, Helen, First Class Horse!”

“Well, I mean…” She turned her head, looking back at the bow (or at least trying – I’m not sure if she could see it or not). “…I am honored, of course, but…”

“With this promotion comes, of course, extra pay.”

“…I don’t know…pay? What pay?”

“An extra apple each day, as well as first dibs on grazing spots when we stop.”

This seemed to placate her and I finally got my saddle onto Tina and, for the moment, everything seemed fine.

We gathered what Stormcloak supplies we had room for, including a nice selection of meats from a recent hunt, tools, furs, and weapons, especially arrows. Lazhah wanted to set the tents on fire but I managed to talk him out of that; the last thing I wanted to add to my already-guilty conscience was a forest fire. He resorted to slashing holes in them with his sword, much he had to their recent inhabitants.

As we got back on the road, Kellan gave me a wry grin.

“With the way you go about things with all these animals, I could almost believe you can actually talk to them.”

I shrugged. “I can.”

“What?”

“I can talk to them, as plainly as I am talking to you now.”

“What?!”

I frowned at him. “I take it back – they have better comprehension than you. I said…”

“I heard what you said, Little Dragon. I just…have a hard time believing it.”

I shrugged again. “Despite what Christian Scientists will tell you, belief does not create reality - it is true despite your disbelief. By the way, Ninzfal hates it when you dig your toes into his flank. Like you’re doing right now. So try to break that habit, will you?”

For the third time, “What?” Kellan glanced down at his feet, then turned his toes out. “I didn’t know I was doing that.”

“He knows, which is why he hasn’t thrown you off. But now that you know, try not to.”

“I…um…of course. Erm…sorry, Ninzfal.” Kellan patted the horse’s neck and Ninzfal flicked his ears.

“He says you’re forgiven. Maybe we can find you softer boots.”

It was later that night, when we made camp on a hill overlooking the ruins of Helgen (we thought about going into the city but, by the looks of it, bandits had taken over the place and there didn’t seem to be a reason to fight unnecessary battles), that the squabbling began.

See, the other horses noticed the ribbon and, of course, Helen started boasting about her “promotion” and the perks that came with it and an inevitable and completely foreseeable argument broke out. I won’t bore you with the details – suffice to say, by the end of our journey, all the horses were bedecked in ribbons and carried hastily made-up titles of varying ridiculousness and I wished on more than one occasion that I had just kept my fool mouth shut. I can only imagine the chaos they must have created once they got back to the Imperial stables.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed the horses instead.

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Wolves are somewhat similar but, being (very very large) dogs, they are not good conversationalists and can’t really be reasoned with – they get too distracted. Which is, of course, the key to dealing with them – distract them by pointing out something in the distance (really hype it up, no matter how mundane it is) and they will usually go leaping after it. 

This doesn’t work with sabrecats. They also cannot be reasoned with, but that is because they see everything and everyone as prey. Talking to them only gives them the opportunity to taunt you. I am convinced whoever wrote the lines for Shere Khan (yes, I know Rudyard Kipling wrote the book but, I am ashamed to say, I never read it – I can only go by the Disney movie, and I trust not at all that the lines in the movie were scraped directly from the book) has attempted similar conversations.

As we moved on, that thought extrapolated itself in my head in a manner not unlike one of those black squares we used to set on fire during the Fourth of July. You know, the ones that expand into super long black worms?

Okay, so it’s another poor metaphor. Point is, it gradually dawned on me that I didn’t have to be a mass murderer. I mean, it was already a little late to avoid that, but I didn’t have to continue to be so. Most of the people I had fought were not evil or deserving of death (as far as I knew). The bandits, for instance, generally seemed like desperate people just trying to survive (this new clemecy did not extend to slavers).

The soldiers were a little different, since they had kinda signed up for it, but even then, I imagined they would prefer, say, a concussion over death. I determined at that point to spare as many people as possible while fighting. Fewer stabs to the gut and more blows to the head!

I got mixed reviews on this plan when I mentioned it to the others.

“That is commendable, but not always practical,” Lane said.

Kellan nodded. “When I’m fighting, I’m worried about my survival, not theirs.”

“Kill or be killed. It is the soldiers’ way of life,” added Lazhah. “Especially when facing Stormcloaks - those rebels deserve to die.”

Okay, by “mixed reviews,” I mean it was pretty unanimous on the other side of things. Still, with my newfound abilities to slow time and not get hit, I felt I would be able to manage it on most occasions.

Later that night, Lazhah pulled out a map and some other implements I was unfamiliar with but which turned out to be tools to determine our location and said, “We are close to the Rift Imperial camp. We’ll need to check in there tomorrow.”

The idea gave me chills and I immediately came up with every idea I could to avoid it. Unfortunately, the entire list was one item long and it was immediately shot down.

“We don’t have time. We need to get the crown back to…”

“We had time to divert our route a hundred miles in the wrong direction, climb a mountain, and go through a ruin. No, I accepted the need to skip the camps on the way to Korvanjund, even though we should have checked in, because we truly were in hurry. Now, we are not, and we need to follow protocol.”

I had no reasonable argument, so I just stewed. Then, unexpectedly, Lazhah continued in a softer voice.

“I…know how you feel. And I admit I am not so keen on…sharing you. But we have to follow protocol.”

I just shrugged and swallowed the rest of my meal and went off to the nearby creek to start the fucking laundry.

That night, during our session, Lazhah was quieter than he had been, but he stared at me with an intense look as I stroked away. The entire thing felt very weirdly intimate and I picked up the pace, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He shifted a hand and his fingers brushed against my knee; then he quickly closed his hand and pulled it away again, so I was uncertain whether it had been accidental or not.

I suspected not.

He came a few moments later, and when his hand grabbed my knee during his spams, I knew for certain. I turned enough so his hand fell away (although he still contrived to have it land in such a way that it touched my thigh). After his load had emptied, I whispered a Timeout and got out of there as quickly as my legs could carry me so I wouldn’t have to hear him if he decided to say something.

To say I travelled with an air of trepidation throughout the next day is an understatement. I had no appetite, snapped at everyone who tried to talk to me, and almost got dumped by Helen, who complained I was being too rough with her bridle.

We arrived at the Imperial camp at around midday and things grew exponentially worse.

First of all, one of the first people I saw was my very first master, Oron Pior.

You remember him: bought me after I was enslaved because Lydia decided to storm a fortress of bandits all by herself, stuck me in a cage overnight, whipped me and raped me and beat me to the point where I miscarried his child, yet whom I was so devoted to, I named that child after him as I wept over his death.

To say I had mixed feelings is an understatement of Biblical proportions. I would like to tell you that seeing him gave me something of a catharsis or inspiration about...I don't know, myself. Or something. I don't know how to explain it - it just felt like it should be some momentous occasion but, of course, he didn't know who I was and I had long ago got over whatever weird Stockholm feelings I had had for him. In this uncomfortable personal stalemate, I alternated between glaring at him and avoiding his eyes but found catharsis in neither.

Worse…there were no other female soldiers in camp. Somehow, the five assigned to this particular company were all on patrol at the same time and had been gone for over a week.

Needless to say, these assholes were VERY pleased to see me. I tried to get out of the tasks expected of my by telling them I was the Dragonborn, but that got no traction, other than scoffs from the Nords of the company. There was a much bigger reaction when Lazhah attempted to be helpful by telling them I was the Naasektenti, but that had the opposite reaction I was going for. Apparently, word of what went down in Korvanjund had got around and they had heard of me, but instead of bringing an attitude of respect, it seemed to redouble their slavering hunger for me. Did I mention the word means "prostitute devil"? They were well aware of its meaning and seemed to take it quite literally. (Incidentally, this knowledge made the commander of the camp curious as to why we were all the way down there instead of in Solitude, where we had been expected days ago. Lazhah, of all people, came up with the very reasonable sounding excuse that we knew the Stormcloaks were after the crown, so decided to go a way they never would have guessed.)
 

Thus started the longest fucking day of my life. Emphasis on fucking. Well, hand-fucking, anyway.

They already had food made, so I didn’t have to try to cook for the entire company, but the pile of laundry was taller than me. I did the absolute most cursory job, just dipping the clothes and scrubbing at the worst-looking stains for a few seconds before moving to the next, but it was still already dark by the time I finished. Which wasn’t a blessing, because they were, of course, all very eager for what (and, more to the point, who) came next.

Lane was (I mean it figuratively but, come to think of it, also in a way literally) heaven sent – several of the men chose to worship Dibella instead of waiting their turns for my hurried hand jobs. But she was only one priestess and her job took much longer per person than mine, so I still ended up stroking forty-three cocks that night. It is the only time in my Imperial career that I (very very briefly) considered allowing the use of other parts of my body, just to hurry things along. I certainly had plenty of opportunity for it - every single one of them felt it appropriate to latch his hands onto me and most seemed disappointed I was only handing (ha!) out handjobs; clearly, they had expected full service.

To make matters worse, their cots were not situated in a way that gave easy access to two dicks at a time and they didn't seem disposed toward rearranging things for my benefit, so I was forced to go one at a time. The entire ordeal took somewhere in the vicinity of four hours, by my estimation.

When it came time for Oren, I kept my eyes turned away, wanting to look at anything but him, which is how I ended up in a staring match with Lazhah, who had once again (oh so graciously!) allowed me to skip him but who stood in the barracks tent and watched me for the first couple hours. I spent my time trying to figure out what the hell his game was, but I was no closer to an answer by the time he left.

It was very dark and very quiet by the time my cramped hands and I stumbled out of the tent. I washed up in the river, splashed water on my face, then went to the small tent that had been set aside for me and my little group and woke them all up.

“Come on. We’re going.”

“What?” Kellan peered up at me from under a warm and inviting looking fur blanket. I wanted nothing more than to crawl in with him and snuggle into his heat.

“We’re leaving. Or I am, anyway. You can stay here if you want.” I grabbed my still-unpacked satchel and strode out, heading for the horses, wavering not a step as I heard muttered curses and the sounds of movement behind me.

We were on the road ten minutes later. I huddled in Helen’s saddle, trying not to think about what had happened that day but failing because it was the only fucking thing I could think about.

Kellan eventually sidled up to me while yawning, then said, “Are you all right, Little Dragon?”

“Fuck no. That was one of the worst experiences of my life.” I didn’t have to think hard before correcting, “Never mind, it doesn’t even crack the top 50. But Jesus Christ.” A pause, then I tossed him a side glance. “Sorry for dragging you out of bed. I could only picture getting up in the morning only to have them tell me that since it was a new day, I had to do it all again before I could leave.” I shook my head. “I hate this place so much.”

Kellan gave me a sympathetic nod, then his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Hopefully not everything about it is bad.”

“Well…it is pretty to look at. I’ll give it that.”

“That’s everything, is it?”

“Doing a little fishing, are we? Fine. Yes, of all the people and things I have come across in this cursed land, I am very glad to have met you. Happy? Did that stroke your ego enough?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Although if it is about stroking, other things could…”

“Don’t even say it! You have full access to any other part of me you want, but I’m a little burned out on stroking other things for the time being.”

“Lazhah will be glad to hear it.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Yes, that’s what we were just discussing, isn’t it?”

Then we both laughed and, for a moment I was able to forget about things and just enjoy being in a man's presence. Which, let me tell you, was becoming harder and harder by the day.

This time, pun fucking not intended.

Don’t feed the little bitches. They take it as permission.

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We reached Ivarstead just as the last of the sunlight filtered away behind the mountains and went back to the inn, where Lane was given her own room for free so she could do her day job (or, I guess, night job). I marveled at her energy – it took all I had to give Lazhah his handy (along with a conversation because, for some reason, he had begun to get chatty during our...I don't know what to call them. Sessions, I guess...and every time, he asked more about where I was from and my family and stuff. I didn't think he deserved (or would believe) the truth, so I made up a bunch of shit. I had quite a backstory built up before too long!) before going back to the room I shared with Kellan and collapsing into bed, asleep nearly as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day, we entered Shroud Hearth Barrow prepared for everything we could think of. I had seen plenty of draugr, of course, as well as those fucking animated skeletons that had shot at me on the road from Winterhold, so I had no reason to disbelieve in incorporeal spirits – clearly this fucked up land was a place where the undead were alive (or whatever) and well.

What I didn’t know was how to fight them. Would regular swords do anything or just pass through them? Would my Shouts have any effect?

My companions were, for once, just as clueless as I. They had all heard of ghosts and believed them to be real but had never encountered them. It was suggested they could only be killed by weapons made of pure silver, like werewolves (it would also not have surprised me to learn those existed here, along with vampires, goblins, ghouls, and who knows what else. It made me think that all the stories of such beings actually came from others who had been dragged here but managed to get back to Earth, a thought that gave me some modicum of hope). The only such weapon we could find in the dinky town was a paring knife that the owner, once she heard how desperate we were, tried to sell for an insanely exorbitant price.

So it with some trepidation and no silver that we descended a rickety-looking but surprisingly solid spiral staircase to the entrance of the barrow, which seemed a ridiculous design. Funerals are generally somber, stately, dignified affairs, and I could think of few things that would break such decorum more completely than trying to maneuver a seven-foot-long box down a three-level narrow circular staircase.

My first clue that all was not as it seemed was the bottom of the staircase itself which, upon closer inspection, had clearly been repaired in several places with lumber that, even to my untrained eyes, looked pretty fucking new.

The second clue was the ghost’s Dunmer (those are the so-called dark elves, like Rayya from Witnerhold; they all have dark-grey skin, startling pink or red eyes, and speak Common with accents very akin to posh British) voice that floated through the air from an uncertain source. It said, “Leeeeaaave this plaaaace."

I slapped by hand to my face, shook my head, and muttered, “Jinkies! You have got to be kidding,” engendering odd looks from my companions.

Kellan glanced from me to the walls around us. “What?”

I sighed as I lowered my hand and shook my head again. “This is bullshit, is what. There isn’t a ghost. It’s just some idiot pretending to be one. I bet there is some kind of treasure down here he is trying to find so he is trying to keep everyone else away.”

“What? How could you know that?”

“Because the so-called ghost bothered to tell us to leave. That always struck me as hilarious – as if a ghost wouldn’t just straight out attack or possess someone or start throwing shit around, like in Poltergeist. No, instead the ghost or monster or demon or whatever was always clearly just anxious for the gang to go away; they would wave their arms and make noises from a distance because closer examination would give away the ruse.”

Lane cleared her throat. “I thought you said you had no experience with ghosts.”

“I haven’t, personally. But I watched a lot of tv shows about them.”

“A lot of what?”

“They’re…like plays. Productions with actors telling a story. This particular one was a cheesy kid’s show with the same simple plot in each episode featuring the most ridiculous antagonists ever.”

“I…see.” Kellan continued to look around with a sense of unease, his sword at the ready. “Well, it sounded convincing enough to me. I suggest we do not let our guards down.”

“Would it help if I gave you a Scooby snack?" I waved a hand at their inevitable blank expressions. “Yes, keep our guards up - I’m sure he has all manner of regular traps set out. Which would be more proof he is not a ghost – why would a ghost need traps?”

But he hadn’t set any traps because Wyndelius Gatharian was a complete idiot, and how his stupid façade worked for as long as it did is just a testament to the equal idiocy of the people of Skyrim.

We found him soon after our discussion, a glowing figure behind a securely locked metal grate/door, literally waving his hands and making moaning sounds. I just shook my head and gave him a Force Push, then immediately wished I had gone with a different tactic when his body flew backward and slammed into the stone wall behind him with a heavy thud intermingled with a sound like a coconut being cracked open, which is exactly what happened to the back of the poor idiot’s head.

I winced as I hurried forward while calling out, “Oops! Sorry! I didn’t mean for that to happen!” He did not hear me, as much of the part of him that had controlled his hearing (and the other functions of his body) was now splattered on the wall.

Not incidentally, this was the moment when I realized I needed to learn to control the strength of my Shouts. After some experimentation over the course of the next few days, it turned out this was as simple as saying only part of the Words. For instance, saying only Fus, the first draconic word in Force Push, emitted only the first level version of it. Unfortunately for Wyndelius, I figured that out much too late.

I Ghosted (yes, I am aware of the irony of the name I gave that Shout in this context) my way into the room and pulled the lever to let the others in, then looked around at everything that was not the body of the man I had just accidentally murdered. The room held an assortment of papers that had been scattered by my Shout, but eventually we learned his plot, which was exactly as I had suspected – Wyndelius had concocted a potion to make himself glow so he could pretend to be a ghost to keep others away while he tried to figure out how to open a door further in the catacombs.

I don’t want to get bogged down with a bunch of unnecessary details, so suffice to say it turned out the innkeeper had the key (in the form of a dragon’s claw made of a gold-painted metal and sapphire claws) that Wyndelius had been looking for all along. The innkeeper gave it to us as the reward for solving The Case of the Haunted Barrow and we spent the rest of the day exploring the place.

Although each of the various tombs/barrows/caves/catacombs we ended up going through in our travels looked, felt, and definitely smelled different, the general particulars were the same, so instead of boring you with detailed play-by-play accounts of each one, I’m going to take this moment to tell you what the general experience was like.

First of all: not as dark as you might expect. Other than natural cave systems, which, when inhabited, were usually lit by sputtering torches crammed into cracks in the walls or, when not inhabited, were often filled with bioluminescent fungi, most of the places had ancient sconces imbued with some kind of eternal light magic that lit the passageways and rooms adequately enough to see the horrors that “lived” there. The Energizer bunny has nothing on whatever those used as a power source!

Speaking of those horrors, there seemed an endless variety – tall, short, thin…extra thin. Most were withered to darkened skin tightly squeezed over a skeleton, but some had something resembling muscle mass. A fair number could Shout, although their repertoire was limited to underpowered versions of Force Push and Freeze! (a scaled down version of the ice dragons’ breath weapon - and, yes, the ! is part of the name). As it was explained to me, the draugr were former priests (and their acolytes) who served and advocated for the dragons a few millennia ago when the dragons ruled the world. Also, they couldn’t be permanently killed – the reason there were still so many, even after thousands of years, was because they slowly regenerated over time. How fun is that?

There were, of course, other undead things, like skeletons and, it turned out, vampires, but also a great number of non-undead things, like giant spiders, giant rats, giant saber-toothed tigers, giant wolves, and, as mentioned previously, Falmer and their disgusting giant centipedes.

Oh, and people. There were plenty of people to be found, mostly bandits (and, occasionally, slaves they had captured and whom we, of course, released and escorted back to safety) but also occasional explorers or treasure-hunters. The former were, to a person, gregarious and fun to chat with and almost always gave us the fascinating stories behind whichever temple/crypt/whatever we happened to be in; the latter were always very on edge and nearly as ready to fight as the bandits, since they did not care for competition.

We moved through these places with care (and I developed strong thigh muscles from all the crouching), always on the lookout for traps, some cleverly hidden, some so obvious they made me worry they were decoy traps designed to lure us into the real trap. We picked off targets from a distance whenever possible, although that opportunity was rare in the twisting tunnels most of them were fashioned from.

I kept a cloth over my nose and mouth (even under the mask I haven’t yet got to, chronologically) while delving because of the thick and inevitable layer of dust that covered everything and tried to block out the occasional flashbacks of the mine from my previous time whenever some little thing would bring up an unexpected moment of déjà vu.

Most, but not all, of these places had a word wall. The one we found in Shroud Hearth was kaan drem ov, which means “Kyne’s Peace” in dragon but which I call “Good Boy!” because it calms hostile animals into (temporarily) tame ones. I have scritched the adorably soft ears of wolves, bears, and sabrecats, and even got to play Androcles for a mammoth. Envy me.

It also made hunting a lot easier, although I felt really bad about it. Except when I used it on goats. I despise goats.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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The troll was still there but it didn’t take long for the four of us to cut it down. I yanked out some of its teeth (engendering a few odd stares from the others) to re-create my necklace from last time, although I never got around to making it. I wonder what happened to those – I forgot all about that until just now. Hmm.

Anyway, we got to the monastery at around noon of the second day and I got a surprise first thing when one of the Greybeards who has not Arngeir (the only one who had spoken to me last time) took one look at me and blurted out, “It’s you! You are the Dragonborn?!”

He seemed to want to say more, but Arngeir snapped, “Wuulfgar!” and the man flushed, bowed his head under his deep cowl, and turned away before I could ask any questions.

“My apologies,” Arngeir said as he interposed himself between the chastened monk and me. “It is forbidden for us to speak unless granted dispensation, such as I have been given to speak with you, Dragonborn. I am Arngeir, and I speak for the Greybeards.”

“He seemed to recognize her,” Lane pointed out.

“Indeed. No doubt he saw you in a vision, Dragonborn, a common occurrence here. Ah, but I am making assumptions. Let us make certain you truly are Dragonborn. Show us; let us taste of your Voice.”

I shrugged. I hadn’t spent a ton of time with the Greybeards last time, but I knew enough to know I would get no further answers until I proved myself.

One Force Push later, Arngeir smiled and held his arms wide. “Dragonborn. It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar. Tell me, why have you come here?”

“That’s a funny question to ask, considering you were the ones who called out to me.”

“We called but you did not have to choose to answer.”

“Fair enough. I’m here to learn how to Shout better.”

“"We are honored to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny."

“Destiny, is it? If you say so. Teach me your words, shoutkeeper; I’m not afraid.” Naturally, this went right over his head. It is a lonely spot to be in a place where no one gets your references!

"You have shown that you are Dragonborn - you have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

Spoiler alert: I did.

Actually, I probably did not – now that I think about it, Arngeir must have been under the impression I would need to expend some sort of effort, much like they did, but sucking up words and dragon souls required no discipline or any particular temperament from me at all. I just had to stand there.

That said, I did have to demonstrate quite a bit of discipline and restraint during the hour and a half of training I received from them, but not because learning the Shouts was difficult; it was so as not to make a fool of myself in front of them. Fortunately, I knew what to expect and had spent a lot of time considering how to handle it.

I will explain, although you probably already have a pretty good idea what I’m talking about.

The Greybeards taught me the second (and, eventually, third) stage of Force Push and the first stage of Wuld Nah Kest, which they call “Whirlwind Sprint” but which I, of course, call Force Speed. As much as I hate Skyrim, at least it gave me the opportunity to be a Jedi!

At each stage of this training, I soaked up the word, just as at the word walls, and one of the monks…emptied himself of their knowledge of the word and gave it to me. This is not sexual, in case that is what popped into your mind.

They tried to explain it to me – they learn “shapes” of words then imbue them with mana to make them work, or something to that effect. Apparently giving me their knowledge of the words meant they had to start all over with the building and filling of their shapes before they could use that word again, which could take years. I didn’t think much of it at the time (and had thought even less on my first trip there), but over time, it slowly dawned on me what kind of sacrifice that must have been.

Probably not coincidentally, Wuulfgar, the monk who had spoken out of turn at my arrival, was the one chosen to give me the first two words. I was dying to know what he had meant but, of course, he spoke nothing other than the dragon words to give them to me and Arngeir would speak no more of it.

Anyway, I had the same reaction to learning these words as I did at the walls and, although not as powerful as a dragon soul, a similar reaction upon receiving their mana. I did NOT want to flail around in orgasms in front of them, so before each time, I got onto my knees, keeping my legs tight and hands on my thighs, and just squeezed myself as the orgasms pushed through me. It worked, to a point – I didn’t flail around or sound like a third-rate porn star, but I could not keep some gasps and whimpers from escaping and I was sweating fiercely by the time it was over.

The best part, of course, came after my initial training, after I had demonstrated my new mastery of Force Speed.

“"Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is... astonishing. I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself..."

“Thank you.” I tried and, I think, mostly succeeded not to smirk as I added, “What’s next?”

“"You are now ready for your last trial. Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you will return."

“Oh! You mean this old thing?”

Ah, the expression on his face when I pulled out the horn was priceless! I had not talked to him much, in this life or the last,  but he had never shown a whiff of discomposure until that moment.

“The…the horn! How did…”

A pause then, as he gathered himself, then glanced at Wulfgar, who was watching us both with an intense stare.

“I…see. I will have to apologize to Brother Wuulfgar - he warned us something like this might happen but I did not believe.” Another cryptic statement that, once again, he refused to elaborate on. Instead, “You've retrieved the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Well done. You have now passed all the trials. Come with me. It is time for us to recognize you fully as Dragonborn."

This is where they gave me the final form of Force Push before performing a ceremony where they all Shouted a long litany of words in the dragon tongue (from close range – my ears were ringing by the time they were done). Unlike last time, when I was just looking for slavery-escaping power (a plan that turned out so well) and didn’t really care about the details, I actually asked what the hell they had said this time.

He responded, "We spoke the traditional words of greeting to a Dragonborn who has accepted our guidance. The same words were used to greet the young Talos, when he came to High Hrothgar, before he became the Emperor Tiber Septim."

Not really what I had asked, but interesting. In distant retrospect, that should have raised an alarm bell or two, but I was, at the time, still ignorant of so many things. “What did you actually say?”

"Ah. I sometimes forget you are not versed in the dragon tongue as we are. This is a rough translation:

Long has the Stormcrown languished,

With no worthy brow to sit upon.

By our breath we bestow it now to you

In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor,

And in the name of Atmora of Old.

You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North; hearken to it."

They did not give me an actual crown, so I’m still not sure what the first couple lines really meant, but the name stuck in the sense that, from that point forward, they called me Ysmir. Kellan also liked the name and started calling me his “little dragon,” which was both adorable and annoying at the same time but which was better than “she-devil,” at any rate.

With my training done in record time, we spent the night on uncomfortable stone beds (it was the second time Lazhah turned down my duty for the night, probably because the beds were in an open dormitory and all the Greybeards were present), so I cuddled with Kellan and failed to sleep because my back started aching almost immediately. The Monk life definitely is not for me.

Don’t feel the bastards. Make them sleep on stone beds instead. Trust me - that is a fitting punishment for nearly any crime.

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A propos of nothing, this world really needs coffee.

I remembered the amulet just after the words left my lips and a I felt a growing panic as I realized the trap I had set for myself – I was not prepared to have a conversation about marriage first thing in the morning! What the hell had I been thinking?! Several conflicting thoughts jumped into my mind and my lips were already moving to try to speak all of them at once when Kellan burst the ballon of my discomfiture by motioning at something lower on my body than the necklace.

“When did you get a tattoo? And how is it moving? Magic?”

This question stopped my brain in its erratic tracks, leaving my mouth to its own devices against the tide of words that it had been about to try to speak. The end result came out something akin to, “Iborlifwhat?”

He pointed, so I focused my bleary eyes on my leg. Sure enough, what looked like a small tattoo moved like an ant horizontally right-to-left across my skin. I twisted my leg as it traced its way around my calf, then watched as it meandered its way back to the front, completing a full circuit in the space of seven-ish second.

“What the fuck.”

“Oh, there are more. Three, it looks like. One is going around your neck. The other…” he stopped, then grinned. “The other is one I would like to follow with my tongue.”

“I…what?!”

He bent forward and kissed the top of my right breast, so I looked down and, sure enough, a similar shape was just dipping into the trough between my breasts. I watched in fascination as it made its way up the hill on the left side, then arched away toward my side.

“What the hell?! Have these been there or did they just appear?”

Kellan shrugged. “I haven’t noticed them until now, but I suppose it is possible they have been here. They’re pretty small and two of them would have been covered by the rug most of the time. Speaking of which, where is the rug?”

“I…” I looked around, then swore. “I forgot to pick it back up. It’s still in the stupid crypt.”

“We can swing by and grab as we leave.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not going to bother with it anymore. It just gets in the way. Fuck it – I used to wear bikinis to the pool and the beach and it never bothered me. I’ll get used to it.” After a brief flashback to the groping hands in the barracks, I amended, “I might get one when we get back to the city. It won’t matter until then.”

“Fair enough. Oh, and by the way, that necklace you found has some meaning for Nords. Might want to be careful about wearing it in public.”

He winked and turned away, leaving me speechless and entirely discombobulated.

Upon further study, I eventually realized the “tattoos” were in the shape of letters in the dragon language and were, in fact, the words of the Shouts I had activated. Eventually my skin was literally crawling with them.

Anyway, we got packed up but then got delayed trying to decide where to go. The answer to that may seem obvious – I was supposed to bring the ugly crown back to Solitude – but the opposite logic from when we were at Ustengrav came into effect: Solitude was hundreds of miles north while High Hrothgar was staring right down at us from its lofty perch. Despite Lazhah’s protests, we decided to make a side trip to begin (and, since we had the horn, end) my training with them.

It took ten days to reach Ivarstead. It would have taken less time, but we had some minor adventures along the way in the form of some ruins/crypts delving, as we had planned. I don’t want to bore you with the ultimately fruitless details of the trip, so here are just the highlights:

• I was a little nervous when we approached Valtheim Towers, the place where Lydia (I paused a moment to wonder what she was doing in this new Skyrim. Did they have female Housecarls? Probably not. Hmm…) had got herself killed and where my first foray into slavery had started last time, but it was quick and easy this time – the bandits wanted a 200 g (which is only about $60) toll, so we gave it to them then went on our merry. Just as Lydia had incorrectly guessed would happen last time!

• We came across a man named Goldir whose brother-in-law necromancer was busy desecrating the family tomb. Goldir had sent his aunt in by herself to confront the brother-in-law. I hadn’t known cowardly Nords existed but turns out they do! We found the aunt murdered and the brother-in-law busily raising family members from the dead. At the end, the guy gave us a measly 100 g ($30). I may or may not have pilfered a few gems on our way out. There were, alas, no word walls. Which makes sense, it being a relatively new (only a couple centuries, not millennia, old) private family tomb.

• We went through a pass under a mountain that turned out to be infested with falmer. Apparently they used to be elves or something but have spent centuries underground and are now twisted blind creatures. Worse, they have pet giant centipedes called churros, or something like that, that spit acid. Next time, I’ll happily go the long way around. Helen and the other horses were very unhappy and would have refused to even enter the place had it not been for Nigel. This is one area where Helen and I were in complete accord.

Although I was never overcome by industrial music again, I found my fighting skills had…well, evolved, I guess is the best term. Through some combination of my daily practices with Kellan, my tougher body (I felt as strong as I had during my peak mining days and, as a bonus, did not have lungs filled with dirt!), and perhaps some ethnic instinct, as Kellen kept insisting despite the fact I was from a completely different world, I found myself hesitating less and less when it came time for action. As a swordsman (swordswoman?), I was still terrible, of course, but with my shouts, I was able to hold my own with Kellan and Lane and, dare I say, could have kicked Lazhah’s ass, had it come to that.

Speaking of the shouts, I was saddened to learn Timeout stopped working the moment I attacked someone. I had hoped I could stop everyone in their tracks then just go up and jab my sword in their throats, but alas, no. I am very glad I had Ghost active the first (and only) time I tried that tactic!

We fought and killed only one dragon in that time, but I learned some things from it. First and foremost, my shouts were somewhat effective against it. Since it had the Full Grown Dragon strength dragon words, my partial words were only a partial counter, but Ghost worked just fine for avoiding being burned to a crisp, Force Push lessened the amount of fiery breath (after I got the full Force Push from the Greybeards, I discovered I could use it to shove the fire right back up the dragons’ throats if I had the right angle and timed it perfectly. Their expressions were priceless when it worked!), and Timeout worked the first time I tried it, allowing me to get close enough to slice a large gash in its wing before it got away. It only worked the one time, though – once it knew I could do that, it took measures to keep me from doing it again. What those were, I don’t know, but every time I tried, it spoke something that stopped it.

I knew the boring part of the trip was over when we stepped into the inn and the keeper looked up and said, not “Welcome!” or “Have a seat, I’ll send someone right over!” or “Come on in!” or any other normal greeting; instead, he stared at us with sleepless eyes and whispered, “If I were you I’d stay away from the barrow on the hill. It’s haunted.”

Since barrows on hills were exactly what we were hoping for, this news did not come across as he planned. Instead, I grinned and did my best Obi Wan Kenobi impression: “Haunted barrows are our speciality!”

I don’t care what you say, the prequels were awesome.

Don’t feed the bastards; grab the high ground instead.

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We stayed like that, clinging to each other in a shell of complete silence (save for my gulping sobs) for the better part of an hour, while I soaked his shirt in tears and my body’s trembles slowly eased away. Every time I felt him stir even a little, I whispered a Word and the stillness resumed; this continued until I felt like the worst of my emotional outburst was past and I would have the strength to talk about what had happened coherently. It was almost fully dark by the time I sighed and let the world snap back to life.

I imagine you have questions about that last paragraph, so let me back up a little bit.

Once I was able to get to shaky feet after throwing up on what turned out to be the desiccated corpse of King Borgas, the guy in charge of the squad (I have completely forgotten his name) gave me the Jagged Crown (which is as well named as anything I have ever seen – it is made of old dragon teeth of varying lengths. It is godawfully ugly) and tasked me with bringing it back to Solitude while the rest of the squad was set to "deal with our surprise special guest," whoever that meant, and “finish up here,” by which I assumed he meant loot the place dry.

We were walking as we said these things, and perhaps it was because I was so distracted by the discussion and my inspection of the crown and the myriad of thoughts and emotions stemming from the battle that I was desperately trying not to think or feel that I failed to notice a peculiar chanting noise, nor wonder why a wind had suddenly picked up inside the tomb. It was only after I crashed to my knees as the first waves of a massive orgasm hit me that I caught on to the Word Wall at the back of the room.

This time was different than the last two walls because this time, I already had an unused dragon soul rattling around inside me, from the one that interrupted my talk with Lane (in case you wondered, I was not completely useless in that fight, but nearly so. I got in two good swipes with my sword before being buffeted away by the thing’s wings. Kellan and Lane (with assists from Lazhah and Nigel), once again did most of the actual work). So at the end of my orgasms, as the squad leader was in the middle of saying, “What was…” the new word bubbled up and spilled out of my mouth on its own.

“Tiid Klo Ul!”

And then everyone froze in place. I clambered to my feet in a panic, wondering if the new word was some gorgon-like petrifying ability and I had just inadvertently killed the lot of them, but then they came back to life.

‘…THAT?!” The squad leader’s eyes were wide (and his dick was, judging by the bulge in his leather pants, quite clearly hard, as were those of the other men who had gathered around).

I frowned but didn’t answer because I was wondering the same thing. The answer came to me once I was able to take a moment to think, so to answer all your questions, Tiid Klo Ul, henceforth to be known as Timeout, is a powerful word that actually makes time stop…well, not stop completely, but it slows waaaaaay down for everyone but me in a limited range. It is, by far, my favorite Shout. Do you ever have those moments where you wish everyone and everything around you would just shut up for a few seconds so you could think? I have those moments all the time. And now I had the means to actually make that wish come true.

It is fucking amazing.

I abused this shout heavily while clinging to Kellan. Each instance of Timeout lasted around eight seconds at that stage, so I probably ended up whispering it a few hundred times just to keep the feeling of being held going while my body worked through the physical parts of the shock and awe of the spectacle of death it had just partaken in.

Later, while sitting around the campfire, Lazhah did most of the describing because, when I started talking about industrial music gods shouting in my head, I got only odd looks. The way he described it, though, sounded just as far-fetched – he made me sound like some crazed sword-wielding Tasmanian devil, whirling through the Stormcloaks as if they were made of paper.

He also brought up my new moniker, Naasektenti, which turns out to be Nord for “she-devil." It has overtones – the first part of the word, “naa,” is the Nord word for “prostitute.” In fact, “she devil” is similar to their word for succubus (naasape, “prostitute-demon”). Apparently I was not to take offense at this, however, because “naa” is the respectful term for a lady of the night, as opposed to “pipliim,” which translates more or less to “whore” but with extra negative connotations. The Nords are to sex workers as Eskimos are to snow.

It wasn’t until much later that night, after the others had gone to bed (Lazhah, to my surprise, declined my attempt to do my job with him that night) and it was just Kellan and me sitting side by side by the fire, that I told him what I remembered. Which was, much to my surprise, a lot.

“It started like…like the fight I had with the bandit back at Ustengrav. I just…protected myself with Ghost and used Force Push to keep people away and stabbed anyone who got close enough. I’m pretty sure I didn’t really do much at first.

“But then…I don’t know if your training clicked in or…I don’t know, some instinct, but it was like my body knew what to do and just moved on its own. Not that I’m saying I didn’t kill them! I did! I just…” I trailed off, unsure what I was trying to say.

Kellan nodded. “I understand. Killing…well, it can be mesmerizing, especially when you’re in the middle of a battle. You stop thinking about your opponents as people and just see them as objects. As targets or maybe as puzzles to solve – what moves can counter what they are doing and what moves can I use to get at them? Also, you are a Redguard – your people have a natural affinity for the sword, or so I have been told. Perhaps your blood spoke for you tonight.”

I laughed. “According to Ancestry’s DNA test, I am some bizarre combination of Moroccan, Iranian, and Scottish, with a little bit of Scandinavian and, of all things, Cree thrown in. It has been a bone of contention because none of the family tree seems to corroborate any of that and my parents are Germanic/English and Japanese/Italian. I cried for a week when my brother told me it was proof I was adopted, but my parents insisted I was theirs. This is why I don’t believe in DNA results.” I sighed, then, as I got back on topic. “They weren’t just targets to me, Kellan. I remember them; all the faces of all those men. Or boys – most of them didn’t look any older than me. I could see the fire in their eyes. I can still see, for some of them, the moment they realized they were going to die. I…it was…”

I felt myself begin to shake a little and took a deep breath.

Kellan wrapped an arm around me and I leaned into the comfort of his solid warmth. “Aye, the memories after are the hardest part. That is why most warriors are also heavy drinkers.” He sighed. “No matter how prepared you think you are, no one can ever be ready for the moment they die. We all secretly believe we will live forever, no matter what we tell ourselves. The best you can do is remind yourself it was them or you. And, for what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice.”

I laughed a little again and snuggled deeper into him and let my guilt and memories fade, let all thoughts pass, by watching the patterns of the dancing flames and the slow heartbeat of the glowing logs.

Later, after Kellan had gone to our tent and I was feeding carrots to the horses (I had to or they would have kept me up all night pleading for them, the spoiled brats), I thought more about what Kellan had said. It was reminiscent of Lane’s comments from a few days ago, and I remembered her advice: the key to living in a world bent on killing you was to live each moment to its fullest because you never knew when something would happen that would irrevocably change everything. All that really mattered was the right now.

With that thought, I reached into my pack, pulled out the amulet of Mara, and, after a pause, put it on. The delicate silver brushed against the skin of my chest as I moved to the tent I shared with Kellan, a soft promise that things would be fine for as long as I could make them.

The same fate likely awaited me as had befallen those I had killed, some undetermined distance in the near future. But at least I would be safe enough until then.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead. 

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I had killed people before. Not very many, if we subtract those portions of my past where I wasn’t really myself. Only four, in fact, if we’re being stringent about the “wasn’t really myself” part. My body has killed hundreds, but I take no personal responsibility for Molag Bal’s handiwork – I had no control at that time.

The parts with Dibella’s gifts are a little more iffy. I was more myself then, especially before Molag’s influence entered the equation, but I honestly felt nothing when I was chopping people down with those swords. Well, not nothing – it felt…right. Good, even. It never crossed my mind at the time that I was ending human (and elf and orc) lives with every swing of the Graceful Swords; I just reveled in the act of it.

Looking back on it, I don’t think I was completely myself when I was imbued with her powers, either – I think a sort of drug-like euphoria from killing in her name hides in the shadows of that “gift.” But perhaps I am just trying to justify all the murder I committed. I don’t know.

What I do know is, there had been only four times that I had killed someone when I was completely myself with no mitigating circumstances.

The first, the bandit boy who chased me halfway to Whiterun, had been a shock to my system; a shock that had been erased by the far greater shock of the gang rape that soon followed.

The second...well, I don't know how much of myself was left in that mine when I murdered the poor ore thief. Certainly I was numb to all feeling, at the time.

I didn't feel even the slightest bit bad about giving the attempted rapist in the mine in Shor’s Stone a pickaxe head accoutrement. The only thing I felt at that moment was fear of being caught and accused of murder.

The impact of the fourth had been at least partially deflected by the moment, e.g. the panic of losing my sword, then the head-patting afterstory.

Korvanjund was different – it was the first time I partook in something akin to war. The first time I knowingly and deliberately killed, not as an act of survival or self-defense, but as an act of aggression; of intent.

We met the Imperial squad, as Rikke had said, and that is a story in and of itself. Suffice to say, I was not greeted with open arms. Or, rather, I was greeted with very open arms and many catcalls, especially after I took off my rug so it wouldn’t encumber my movements during the fight. They did not seem inclined to believe I was anything but a stripper even after I demonstrated my Shouts. It is hard to blame them, I suppose, but I did anyway, the lecherous bastards.

Anyway, we headed for the crypt, only to discover the Stormcloaks were already there. There weren’t many sentries posted outside and the scouts were able to take them out quietly, but things got interesting once we entered, because they had left an entire squad behind. A squad is only five or six people, so it could have been worse, but still, numbers-wise, it was about an even match, moreso because neither Kellan nor Lane had been allowed to join since this was an “official action.”

We had surprise on our side long enough for our archers to take out two of them, then it was a full-pitched battle. I used the same tactics I had on Rikke during my trial – whispering the Ghost* “shout” under my breath over and over, switching to Force Push when I had the chance, then following up with my sword.

Now, here’s the thing – we had brought only a squad because fucking General Tullius hadn’t really taken the crown seriously. The Stormcloaks had – it turned out they had an entire fucking company. I’ll be honest, I never bothered to learn how many squads are in a company are in a legion or whatever the fuck it is, but the point is, they had a LOT more people than we did. Fortunately, they were not all in the same place – we came upon them in groups as we progressed.

Somewhere in the middle of these bloody battles, with the clanging of weapons, the shouts of men fighting and dying, the smell of blood and sweat and shit, all of it far more visceral than I was prepared for, as I grew more and more panicked with each opponent I faced and cheat-won against, all the time trying not to think about the fact that I was taking the lives of men who were just doing their jobs and to whom I held no personal enmity, I lost my fucking mind. I heard a voice, and I swear to whatever god you prefer most, it came from outside, not from my head.

It said, “Kill.”

Then it added, “Kill for the love of killing. Kill for a thrill."

Then a bass started a heavy rhythm, drums kicked in and, a moment later, the sounds of battle were mere accompaniment to Al Jourgensen’s industrial machine known as Ministry playing a song from an album released ten years before I was born but that I knew well from my short-lived Goth period (being properly Goth requires WAY too much time putting on makeup and styling your hair so it looks like you didn't style it, it just happened to fall perfectly) when I was fourteen and found the A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste CD buried on a dusty swiveling rack in my parents’ bedroom between U2’s Joshua Tree and Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits Volumes 1 & 2. It is filled with a lot of yelling and semi-coherent lyrics that don’t make much sense if you sit down and inspect them closely but sound like heavy philosophical nuggets of wisdom when you are trying desperately to find an outlet for all the pent up righteous anger of the sort only a pampered American middle-class teenager can generate.

Scum suckers! Debility divulged

Anal fuckfest, thrill Olympics

Savage, scourge, supply, and sanctify

“So what?!” I shouted, or at least, I thought that’s what I shouted; the Stormcloak in front of me stumbled back as if I had used Force Push instead. I followed him, still shouting with the song as I swung my sword at anything that moved. “So what?!” and again, “So what?!”

There were no more enemies in the vicinity, so my feet carried me forward on the beat of the song into another room with another group of enemies.

You sell us sedatives

Supplied become laxatives

My eyes shit out lies

I only kill to know I’m alive

“So what?!” we Shouted together, again and again, as the wall of Stormcloaks wavered and dissipated. I stalked on as the song’s beat seemed to blend with my heartbeat.

It’s your problem to live with

Destroy us or make us saints

We don’t care, it’s not our fault

That we were born too late

A screaming headache on the promised age

Killing time is appropriate

To make a mess and fuck all the rest, we say, we say

“So what?!” The song had become part of me, or I of it; there was no more distinction between “out there” and “in here;” all there was was the anger, with my body providing the catharsis it screamed for. We entered a last room, larger than the others, and found a pitched battle between the remaining Stormcloaks and the most massive draugr I had ever seen up to that point. There were a dozen soldiers but the single draugr seemed to be winning anyway. It didn’t matter to me – the song carried me forward, and the bodies peeled away in front of me from Shouts and blades as Al finished up.

No one, no one is right**

I’ll kill them all if I like

Only time will decide

No one listens to reason it’s too late and I’m ready to fight

“So what?!”

And then, things turned strange, because the draugr looked at me, opened his mouth, and Shouted right back, “So what?!”

I stumbled to a stop as the force of his Shout stopped my momentum in its tracks. It did not stop Al, though.

Now I’m ready to fight!

“So what?!” I Shouted at the monster.

“So what?!” it Shouted right back.

Now I’m ready to fight!

“So what?!”

“So what?!”

Now I’m ready to fight!

“So what?!”

“So what?!”

Now I’m ready to fight!

“So what?!”

“So what?!”

I’m not sure how many times we went through this. The draugr’s Shouts matched my own; we were locked in an impasse, so-what-ing each other without either able to make progress, all while Al kept screaming he was ready to fight, until finally I thought, if you’re so damn ready to fight, stop singing it and get in here and do it!

And, to my vast surprise, he did.

Well, no he didn’t. Al wasn’t there, of course. But in that moment, an axe swept through the air from somewhere, the draugr’s head flew from its shoulders, and the music cut off just as abruptly. The return to the normal sounds of the room – cheering of men, clanging of metal, voices chattering – was so disorienting, I fell to my knees, closing my eyes to fend off a sudden wave of dizziness, only to snap them open again when the closing of them only doubled the effect.

Hands patted my shoulders and back and voices called out to me:

“That was impressive!”

“I admit, I doubted you when I saw you. No more!”

“I’m glad you’re on our side, Naasektenti!"

I didn't know what that word meant, but the others around heard it and took it up, and soon the entire room was chanting, "Naas..ek...tenti...Naas..ek...tenti...Naas..ek...tenti..."

It was all so overwhelming. I just wanted silence, a quiet place to parse though what had just happened. My body started to shake, then I dropped from just my knees to my hands and knees and vomited all over the giant draugr.

Don’t feed the bastards. To quote the Lich King: kill them all.

*The list of Shouts is only going to grow as this story progresses, so I am going to call them my personal names for them from now on, just to make things easier on all of us.

** I looked up the lyrics, back in the day. There is much disagreement on this phrase. I hear “no one, no one is right” and that fits the lyrics (inasmuch as these lyrics make sense in the first place). Someone else translated the line “Now that I know what it’s life,” and “life” is not a typo. That line makes no damn sense. In this case, I am right and nothing can change my mind (which is, indeed, a terrible thing to taste).

Also, yes, I know the title is an allusion to an Alanis Morrisette album, which is not the farthest from Ministry, musically speaking, as you can get, but it is a handful of ballparks away. However, the title fit so well I used it anyway. Isn’t it ironic? You oughta know I see right through you, but all I really want is to stand here with my hand in my pocket as we smoke some Mary Jane at your perfect house while you fall head over feet for me so when we wake up and you learn I am not the doctor, I shall be forgiven.

Is that too much to ask?

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Like most things labeled as such, free horses are not free – they are very expensive to keep alive, especially if you are the sort of person who likes (or at least feels the need) to go into caves, ruins, temples, and crypts in search of magic walls or creepy crowns. You can’t take horses into those places but the only alternative is to leave them tethered nearby and hope they don’t get stolen or eaten. Or both. So someone needs to stay with them.

My original plan was to have Lahzah do that, but he was adamant that he could not – he needed to stay with me at all times. Kellan, likewise, refused to even discuss staying behind. I didn’t even propose the question to Lane.

As a last-ditch effort, I asked Rikke if I could take a soldier (preferably female so she could share the cock stroking duties) with us to watch the horses, but I was refused on the grounds that a) I was a Keṣ Tshaâki, so I shouldn’t need more help and b) why was I still there? I should have been halfway to Korvanjund by now!

So it was that we left mid-morning on the eleventh of Hearthfire (September-ish) with a gruff Redguard mercenary name Nigel who spoke exactly as much as I hoped (which was not at all) but with whom the horses took an instant liking. It is the first and only time I have been jealous of a man because all the horses, including Helen, clearly preferred him over me and spent their non-grass-obsessed time talking about how nice he smelled and how gentle he was. When I tried to help brush them, I was informed by Helen that I was not doing it correctly, “so please do not ruin my hair any further. Dear Nigel knows how to do it.”

Who we did NOT leave with was any of the plentiful sex workers who plied their trade throughout the city, which meant my evenings were spent doing Lazhah’s laundry (I did the rest of ours at the same time because, might as well), fixing the tears in his clothes (I am terrible at sewing so the seams were usually split the next day, so I had to fix them again. I did “accidentally” leave a needle in a shirt or two), and, of course, visiting his tent every night to give him his handy.

You’ve heard about Hands Across America; now make way for Handjobs Across Skyrim!

Fortunately, Kellan and Lane silently took over the cooking (and Nigel even took a few turns, which helped ease my jealousy-ridden secret hostility toward him), so I didn’t have to make Lazhah’s meals, at least.

Kellan handled this arrangement about as well as might be expected – nothing he said or did betrayed resentment or jealousy. But I had grown to know him pretty well by that point and I could sense the rage churning beneath the surface. I eased it as well as I could, and although doing so involved many of the same skills I had just used with Lazhah, they were MUCH more fun with Kellan.

Through it all, the purchase I had made in Solitude seemed to grow heavier by the day, much like Frodo with the One Ring, so on the third night, I gathered my fluttering heart and went to Lane’s tent and tapped on the post that held up the front of it.

Her voice responded immediately. “Yes?”

“Can I…talk to you?”

“Of course! Come in! Do you want to worship Dibella?”

I flushed as I entered the tent and shook my head. “No! Um, no. But thank you. I just…wanted some advice.”

“Certainly! Have a seat. I just brewed some tea.”

Moments later, I was seated on a soft cushion nursing tea from a fine porcelain cup while wondering how Lane had managed to pack all this stuff.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about?”

I tried to answer, but no words came to me. So instead, I reached into my pouch and pulled out the amulet of Mara and showed it to her.

“Oh!” She gave me a brilliant smile. “So you are ready for marriage?”

“I…don’t know.” I closed my fist back around the amulet as if trying to hide it. “I…think I love Kellan. And he…kind of accidentally said he loved me. Although he was drunk. I just…” I stopped, flushing. “Jesus, I sound like a lovesick middle schooler.”

“I have only known you two for a few weeks, so I do not know your history together. Have you known each long?”

“I mean…no. And that’s the thing – I’ve only known him for…” for what? How long had I been in this version of Skyrim? Time was already beginning to blur. “…a month? No, we were in Shor’s Stone for two weeks alone. And I’ve only had my period once. So a little longer, but not by much. A month and a half. Ish.”

“I see. You two seem to have a strong bond and it is not uncommon for matches to be made in a time as short as that.”

“Really? It is where I come from. I mean, it happens, but those kinds of marriages tend not to last. Most people wait several months or even years before taking that step.”

“Indeed? Where are you from?”

I paused. “I can tell you, but I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

“You forget, I am blessed by Dibella. I can tell when someone is lying. Please, ease your mind.”

“All right.” I took a deep breath. “I am from a different world called Earth. I was pulled to Skyrim by an idiotic mage named Pare because he had a typo in his fucking spell book.”

Lane’s expression was a satisfying mix of surprise and shock, and if you think those two are synonymous, you haven’t seen an expression like hers. “That is…I can see why you would think your story would not be believed. Please tell me about this world.”

“Um…it is more advanced than here, at least in terms of technology. For instance, we stopped using swords and bows for anything but recreation a century or more ago – we have much more powerful ways to kill each other now. We have machines built of metal that can fly through the air or traverse the widest oceans.”

“The magic there must be powerful!”

“No, there is no magic there. At all. Just…” I shrugged. “Human ingenuity.”

She laughed. “I imagine the other peoples of your world would not care for that term. The elves, especially, would…”

“That’s another difference – there aren’t other people. Not like the elves and orcs and…cat and lizard people here. It is just humans and a large variety of animals.”

“It sounds like a strange land indeed!”

“Whereas this place sounds like a fantasy novel come to life, there. But not one that would be widely published.”

“No?”

“No. Too much rape – the publishers would take one glance and throw it into the fireplace.”

“Ah. So you have had some bad experiences in this world.”

“If by ‘bad experiences’ you mean literal years of torture, rape, and slavery, you would still be making a gross understatement.”

“I…see. Your pardon, but you do not look old or…well, haggard enough to have years of such abuse.”

“Yes, that’s because it all happened in the previous version of Skyrim I was in, where everything was destroyed by dragons because I was stuck being a slave in a mine for most of it. Then that asshole Sanguine put me back at the beginning to do the entire thing all over again. Fortunately, things are going much better this time. So far.”

Lane stared at me, gratifyingly speechless, for a long moment, then shook her head. “Dibella assures me you speak the truth, unbelievable as it sounds. You are living a remarkable life!”

“Trade ya.”

She laughed. “No, I am content with my more ordinary lot.” A sigh. “As for the reason you came to me, I do not have any good answers for you. All I can say is this:

“The world is full of violence and unpredictability. As you are well aware, of course. Especially with the war and now even more especially with the dragons, you just never know when your entire life may be upended, when those you care for may be torn away by some force beyond your control. So when you find something or someone that gives you happiness or hope, cling to that something or someone as hard as you can and cherish it for as long as it lasts. Because it might be gone tomorrow.”

Her voice had dropped in volume steadily as she said this until she was nearly whispering at the end. A tear trailed down her cheek, though her expression remained calm; but as I opened my mouth to voice my concern about her own story that clearly had its own traumas, shouts sprang up from outside the tent and, a moment later, the unmistakable sound of a dragon rumbled over.

Lane sprang to her feet, her robe already sliding from her body as she rushed toward the entrance to the tent. I shoved the amulet back into the pouch as I followed, all thoughts of love and loss wiped away in the immediate need of the moment.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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I tried to ignore it but it persisted. Then I tried to nudge Kellan awake so he could deal with it but he was either out cold or pretending to be, the bastard. Finally I got up, wrapped my rug around me (even blankets turned into sheer lingerie if I tried using them), yanked open the door, and snapped, “What?!”

Lazhah stood in a crisp uniform looking for all the world like it was the middle of a bright sunny day, not the dregs of pre-dawn. “Good morning, Commander. If we want to beat the Stormcloaks to Korvanjund, we should get started as soon as possible.”

I dearly wanted to rub my head, but I could not do that and hold my rug up at the same time, so I settled on squinting at him. “That’s fine, but surely it can wait until the fucking sun is up, at least.”

“Indeed, I was hoping to leave around then as well. That is why I am coming to get you now – if you start now, your chores should be done by then.”

A wave of cold fear swept through me but I tried not to show it. “What are you talking about, Lazhah? We are going to be on the road today, so my only ‘chore’ should be taking care of you, even though you look perfectly capable of taking care of your own damn self.”

“Ah, but we are not on the road yet. So I’m afraid you have duties to perform at the barracks before we go. The sooner you get them done, the sooner we can be off.”

I cursed under my breath as my groggy mind tried to come up with some reason I could not do what he was asking, but all it could come up with was, “And if I refuse?”

“Well, that’s called Dereliction of Duty, which involves a very unpleasant stay in the military prison…” a colder, deeper fear ran through me at that word, “…and I can assure you, whatever your chores are, they are much preferable to that.”

“Of that I have very little doubt. Fine, give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Of course.”

And thus began my first full day as a member of the Imperial Legion. The other new girls and I got the crappiest jobs (pun intended), of course – lugging filled-to-the-brim chamber pots from the barracks to the river (three trips each with 1,236 steps each way (I counted. That’s about a half mile each way), including three separate staircases, one of which had half of the steps by itself. I was reminded of the scene in Kill Bill 2 where Bill tells the Bride, “Just seeing those steps again makes me ache. You're gonna have a lot of fun carrying buckets of water up and down that fucker.”); scrubbing piles of laundry (fortunately they had an interior basin of water for that, so we didn’t need to lug it all down to the river and, as a bonus, I got to use one of those old-timey washboards); and, of course, the hand jobs.

I was hoping the last part would not be required, on the logic that it was late enough in the morning by then that there shouldn’t be anyone left in the barracks, but I was reminded there was an entire company who had been on duty all night long. Fortunately, it was literally all hands on deck for that part, so we each only had five or six dicks to stroke. As Rikke (who was there with us) had said, using both hands sped things up. The oil they provided smelled faintly like lilacs, which was my mother’s favorite flower and used to be one of my favorite smells but now makes me ill. Okay, not literally ill, but it gives me unpleasant flashbacks of stroking the dicks of grabby assholes who begged like children for more. I was very grateful for the thick rug, which kept most of my body covered and therefore kept most of their groping to a minimum.

Honestly, except for the soreness from the miles of walking up and down stairs and the stench of the chamber pots and the forced hand jobs (and, of course, the whole misogynic powerplay behind the entire fucking endeavor), it wasn’t that bad, mostly because of the company. It had been a LONG time since I had had, for lack of a better term, girl talk. By the time I finished the last dick and started heading back to the inn, I was all caught up with all the drama of the Solitude court, the rumors of the rest of the noteworthy people around Skyrim, and the massive party being held at the Thalmor embassy that very evening.

It was a particularly eventful morning because Meri, a very chipper Cyrodillan probably a year younger than me, had become engaged the night before. Of course, the possibility of this happening had been all the talk yesterday, so I was a latecomer to the buzz. It started when Meri first entered the room we had gathered in to get our chore assignments. The entire room hushed and turned toward her and it was clear even to me, who had no idea what was going on, that something had happened that she found wonderful. She almost literally floated into the room.

Lenthe, one of the older (by which I mean, about two years older than me) women cleared her throat. “I see you aren’t wearing the amulet of Mara anymore.”

“Aww,” Shildy fake pouted. “He broke it off instead of proposing, didn’t he?”

And then the teasing began: “She must have thrown it in the river out of sorrow!” “She’s clearly relieved, look how she’s smiling!” “He was no account anyway, you’re better off without him!”

By then the entire room was laughing and I had partially forgotten my qualms.

“Of course not, sillies,” Meri laughed. “He proposed!”

Everyone cheered (even as someone said, “You said no, right?”) and gathered around and we were treated to the entire story of their romantic night on the town, with the stops at the best tavern in the city, a concert at the Bard’s college, a stroll through the new museum, and the proposal itself on the ramparts looking over the estuary as the sun set. It was the most fucking romantic thing I had ever heard and I was insanely jealous that there had been people living lives like that while I was toiling away as a fucktoy for the best part of the past six years.

And it got me thinking.

About Kellan.

About the previous night.

About how, maybe just maybe, his little slip had been real and maybe just maybe I felt that way too and maybe just maybe, inexplicably and out of the depths of all the crap I had been through since getting forcefully yanked into this hellhole, there was a chance I could experience some small amount of Meri’s joy for myself.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

I thought I was being subtle with my questions about the amulet of Mara they had mentioned, but I got two immediate reactions: utter disbelief that I didn’t know about it and a whole bunch of teases about my love life. And then, of course, I had to tell them all I knew about Kellan.

So, if you have the same questions I did, here is the tl;dr version: an amulet of Mara is something a woman wears when she is ready to get proposed to. Sort of a pre-engagement gift for oneself.

They had to explain it a few times before I really got it (which was fine because they were all trying to tell me all about it at the same time anyway) because it was such a weird concept to me.

“So you can’t propose to someone if they aren’t wearing one?”

“I guess you could,” was the reply, “but why would you? If she’s not wearing an amulet, the answer is going to be no!”

Which was not really the intent of my question but still somehow answered it satisfactorily. To be fair, it must remove a lot of nerves from the proposers to already know the answer before they ask.

 So on the way back to the inn, I took an impromptu detour into a temple of one god or other (incidentally, they look, smell, and feel exactly like churches from Earth, somehow) and came back out with an amulet of Mara in my pouch, where it sat like a lead weight while my brain gibbered with some strange new version of fear. I resisted several impulses to toss the damn thing away.

Don’t feed the bastards. Or marry them. Maybe. I don’t know.

Next chapter

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Start from the beginning

The lower portion was a string thong, of course, but of the thinnest metal string ever. The bikini top had, I swear to god, fucking heart-shaped cups and the helm…I can’t even. It had fucking metal cat ears. Fucking Sanguine is a fucking weeb. And I mean that with every negative stereotype it comes with.

I took the helmet off, pulled the rug back on, then tucked the helmet under one arm – I was NOT wearing that damn thing in front of the Legate - while I carried the sword with the other and went back to the war room.

More people had shown up, and they seemed to be in the middle of an intense conversation as I entered, so I just sidestepped away from the doorway so I wouldn’t block anyone else and waited.

An older man who looked vaguely familiar said, "Tell me again why I'm wasting men chasing after a fairy tale."

Rikke sighed. "If Ulfric gets his hand on that crown, it won't be a fairy tale. It'll be a problem."

"Don't you Nords put any stock in your own traditions? I thought the Moot chose the king. We're backing Elisif. When the Moot meets, they'll do the sensible thing."

"Not everyone's agreed to the Moot. You've been here long enough to know that Nords aren't always sensible. We follow our hearts."

"So what - Ulfric gets this crown and then suddenly he's High King?"

"No, it's not as simple as that, but the Jagged Crown would be a potent symbol for his cause to rally around. But, if we found it first..."

"And we gave it to Elisif?"

"In the absence of the Moot, it would further legitimize her claim."

The man shook his head but acquiesced. “Fine. You said you found a Keṣ Tshaâki for this mission? I thought they were all out on assignment.”

“A new one just joined. And, with perfect timing, here she is.”

Every head in the room turned toward me and there was a deep long silence. Rikke broke it by clearing her throat.

 “Why are you still wearing that…rug? It is not part of the uniform. Take it off.”

I sighed. “As you say, Legate.” I tugged it off and felt every eye in the room lock onto me. Even more than they already were.

Rikke did not look amused. “Where is your uniform?”

“This is it. Remember? Cursed by Daedra?”

“…Show me. Strip”

“Here?”

“Yes, here. You’re basically naked anyway”

Fair point. I sighed again and took off the armor. It reverted to its usual bulky self. “Interesting. You, give her your chestpiece.”

One of the men took off his chestpiece with a bemused expression and handed it to me. As soon as it was strapped in place, it became a bikini. Less than a bikini, in fact- it basically turned into nothing more than steel pasties.

Rikke looked a little shaken while the men in the room gasped. And leered, but really, who can blame them?

Rikke shook her head. “That is…incredible”

“That’s one word for it.”

“All right, I believe you. Put your armor back on and you may wear your…rug. Perhaps we can find something more suitable?”

“I’ve tried everything, including drapes. Rugs are the only thing that have stayed themselves.”

“Wel…perhaps we can find you a rug with the Imperial seal on it. Anyway, on to business. First, let’s get you sworn in. General?”

The older man cleared his throat – he seemed still working on making sense of what he had just witnessed. “Of course. I am General Tullius. What is your name, Commander?”

“Sian Fraser.”

“A name as unusual as your armor. Raise your right hand and repeat after me. Upon my honor I, Shawn Frasher, do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II...and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire…May those above judge me, and those below take me if I fail in my duty…Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!" Then, "Welcome to the Imperial Legion, Commander. Just remember, we take care of our own. Once you're in the Legion, you're in it for life. Legate?”

I did not voice my opinion on the “for life” part as Rikke motioned me forward and pointed at the map.

“This is Korvanjund. It was once a temple of Stuhn, one of the old gods. Our spies tell us that the Stormcloaks have discovered it is also, somewhat ironically, the tomb of the man who outlawed the old gods, High King Borgas. With him was buried the crown of the High Kings of old – the Jagged Crown. They are dispatching a Company to claim it.”

“It’s a fool’s errand, if you ask me,” the General interjected.

Rikke ignored him. “As I’m sure you have come to understand, the Nords are a proud people bound by traditions of their own. The crown represents a time when the High King was chosen by successor, not vote. Seeing the crown on the head of one of the leaders of this war could cause a great many to flock to that person’s banner. However, even if the General is right and nothing comes of having it, it will not hurt to keep it out of the Stormcloak’s hands. The nearest Imperial camp is here.” She touched another spot a little to the north of Korvanjund. “A unit there has been assigned to help; Prefect Dargho will be expecting you. Do you have any questions?”

“No. Oh, wait, I do have one – any chance part of my new job involves a horse? I’d be able to get around much faster with one.”

“So you would, and yes. Go to the paddock and they will give you a horse. Try not to kill it – it is very expensive to get them shipped up here.” Rikke frowned as she cast her eyes over me. “You’re not going to be taken seriously in that outfit. Lazhah!”

One of the men stepped forward, a reedy Imperial with a shock of yellow hair and soft blue eyes. “Legate.”

“This is Praetor Lazhah. He will be the supervisor I mentioned. He will fill you in on the details of the Legion and be able to answer any questions you have. Let him do the talking when it comes to procuring supplies, at least until we figure out what we can do about your…uniform issue.”

I fought hard and I think succeeded in not glaring at Lazhah, even though I already felt resentful toward him. “Yes, Legate.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Rikke turned and picked up a belt with a scabbard that had been hanging off the back of a chair. “I had someone retrieve the scabbard that goes with your sword.” She handed it to me and I took it with a nod. “I think that is all, then. Dismissed.”

We all did the salute thing, then I turned on my heel and left the room with what amounted to my new forced husband following. Neither of us said anything as I retraced my steps to my impromptu changing room, where I shoved the sword into the sheath, slung it over my shoulder, and started gathering my old armor, which had, of course, become its original bulky mess of metal and fur. Lazhah saw what I was doing and helped, and I gave him a nod of thanks before we tromped off down the hallway, each with a double armload of miscellaneous armor pieces.

I sold the old armor to Beirand for whatever price he quoted, being uninterested in haggling at that moment, and made a beeline to the inn (after stopping to show my fancy new license to three separate guards for the sword that still clung to my back).

Once inside, I moved to a quiet corner and turned on Lazhah.

“So what is your job, exactly? Are you going to follow me around like a puppy all the time?”

“That is basically it, yes. I’ll help fight, of course, but I am here to make certain you are…well, to put it bluntly, not a spy.”

I tilted my head. “Is that what this is about?”

“Well, technically I am also supposed to make sure you are doing legitimate Imperial work when you are on assignment. Apparently past Keṣ Tshaâki went on assignment and just stayed away, even after their missions were complete, to avoid their duties here or at one of the camps.”

“Right. And I suppose you are expecting me to do one of those duties with you tonight?”

He shrugged. “That is the job, I’m afraid.”

“Here.” I handed him the bag of coins I had just procured from Beirand. “Find a nice whore, compliments of me. Hell, have three. I’m going to bed. I assume you don’t need to watch me sleep? Good. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning.”

“I…”

I left him there, climbed the stairs to the second floor two at a time, and was almost running by the time I got to our room

I burst through the door, slammed it behind me then, after a moment, grabbed a chair and shoved it under the doorhandle.

Kellan sounded amused. “Um…so how did it go?”

“Great.” I slumped down on a different chair, then jumped up, pulled off the sword and set it on the table, then sat down again.

Kellan was laying on the bed with a small book on his chest. Despite his tone, he looked concerned. “I see they gave you a sword. That is good, right?”

“I suppose. How much money do we have?”

“Why?”

“We need to hire a sex worker.”

“A what?”

“A whore.”

Kellan laughed. “So I’m not good enough for you anymore?”

“You are plenty enough for me, and that’s the problem.” Then I explained my new soldierly duties. By the time I was done, all traces of humor had faded from Kellan’s expression.

“So you have to give this guy a tug every day?”

“And do his laundry and make his meals. And do the same for at least some of the men in every Imperial camp we might come to. Not to mention the barracks when we’re here.” I shuddered. “I hate this world so fucking much.”

“Well, we have plenty of money for now, thanks to the treasures in Bleak Falls and Ustengrav. We’ll just have to keep making money. Speaking of, how much are they paying you?”

Well shit, that was a good question. “I…didn’t think to ask.”

Kellan burst out laughing. “Of course you wouldn’t think of the most practical questions to ask. That’s why I love you.”

Then we both froze. Well, my eyes opened to the size of dinner plates, but otherwise, there was a very long and awkward pause where I’m not sure either of us breathed.

“Um…” Kellan cleared his throat. “That’s what I love about you. That’s all…”

I hastily tried cut him off, trying to stave off the wave of panic that was threatening to wash over me. “No no! It’s fine! I understood what you meant!”

But he had continued talking even as I spoke, “…I meant. Not that I don’t care for you. I do, especially…”

“You don’t have to explain! Really, it’s fine! We’re fine!”

“…after all the things we’ve been through together and…”

“I need a drink. Do you want a drink?” I stood up, shoved the chair that was blocking the door away, and yanked open the door, only to find myself face to face with Lane. “Hi! We’re just going to get drinks. Want to join us?”

Lane smiled and held up three bottles of wine. “I was thinking the same thing. We can celebrate your new job. Assuming you got it?”

“You are a saint.” I grabbed a bottle and let her in, then closed the door again. Then we spent a long night drinking and talking about anything and everything except what had just happened.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

Start from the beginning

“Now, as you may or may not know, the imperial army is not like the Stormcloaks. We do not ‘recruit’ women to do our cooking and cleaning – everything is done by our soldiers,” she said as she led the way through the stone corridors of the castle.

“Didn’t you offer to let me be a cook?”

“I was trying to stop you from what I thought was suicide. We do not force women into being camp whores, either. From time to time we’ll hire professional whores to visit camps, but for the most part our camps and barracks are civilian free.”

“I…that’s good.”

“Yes. We are not barbarians. Instead, those tasks are the duties of our female soldiers.”

It took a long three or so seconds for her meaning to sink in. Then, “No.”

“Yes. Whenever you do not have an active assignment, you will expected to be here or at one of the camps doing the cooking and cleaning. Also, you will be required to service as many soldiers a day as required, with the number divided evenly among the female staff. You don’t have to fuck them or even use your mouth – hand jobs will do. Oil of Miind Flower will be provided for lubrication.”

“Oh my god.”

“If it helps, this is the duty of all female soldiers, including myself. I have a shift in the kitchen this afternoon and will be in the barracks later tonight. I recommend becoming proficient with both hands at once to get it over with sooner.” She ignored the wheezing sound I was beginning to emit. “Of course, with your special designation, it would be easy for you to avoid these tasks by claiming to be on assignment, so you will be provided a supervisor who will accompany you. Obviously, he is included in your daily duty.”

“Obviously.”

“You are also required to report to headquarters here in Solitude at least once a month.” A pause as she tilted her head. “I admit, I am surprised that you seem to dislike the idea of this duty – I assumed from the way you are dressed that you would enjoy that part.”

“I don’t dress this way because I want to. I was cursed by a Daedra.”

“I…see. Well, you can wear what you like in the field but you are required to be in uniform in the city.”

“Understood.” I did not bother to protest – she would find out soon enough.

“On that note, here.”

We had entered what I assumed to be a war room – a giant 3D relief map of Skyrim with what seemed like hundreds of colored flags stuck in it dominated the middle of the room. All around it were desks, chairs, and other office-y kinds of things. Rikke pulled open a drawer in one of the desks, pulled out two pieces of thick parchment, signed them, and handed them to me.

“These are licenses for armor and weapons. They will be valid in any Imperial-held towns and cities and should be okay in neutral cities as well. Not that there are many of those left.” Another drawer, and she pulled out a metal disk. “This is a token for a set of armor from Beirand, who you will find just outside the gate to the courtyard. You get one set of armor on the Legion – if it is destroyed or lost, you will have to purchase replacements. You are also responsible for repairs. Any questions?”

“No ma’am,” I said as I took the token.

“You can keep that sword, if you want – it looks well made. Go get your armor, get dressed, and come back here. Your timing is excellent – a job for a Keṣ Tshaâki came in this morning, but the others are out on assignment.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Also we don’t say ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ here. You address people by their rank, so call me Legate.”

“Ah…yes, Legate. What am I, then?”

“The Keṣ Tshaâki have their own special designation - Commander. It is equivalent to a Prefect in the hierarchy, which is the first level of officer. You will report directly to me or General Tullius when we are present, but out in the field, you will report to the Tribunes who run the Companies.”

“Understood, thank you. Legate.”

“Dismissed, Commander.”

She gave me the Imperial salute which, fortunately, was a simple fist over the heart. I returned it then left, trying not to think about what I had just learned. After all I had been through, in this Skyrim and the last, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the revelation of how women were treated in the military, yet here I was, once again on my heels.

I found the blacksmith, who dismissed me with a glance until I held up the token, at which point his attitude changed only enough that he actually spoke in my direction.

“Light, medium, or heavy?”

I think he thought I would not know what he meant – he just kind of had that patronizing vibe at first glance – but, for once, I caught on immediately.

“Heavy, please.”

He huffed as he looked over my small frame, then shrugged. “I doubt you’ll be able to move in heavy plate, but yer choice. Come back in an hour.”

“You can make a full set of armor in an hour?”

He snorted. “Of course not. I already have plenty of pieces made – I just need to adjust some things so it will fit.”

“Oh. Of course, sorry.” I cleared my throat. “That’s not necessary. Just give me what you have.”

“What I have is two sizes too large for you, at least.”

“That’s okay.” He glared at me but I just waited until he shrugged and turned away.

“Don’t blame me when you can’t move in it.”

“Don’t worry, I know exactly who to blame for all of this. I will hold you innocent.”

So, a couple things while we wait for Beirand to assemble my new armor: the bikinification of my outfits had its advantages. I’ve mentioned how the heels felt as stable as running in a nice pair of tennis shoes (or sneakers or trainers or whatever your local lingo calls them), how the clothes and armor were super flexible, so I was never hampered in my movement, and how I was somehow not affected by extremes in weather. Heat never got too hot, cold never got too cold, rain felt like a comfortable shower, and snow was actually super fun to be out in without the bitter chill that normally accompanies it.

What is probably evident but I haven’t explicitly mentioned yet is that, no matter how big or bulky the armor was, it formed itself perfectly to my body. A bit too skin-tight perfectly, one might say, but I could put on a giant’s clothes and they would magically fit. So I could wear a medieval knight’s full plate and be no more hindered than if I was wearing…well, a bikini. Except one that magically kept my breasts from bouncing everywhere. I swear, embarrassing as they were to wear, they were the most comfortable outfits I have ever worn, with magic that beats any bra ever made. Hell, even the stupid thongs didn’t chafe.

Also, it made my pussy looked waxed clean no matter how bushy it actually got. Which was nice because who wants to see pubes in a bikini but, on the other hand, I've never liked being bare down there - I'm not a fucking child anymore.

Anyway, back to Beirand, who handed me a neatly stacked set of steel armor that I could barely lift. I thanked him and staggered away with it while he watched with a mystified/bemused/scornful expression you would have had to see to understand. He doesn’t talk much, but his expressions say a lot. I’ve always liked the guy.

Don't feed the bastards. Jesus Christ.

When we got there, Lane went off to the local Dibellan temple, Kellan went off to procure us rooms at the inn, and I went off to join the army.

God, what a mistake.

All right, to be fair, it was probably necessary. But Jesus.

Anyway. I headed up the ramp to Castle Dour and presented myself to the guards as a new recruit. They grunted and jerked their heads toward a table. Or, rather, toward the line of recruits queued up at said table. The courtyard was huge, easily the length of a football field (except round, not rectangular), and the line ran along about a third of the wall (including directly behind the straw targets currently in use for archery practice. That seemed safe).

"Um...isn't there any other way? I'm kind of in a hurry."

They laughed. Which, of course they did. I would have done the same, in their position. 

"So eager to die, are ya?" The first guard motioned toward a nearby door. "In that case, try in there. They're looking for people with...skills that might not translate to the normal soldier's life."

 "That sounds perfect, tha..."

"That's if you don't die during the trial, of course."

Oh right! The…Kiss Thacki. Or whatever it was called. I had forgotten all about it. My nerves shot up – I felt unprepared for what might be a life-or-death battle. I glanced at the door, then at the line, then back at the door. "Well, I don't think I have much choice."

"As I expected." The guard moved aside, leaving me a path to the queue. He seemed surprised when I went the other direction. "Wait, you're not really..."

"I told you, I don't have that kind of time." I stepped past them, mentally willing my shaking knees not to give out as I walked toward the door. I heard one of them say, "Bloody waste of good pus..." just as the door shut behind me.

The corridor was dimly lit - torches were in limited supply, apparently - but the clanging of metal against metal and the shouting of voices was enough to guide me to a large room, this one better lit. I entered just in time to see a man get a sword through his eye. The woman standing on the less-pointy side of the sword shook her head as the man slumped to the ground.

"I thought you said you were a master swordsman. Fool." She gestured. "Clean this up."

Two soldiers snapped salutes and grabbed the dead man by the arms and dragged him toward the door. I stood aside to let them pass, which brought the woman's attention to me. She sighed "Another one? Go stand in line. You're too young to die today."

"I don't have time for that, I'm afraid. I need this war to end as quickly as possible."

She laughed. "On that, we are in agreement. It has lasted far too long. But your words are a curiosity to me - everyone wants the war to end. Why is your purpose so much more urgent than anyone else's?"

"Isn't it obvious? To get rid of the dragons. Why is the war still on when there is a bigger threat to everyone?"

"Everyone?" She seemed surprised. "There have been reports of three, maybe four of them, and those are unconfirmed. Even if it’s true, maybe the people in Skyrim are in some danger. The rest of Tamriel is not."

"No danger? How can you say that?"

"Because it is true. The dragons are annoying, I do not disagree. But they have been shown to be killable. We'll just continue to kill them as they show up."

"That is ludicrous! You know they are coming back to life every time you kill them, don't you?"

"Coming back to life? You are the one who sounds ludicrous. No," as I started to speak again. "I do not have time for this. I appreciate your willingness to volunteer to fight for the Empire, but you don't look like a warrior. I can offer you a job as a cook or something, if you wish."

"No, I'm here to fight. To end..."

"Fine, if you insist. Then go back outside and get in line. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"No, I’m here to be in the…um…kiss…”

“The Keṣ Tshaâki." She frowned. "Yes, that is the purpose of this. But you..."

"I can help. Give me your trial, or whatever." I just kept myself from glancing down at the path of blood left from her recent victim.

She stood still for several long seconds and just stared at me. I stared back, though it made my skin itch - I dearly wanted to turn away. At last, she shrugged and lifted her still-bloody sword.

"Fine. Your funeral. Although it will be less of a funeral and more of a mass burning."

"That's fine. I'm kind of tired of this place anyway.” I pulled off my rug, trying very hard to ignore her newly even-more-focused stare. Then I realized something. “Um…it is all right if I use this?" I pointed at a sword on the ground, presumably the one used by the victim before me.

She laughed. “You came without a weapon?”

“Well, this stupid place seems to frown on women with weapons.”

“Ah. So you don’t even have a weapon license. You have made me curious, I admit.” She motioned at the sword. “Feel free.”

“Thank you.” I picked up the sword and squatted into the stance Kellan had taught me.

“Are you ready?”

"Absolutely. Whenever you are."

She shrugged. "Very well."

She circled me with a wary expression; she was not so stupid as to assume my idiot façade wasn't hiding true skill. The joke was on her, of course – my idiot façade was not a façade at all; I had no true skill, just a couple of stupid dragon words.

So I pivoted to keep her in my field of view as I whispered, “Feim Zii Gron..."

Oh, right. I should probably interrupt to tell you that I had two active words at that point. Not because we did anything special like kill another dragon - it was because we happened to stumble upon the dead body of a dragon...or, rather, the general area where a dragon had died. See, we were walking along through the hills about a half-day's travel east of Dragon Bridge when the wind hit me out of nowhere and I orgasmed right in the middle of the fucking road while a group of merchants gawked. When it was done, I had my Ghost Shout and a very wet set of armor. We didn't go looking for the dragon's body, but it had to be around there somewhere.

Anway. So I kept whispering my new Shout (or Whisper, I guess, in this case) over and over. The ethereal-ness of the Shout was very short term – less than ten seconds – so I kept it continually refreshed. The last thing I needed was to have it wear out just as she struck.

Of course, I wasn’t completely sure this tactic would work. I didn’t think there was a delay between words or some kind of cooldown period before I could use the same one again, like some stupid video game. In retrospect, I probably should have tested that out with Kellan beforehand. See? No façade to my idiocy.

Instead, I had luck. At least in this one instance – I can’t say I’ve been lucky for much of my time in Skyrim. The woman stepped forward with a move quick enough that I didn’t even realize she had moved until her sword passed through me. My brain caught up just in time to take advantage of her momentarily stunned reaction and I Shouted (and shouted) my other word: “Fus Ro Dah!”

It was not at full power, of course, but it was enough to make her stumble backward three steps. I followed up, slapping her hand that still gripped her sword with the flat of mine before she could recover, then, as her sword clattered to the floor, I stuck the pointy end of mine toward her face.

She looked at it, then looked up at me. "What kind of magic was that?"

"Not magic. A shout. I am the Dragonborn." I winced inwardly as the words left my mouth - it felt so pretentious. Especially when she simply frowned at my pronouncement as she pushed my sword away with an irritable gesture. "I would love to believe that. As a Nord, I truly would. Whatever the case, I see that I underestimated you. I apologize. I am Legate Rikke. Welcome to the Imperial Legion."

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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Start from the beginning

We took this route because Lane was familiar with the land and knew several shortcuts through the mountains that kept us from having to swing wide around them or risk some place called Labyrinthian, where apparently a large number of trolls had begun to gather. I remembered the one on the Greybeard’s mountain (who had eaten my horse, the fucking thing) and shuddered at the thought of facing more than one at a time.

So even without the extra travel time, we made it to Morthal about three days earlier than if we had gone around and I spent the night boasting about how I knew exactly where the place was. I also purchased the stoutest piece of parchment I could find, borrowed a pen from the innkeeper, and wrote a note to leave in place of the horn, assuming it was still there. See how Delphine likes it!

Naturally, I could not find the fucking place. It turned out to be far farther north than I remembered and it took us an entire day to get there. And then there was the camp of bandits that hadn’t been there before.

I suppose I might have been able to sneak past, had I been alone, but middle-class suburbanites are not known for stealth, so this is, for those keeping count, likely the third time I would have been captured or killed because there were about a dozen of them.

Fortunately, I had help. The fight with the bandits was the first time I fought at Kellan’s side where I was not a complete liability. I Shouted the one that came at me into a stumble then, as my panicking mind threw out everything Kellan had taught me over the past three weeks about stances and balance and proper footwork, I just lunged forward, leading with the pointy part of my sword, and got a hit on the man’s neck because he happened to recover from the Shout and was beginning to stand back up just as my sword reached him.

It was dumb luck and almost exactly like the first time I killed a man, back in the previous timeline when I took the wrong turn out of Nightgate Inn on my way to Riverwood and ended up being chased by bandits. So if you are wondering how much I had progressed in my fighting abilities over the ensuing six plus years, there is your answer.

His jerking death throes yanked the sword out of my hand and I rushed after it with a cry; by the time I had it again, Kellan and Lane had already killed the rest.

“You didn’t freeze!” Kellan gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. “That was very good!”

“Don’t patronize me, Kellan. I totally panicked. I was way off balance and just got lucky.”

“I was not patronizing, I swear! You took action this time, and you downed your opponent with one strike! That is an accomplishment. I do not expect you to be a fully-fledged warrior all at once – I just expect you to take steps forward. This was a big one.”

I gave him a long look, but he seemed sincere, so I forced back my instinct to turn defensive and said merely, “Thank you. I will do even better next time.”

“I know you will.”

Another squeeze on my shoulder and he turned away to help Lane clean up the mess we had made while I stood and fumed. I felt like one of those anime girls who gets a headpat from the male protagonist as her reward for doing something good; every time I saw that in an anime, I wanted the girl to tear the protag’s patronizing arm off and beat him to death with it.

The entire thing swung my perspective around. Instead of feeling like an equal, I suddenly felt like a child with two parents who kept telling me what a good job I was doing when I swung my toy sword at a chair leg while they were gearing up for a real battle. The worst part, of course, was that was not far from the truth.

I was still chewing on all this when we entered Ustengrav. Last time, of course, I had come here on the wings of Dibella’s (and the lingering remains of Molag Bal’s) powers and had rampaged my way through without a thought. This time, someone else had Dibella’s powers and I was only myself.

I was chomping on the bit to kill things in some desperate bid to prove I was not a child to be looked down upon, but that, of course, is exactly the mindset of just such a child. Kellan and Lane both turned out to be experienced (that is to say, cautious) ruins-delvers and constantly called me back just as I was rushing forward to attack.

It was, of course, one of those ironic (yet completely predictable) situations where I kept wanting to prove myself an adult only to have my every effort reinforce the opposite. I have been a slave many times but seldom have I felt such humiliation, especially when Kellan gave me a literal head pat to reward a moment when I didn’t inadvertently set off a trap (I told him not to touch my head again or I would remove his arm. He looked amused but at least did not do it again). I did manage to kill some draugr – I had some experience with that, at least – but, of course, Kellan and Lane killed ten for every one of mine.

You will, no doubt, have noted the very large number of times I just said "of course." That is because all those things are obvious to someone who has not built up an incredibly large and entirely undeserved arrogance based on their own lack of abilities.

We got to the lower levels of the place and I started to head for the entrance to what I considered the “Dragonborn Trial” portion but I was stopped by Kellan, who said, “If that is the way to the end of this place, let’s see what there is to be found here first,” and motioned toward a path leading further down – a path I had either not noticed or had ignored my first time in the place. I shrugged and followed Lane and him down a curving path that ended at a pool filled by a waterfall that fell from some dark opening above…and, behind it, a familiar smooth-faced wall with obscure carvings.

“Wha…” was as far as I got before the wind and chanting kicked me in the groin.

Lane was giving me an odd look when I came back out of it. “Does that happen every time you see one of these walls?”

I nodded, still panting. “Yes. And when I take a dragon’s soul.”

She pursed her lips then glanced at Kellan and back at me. “That seemed like a pretty intense orgasm. If you are able, I recommend sharing them from now on – it should relieve the pressure of it. Otherwise, you’re likely to get an aneurysm one of these times.”

I was surprised by this, not least because I would not have guessed anyone in Skyrim would know what an aneurysm is. “When you say ‘share’ them…”

Lane motioned at Kellan. “With a partner. It would be most effective with a male, so it is fortunate your proclivities lean that way.”

I looked at Kellan, who seemed as uncomfortable with the idea of public sex (the public orgasms were bad enough!) as I felt, then passed the torch on the subject. “We…can talk about that. Later. I guess. For now, we should keep moving.”

As we were climbing the path back upward, Kellan asked, “So what new Shout did you learn? That’s what those walls give you, right?”

I was surprised to learn I could actually answer that question - I could feel the word in my head and somehow understood what it would do, once active. “Ah. Yes, I learned a new word, although I won’t be able to use it until I get another dragon’s soul. It is Feim Zii Gron. It will make me…” I paused, unsure how to describe it. “…like a cloud, I guess. Physical objects will pass through me for a short time.”

Also the inverse – I would be able to pass through solid objects. I mentally kicked myself several times, then and throughout the rest of my days (I’m doing it as I write this), for not finding that fucking wall on the first go around. I could have just walked right out of prison or the fucking mine! Think I’m tied tight? Think again, asshole! Oh my god, what a fucking game changer it would have been!

“That sounds useful!” Kellen replied in one of the grandest understatements in history.

Lane nodded. “It does, indeed! I wonder what other skills these walls can give you.”

I shrugged – I had only managed to learn the two words last time, and one of those was given to me by the Greybeards. “This is why I would like to explore every nook and cranny we come to – you never know where we might find more of them.”

“Agreed,” Kellen agreed as we came to the top of the slope and headed for the trial area. “How does this trial work and how will we beat it since you have not had your training yet?”

“We’ll cheat.” I motioned toward a tunnel that had a series of four heavy gates lined in sequence. “These four pillars correspond to those gates. Standing by the first pillar opens the first gate, and so on. If I had done my training, I would know a Shout that would give me a burst of speed, so I could run by all the pillars and through all the gates before they closed.”

“That’s…impressive.”

“It would be but, of course, I have not done that training. Too bad we didn’t run into another dragon on the way here – the new Shout would probably let me just walk through the gates. But since that is out, I was thinking one of us will stand next to one of the pillars, which will lift one of the gates. Someone else will then stick a rock or something under the gate so it cannot close all the way. Repeat for the other gates, then we can all crawl through.”

Kellan laughed. “I think you underestimate the weight of a rock that could accomplish that task!”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“I think I do. Is there a lever of some kind that will open all of them once you pass through?”

“I…believe so.”

“Then here is what we’ll do – you two stand by the pillars for the first two gates. I’ll walk through then, when I am past them, you two move to the third and fourth pillars. I’ll then get to the other side and open them from there.”

I laughed even as I flushed. “That…is a much better plan.”

He must have noticed my embarrassment because he started to reach out a hand, then checked himself and lowered it again while saying, “Yours was a good plan as well. It is important to be able to think outside the barrel in places like this – they often have riddles or puzzles to solve, and many of them have solutions that are lost to time, so alternate answers much be found.” He motioned toward the pillars. “Shall we?”

Things were uneventful from there. I mean, other than the floor made completely of fire traps and the colony of giant spiders. The final room was as I remembered it – a short causeway across a pool and a dais with an altar - but this time the stupid horn was there. I laughed in triumph as I picked it up, then took out my note and laid it carefully in the horn’s spot. Then set a couple rocks on it to make sure it stayed put. Delphine’s had kept its place for over a year last time, but I saw no reason to take the chance.

A heavy storm hit just as we left the place. We briefly discussed holing up and waiting it out, but it was still only early afternoon, so we trekked on for a few hours instead, heading south for the road then turning west. The original plan had been to head to High Hrothgar next, but that was hundreds of miles to the south while Solitude was so close, we could see it outlined against the sky whenever lightning flashed. Sure, it would have been helpful to have all three stages of Fus Ro Dah, and Wuld was nice as well, but it didn't seem worth the time for just those. Besides, the Greybeards had waited patiently for me for over a year last time - they could wait again.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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Almost too late – I caught some ice on my leg, which went instantly numb and caused me to fall forward. I landed hard and it took a few panicked seconds before I could move again, fearing the next spate of killing frost. That spate never happened and after I had leveraged myself back to my feet and limped with as much caution as I could muster back to the entrance, I found a surprising sight.

The dragon was on the ground, one wing torn almost completely off, fighting a losing battle for its life against a single foe. That foe was not, however, Kellan. It was, instead, a naked woman covered in a dizzying number of tattoos holding familiar glowing swords and moving at a speed I would not have believed had I not witnessed it. No matter which direction the dragon turned, she was somewhere else, swords slicing skin, bone, and muscle with every blurred swing.

I took out my bow but didn’t shoot because I was afraid of accidentally hitting her, since her moves were unpredictable. The chances were small that she would be in the exact spot I aimed, but I didn’t want to take that chance.

Eventually Kellan ran into my field of view from somewhere directly below my position on the cliff and joined the battle, though there was precious little for him to do; the dragon was on its last leg (literally – one of them had been chopped off) and faltering by the time he got there. Still, he fulfilled his part of the plan, at least to a degree – with one swing of his sword, the dragon’s head fell and started to roll down the hillside.

Kellan and the Dibellan Defender began to talk, but I stopped paying attention because that’s when the wind picked up and spiraled from the dragon to me. I got lost in another orgasm for a time (and was very fortunate I did not fall from the cliff during it). When I came to, I found both of them kneeling over me.

“Are you injured?” the Defender, who had re-donned her priestess robes, said at the same time Kellan asked, “Are you all right?”

"I love it when a plan comes together," I replied. Then, at their predictably blank stares, I added, “I’m fine. I just…” I waved at hand in the general direction of the dragon, though I couldn’t see it from my vantage on the cave floor.

“Oh!” Kellan looked from me toward the dragon (that he also would not have been able to see) and back. “So it happened? Is that what that wind was? It stripped the dragon right down to the bones!”

“Yes. I’ll be somewhat more use to you now.” I could feel it – the words still rattled around but now they were infused with power. “Let’s go down and I’ll show you.”

They helped me up and we clambered down the cliff face, where I looked over the pile of bones that had once been a dragon, then at the priestess. “That was impressive, Defender.”

She did not seem surprised that I knew what she was (they’re not really a secret, so she probably just thought I knew about them in general). “Thank you, but I only cleaned up what your friend started – he was the one who broke its wing. Then one of its legs snapped when it hit the ground, so it couldn’t really move and therefore was easy enough to dispatch.”

I glanced at Kellan, who was trying not to look smug. For the record, he failed miserably.

I expected the Defender to follow up with a similar recruitment spiel as last time, but she did not. Which was just as well – I didn’t want to go through that again anyway. I turned my attention to the dragon, opened my mouth, and Shouted: “Fus Ro Dah!”

I was disappointed in the result – the bones rattled and shook a little but I had expected something a little more dramatic. Visions of the dragon in Falkreath came to mind, of its bones flying into the air at my words; nothing like the little gust I had provoked here.

The other two, however, at least acted impressed.

“It really worked!” Kellan exclaimed at the same time the Defender said, “Impressive.”

I was about to tell them that it hadn’t been as great as I had hoped when the ground began to shake and a multitude of voices rang through the air.

"DO-VAH-KIIN!"

We stumbled, the bones shook apart into a no-longer-dragon-shaped heap, and small rocks rained down from the cliff above.

Kellan looked around in a frenzy, his sword drawn as if facing a foe. “What in the name of the gods was that?!”

“Um. That was the Greybeards. They’re trying to tell me they want to see me.”

“The Greybeards? I have heard a little about them, but only in fanciful tales. What do they want?”

“They are masters of Shouting. They’re going to teach me how to make the Shout I just did stronger and teach me another that will help me move faster, then send me after that horn I was telling you about. I just hoped to save time by getting the horn first.” Plus, I didn’t add, I wanted to get to it before Delphine had a chance to swipe it again. I didn’t want to go to her until all my dragons were in a row and we could concentrate on killing them.

Kellan looked as if he had a multitude of questions but he stuck to a pragmatic single one: “Does this change our plan?”

“Partially, but only an amendment that should have been there before. I would still like to get the horn first, then go to the Greybeards, then to Solitude.”

“Very well. Riverwood first still, though, right?”

“Ah, the stone. Yes.”

“Do you mind if I travel with you?”

I blinked as we both turned to the Defender.

Kellan responded with gusto before my brain could begin to formulate a response. “Gladly!”

I bit my tongue because the words I had been about to say got overridden by a shot of hot jealously which changed those words to fresh ones I did not want to say out loud.

The Defender either noticed my reaction or also made the obvious assumption about Kellan’s willingness. “I must make it clear that traveling with me does not mean unlimited worship. Dibella’s worship is not intended for the sake of slaking of lust – it is a holy rite made with reverence. Therefore parishioners are limited to services only once a month.”

Kellan turned beet red, and I do not mean that as a colloquialism – I have only seen a red that deep on someone’s skin when my brother spent an entire day helping his girlfriend’s grandparents plant Christmas trees (it was for tax purposes or something – they never ended up selling any) without a shirt on because he was trying to impress her. Ironically, it led to her dumping him because he kept insisting she rub aloe lotion on his back all day, even while they were at work at the local Wendy’s.

Anyway, back to Kellan, who lifted defensive hands and proclaimed, “No, not because of that! You are as good a warrior as I have ever seen! It would certainly be a boon to have you join us! That’s all I meant!”

The Defender gave him a sardonic smile and purred, “Of course,” and I began to like her despite myself.

“I am all right with it,” I said before the ensuing silence could take root into something more uncomfortable. “If you are certain. We wouldn’t want to interrupt your work.”

She gave me a smile, and it was dazzling – I felt it was meant only for me. She was really damn good at her job. “This is my work – to spread the love of Dibella by defeating evil in her name. And from what I can tell, you are about to face a lot of evil. Where else could I be of more use?”

“Fair enough. I’m Sian, by the way.”

“Kellan told me. I am Lane.”

And that is why, whenever I hear about Dibella, all I can think about is my least favorite Beatles song.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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“Now that we have this rock – I’ll take your word for it that these strange etchings make some sort of map – what do we do with it?”

“That’s a good question. Last time, I was sent to get it by Far…Fir…Ferengi, or whatever the court wizard’s name is, but I learned later it ended up with Delphine. So we could just cut out the middleman and give it to her. I didn’t really care for Ferengi anyway, and I bet he’s even worse in this extra-misogynistic world. The only thing is…” I paused as I tried to remember exactly what had happened. It had only been six-ish years ago, yet it felt like…well, like a lifetime ago.

“Yes?”

“Turning it into Ferengi led directly to the first time I learned I was Dragonborn. And then Balgruuf made me a Thane.” And then my housecarl got her herself killed and me enslaved, I didn’t add. “So maybe that would be worth the trouble?”

Kellan scoffed. “Why would you want to be a Thane? Then you would be under the Jarl’s direct command and would have to do what he said. Besides, I’ve never met a Thane who was worth more than the price of his codpiece.” A pause. “Also, I don’t think women can become Thanes.”

I snorted as we started walking toward the doorway out of the tomb. “Of course we can’t. God, this fucking place. Maybe you could pretend to be the Dragonborn?”

“Not even for you would I stick my head in that noose.”

I laughed. “Fair enough. Then let’s drop off the Dragonstone at Riverwood and head north.”

“What’s in the north?”

“I have to pick up a horn. And then…well, you’re not going to like the next part.”

“Why? What’s the next part.”

I sighed. “I’m going to join the army.”

“What?! Why?!”

“Because we need this stupid war to end. We can’t defeat all these dragons by ourselves – we’re going to need help. Lots of it. We need these armies to be facing the dragons, not each other.”

“I…see. Well, since we are heading north, I assume you mean to join the Imperials. Which is just as well since the Stormcloaks don’t accept women.”

“They don’t? What am I saying, of course they don’t. Did they last time?” I thought about it for a moment and the battle I had witnessed on the road to Windhelm floated back to mind…complete with the raping of the women on the losing side. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. “I guess there were. Is joining the Imperials a problem for you?”

Kellan shrugged. “I am from Cyrodil, but I have no spear in this fight. Do not expect me to join with you, though – I did my time in the military.”

I winced as a pang went through me. “So…once we’re there, we are done?”

“No, don’t worry about that. I’ll still be around. However, went you get there, you need to tell them you want to be in the Keṣ Tshaâki.”

“Why? What is that?”

“It is their elite troops. They are sent on special missions either alone or only with a small squad. I can join you on those kinds of missions. Besides, if you just join the regular rank and file, you will have no control over where you go or how you are used.”

“That is true. I assume they don’t just let anyone into this…Kiss Thaki, though.”

“Keṣ Tshaâki. And no – you will be given a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“The fighting kind, of course. Against one of the other Keṣ Tshaâki or one of the officers.”

“I…don’t think I’ll be able to pass such a test.”

“Didn’t you say you have some sort of power now that the dragons are back? That’s what the…” he waved a hand toward the now silent wall just before it passed out of sight as we reached the tunnel to the exit, “…was, right? You got your power?”

“Ah. Yes. Sort of. I learned a word.” And so I had - I could feel Fus Ro Dah rolling around inside my head, banging against the walls because I had no way to release it. “But I need to…well, absorb a dragon soul in order to use it.”

“I assume you get these souls by killing dragons? Well, perhaps we’ll run across some on the way.”

“You are very blasé about the thought of facing a dragon.”

“I do not know that word – blasé? - but I admit, I am very excited about it. I have fought bears and sabrecats, horkers and draugr, but I never dreamed I would have a chance to face an actual dragon!”

“You say you are from Cyrodil but you sounded just like a Nord there.” I ignored his “Hey!” as I considered. “Well, we could wait around a bit – I at least know where one dragon will show up. It will delay our trip, though, because it will be…” I thought back. The dragon at the watchtower had shown up just after I got back to Whiterun with the stone. But last time I had gone to Whiterun then back to Bleak Falls, where I had spent an entire day fighting (and eventually getting fucked by) draugr, then back to Whiterun again. “…somewhere around four or five…or six days before it shows up. As a bonus, we’d have help killing it since it will attack a watchtower full of Whiterun guards.”

“I suppose it depends on how much you are looking forward to joining the army.”

I sighed. “I am not looking forward to that at all.”

“Then I say we wait. I could use the rest to finish healing up and you look like you could use a long rest yourself. It has been a busy couple of days.”

We crested the low slope that led to the exit. Sunlight beckoned ahead, which gave me a small jolt of surprise- somehow it felt like we had been in the barrow for hours, but really only one had passed, at most. I glanced back as we reached the exit.

“All right. We’ll drop off the stone and then get a room at the inn in Whiterun. That way we’ll be close when the…”

“DRAGON!” Kellan screamed the word and I frowned.

“Yes, when the dragon attacks…”

“GET DOWN!”

Kellan grabbed me and yanked me back into the cave, twisting so I fell flat on my face with his arms around me.

“Ow! What the…”

Then I heard it – the familiar roar/cry of a dragon’s breath. I felt a burst of cold and a sound like a freight train rumbled past. The cave shook and dust and small rocks clattered from the walls and ceiling.

“Fuck! One is here?”

“Seems so.” Kellan released me and I scrambled to my feet and looked back at the entrance. It was covered with a sheen of ice. “I thought they breathed fire?”

“Some do. Some breathe ice. Or speak it, I guess.” I ignored his curious stare. “We’re trapped in here. We’ll have to go back to the crypt and wait until it gets bored and goes somewhere else.”

“No, who knows how long that would take? We’ll just kill it.”

“Kill it? Look, I know you’re strong but it takes multiple people to down a dragon.”

“We are multiple people.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it!”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“What…”

“I’m going to climb higher up the mountain and hide. Then you go to the entrance and get it to come after you. Try to get it to stick its head right into this cave – when that happens, I’ll drop down onto its back and chop its head off.”

“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard!”

“Don’t worry! I did this with my brother against a bear!”

“You killed a bear with this plan?”

“No, it got away. And we both nearly died. But I’m sure it will work this time! Look,” as I began to protest, “it is beginning to circle back. I need to hurry so it doesn’t see me. Get to the entrance and get its attention!”

Before I could protest further, he was out of the cave and scrambling up the slope, leaving me to face a dragon with only my bow, my sword, my neutered Shout, and my wits.

I have seldom felt so doomed.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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It was like nothing I had seen before. No, I take that back – it was exactly like all of Skyrim had looked just before the Great Reset; so much death and destruction. Blackened bodies lay everywhere. Some had clearly been trying to run, some were huddled in useless protective balls around others, some had just given up and stood in place while their lives were burned away.

It was difficult to believe anyone could have survived, but some few had, including, I was heartened to see, the boy who had tipped me off in the first place. He was latched onto what I assumed was the man, and both were crying over a body that was more ash than corpse, and whom I could only assume was the boy’s mother. I left them alone and carried on.

There were a few others, but I saw no signs of Kellan, and my heart grew heavier with each passing moment. At last, having made the full circuit, from ruined district to ruined district, I arrived back at the western gate and let out a breath.

“That was quite the sigh,” said a familiar voice, and I turned to find Kellan. His face was covered with soot and he had burns up his entire left side, but he was there, gripping a sack over one shoulder and grinning like a maniac. I shouted and launched myself into his arms.

Then dropped back as he yelped in pain as I had slammed into some of the burned parts of his body.

“Sorry!” I said, wincing, but he just laughed, wrapped me up in his good arm, and held me close.

“Nay, there is never a need to say sorry to me. It is only a burn – I’ll heal. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead.”

I sniffed as I clung (gingerly) to him. “I thought you were going to stay and watch.”

“Well, that was the plan. But I remembered what you told me – you described the place just as it was. And I saw the desperation in your eyes. I was nearly too late, even at that – the thing dropped out of the sky and started blazing the place up just as I turned – half a second sooner, he would have caught me full on.” A pause. “I’m…sorry I spoke to you so. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.” I sniffed as I detached myself and gave him the best smile I could manage in the circumstances. “I don’t blame you – up to this point, listening to me has led only to trouble.”

He laughed then winced and grabbed at his wounds. “Ah. Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

“I’ll endeavor to be funny as little as possible.”

He laughed again, then bit it off with a yelp. “Dammit, woman.” A sigh. “Well, where to next?”

I raised my eyebrows, since I never could manage to raise just one. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve been proven right – the dragon showed up, just as you said. So now what?”

“Didn’t we just discuss the repercussions of listening to me?”

“That was before I knew you could see the future.”

“Fair enough. Ummm…” My brain scrambled into a quick recalibration. What had come next? Whiterun, Balgruff and his wizard, who had sent me to… “Bleak Falls Barrow.”

“What about it?”

“That’s where we’re going next.”

A pause.

“Why?”

“Because it has a map in it. Well, I found out it was a map later when I talked to Delphine…” I froze as a cold wave of fear washed over me. Delphine had been in Helgen just yesterday. I should have talked to her after all, to warn her! If she had died…

I shook my head. If anyone (else) could escape from a dragon attack, I felt sure it was she. Still, worry nagged at the back of my mind. Maybe a quick stop at Riverwood first, just to make sure…

“What happened? Did you remember something else?”

“No, just…trying to think. Anyway, the barrow has a map that shows where all the dragon burial grounds are.”

“Annnnd that’s important because…”

“Because the dragon you just saw is going to start raising all those dead dragons from the dead. Were you even listening when I told you all this?”

“I…well, no. Honestly, I didn’t really believe you, so I didn’t pay as close attention as I should have. I know, I’m sorry! In my defense, I was distracted by your variety of clothe…”

“ANYway, the barrow also has one of the magic walls that gives me words to shout. So even without the map, we’d need to go there. For that matter,” I added half to myself, “we should probably go into every ruin, cave, and barrow we can find. The Greybeards said there were more…”

Kellan cleared his throat. “You know what? This is all a little much for me. I’m tired and really hurt, so why don’t we just take things one at a time? We’ll go to Falkreath…”

“Not Falkreath.”

“I…okay, Riverwood…”

“Marginally better.”

“…it’s closer to Bleak Falls anyway, and get some poultices and bandages for my burns then go to your barrow for your map and wall. Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”

“I like this plan.” I smiled and laid a hand on his good arm. “I am glad you are with me.”

He smiled back, then bent and kissed me. “I won’t leave you again. I swear it.”

*******************************

Delphine wasn’t at the inn in Riverwood when we passed through but careful poking around gave me the releiving news that she had passed through on her way to Whirerun. With that off my mind, we headed up the hill to the barrow.  

The entrance to Bleak Falls was swarming with bandits. I don’t know if this would have been the third place where I would have been killed and/or captured or not – I like to think that even I at my most clueless would have noticed the alarming number of bandits and beat a hasty retreat. They hadn’t been there last time, so I could not explain their presence this time. Kellan and I went through several ridiculous plans, each as far-fetched as the next - my favorite was his suggestion we provoke the giants at the base of the hill on the Whiterun side and kite them to the bandits - until I remembered there was a back door to the fucking place.

It took a while to find it – all I remembered was that it was about thirty feet up a cliff face and I had come across the Dibellan priestess just below it. Fortunately, she was there this time as well.

Well, fortunately for our chances of finding the entrance. I would have preferred an alternative because, although I made a point of not talking to her, Kellan turned out to be religious. At least for that night. We stayed at her camp and Kellan….well, he did some worshipping while I pretended not to care.

The next morning, I told him, when he asked, that I was acting distant because I was focusing on trying to remember where to go (which was not completely untrue) and tried to radiate no jealousy as hard as I could because I did believe him when he said it was just the way to worship Dibella. Who would know better than I the ways of Dibellan worship? Lord (well, Molag Bal, anyway) knew I had done plenty of it myself. Okay, I had not actually been all that present for any of it and I only remembered bits of it. Point is, ritual sex is a valid form of worship in Skyrim, so I had no ground on which to voice my displeasure.

We finally found the spot on the mountain wall and, after much cursing and scrabbling, made it to the cave where I had made my stumbling pained exit last time. I shuddered as the memory of that nasty dead dick came back to mind (and shuddered again now while writing this) but girded up my rug and stepped in.

It was all much less dramatic than last time. The only trouble we had was opening the secret door to the place, but both Kellan and I had been in similar places before. The trick to these places is knowing there is a secret door – once you know that (and where, exactly, it is), it is not too difficult to find the way to open it.

Instead of waiting for the large draugr to pop out of its coffin, we forced off the lid and hacked at it. It died (again) before it had a chance to move more than an inch. Kellan gathered the map, which was still there, gave me a very odd glance when I chopped off the thing's dick, dropped it on the floor, and jumped up and down on it until it was nothing but a grimy smear, then started to examine the creature’s battleaxe as I took a deep breath and walked toward the smooth-faced concave wall.

It was just as I remembered – a wind from nowhere brushed around me, I heard voices whispering, then chanting, a bright light shone from the wall, and…

…too late, I remembered the other thing that happened. I got out, “Oh shi…” before the orgasm swept me away from my senses. When my senses and I had made our sheepish way back together, I found myself staring up at a very surprised Kellan.

“Um…that was really…something.” He gulped, and I could see he was sweating and flushed. “Does…does that happen every time?”

I sighed as I sat up, and he reached out a hand. I paused but then let him help me to my feet. “Yes. At these walls and when I take dragon souls. I forgot about that part.”

“I don’t see how. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

“Pervert.”

“I do not deny it. Are you all right? Do you need me to…”

I glanced at his pants, where his engorged status was obvious despite the chain armor covering the area. I sighed. “I guess.”

To be honest, I acted as if I was doing him a favor, but I really needed it as well. Maybe it was something about the orgasms from nowhere, maybe it was just some attempt to wash away the memory of the other dick I had received there. I’m not sure. All I know is, we stripped and he carried me to the wall and pressed me against it while he shoved his length into me, and we came together in what was possibly the most fulfilling moment I had ever experienced.

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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Not in Helgen. Well, okay, I felt him arrive in Helgen as well. Hell, everyone felt that. I felt him arrive before that.

I didn’t know that’s what I was feeling, of course. I was sitting at a table in the inn’s common room enjoying a nice breakfast with my favorite Skyrim meal – eggs, grilled bread, and steak (there are no pigs in Skyrim, so no bacon, much to my everlasting sorrow), washed down with a mug of milk. It was the closest thing Skyrim had to Earth food; I ate it at every opportunity, and had been doing so with gusto that Sundas morning when something…

Okay, it is time for another terrible attempt at a description of a feeling I cannot describe. It was like getting punched in the face (and everywhere else on your body, come to think of it), except from three-hundred miles away. And you don’t really get punched. There was no pain, just a sudden impact that came out of nowhere. I could do nothing for a solid thirty seconds but clutch the table and breathe in harsh gasps. All sound faded away, all senses dulled – it was just me and my breath and the solid feel of the table that felt like the only link to life.

When I finally snapped out of it, I had lost my appetite. Everything seemed far too loud, too…alive. I retreated to our room and sat on the bed and tried to figure out what had happened. A heart attack? That seemed unlikely, as did a stroke, but I couldn’t imagine what else it might be (of course, to jump ahead just a tiny bit, I learned what it was soon after. For the record, if this all repeats again somehow, Alduin returns to Skyrim around 7am-ish (no clocks, but that's my best estimate) on Sundas, 17 Last Seed, 201).

My breath caught again when I heard a voice. A child’s voice from outside the room (the walls of Skyrim’s inns are made of stout lumber but are not particularly soundproof).

“Dad?”

A man’s voice responded, “What is it, little cub?”

“There’s a whole army of Imperial soldiers outside! Can we go outside? You just have to see this!”

I felt my heart turn cold as visions of soldiers gathered, prisoners and a chopping block.

“All right. But don’t you go and bother the General.”

The child’s voice rose in excitement even as it grew farther away, accompanied by eager footsteps. “Come on! Hurry up, Dad!”

“You might want to join us, Matlara. This is probably something important.”

“Right behind you.” This, from the innkeeper – I recognized her voice.

I sat on the bed, dread weighing my every breath. It was happening. It had to be. I didn’t want to leave, to see – if I didn’t go out there, didn’t see everything set up the way I remembered, I could imagine this was something else. There was a war on, after all – soldiers showing up was nothing unique. Kellan and I…

Kellan! The thought of him brought me to my feet in an instant. I was out of the room and halfway to the inn door before I realized I had moved. I had to find him, to get him to leave. And shit, all our stuff was still in the room!

I hesitated, but decided getting to Kellan was more important than taking the time to pack everything up. I resumed my path to the door; by the time I reached it, I was at a full run.

I yanked it open, prepared for death and destruction, but all I found were people standing and watching and blocking my view. I eased through the crowd until I could see what interested them, and the sight made my stomach drop.

The colorful pavilions that had been set up in the residential district for an upcoming holiday had been taken down and stacked to the side. In their place, two soldiers dropped a very familiar block of heavy wood and metal.

I cringed, not just because they were clearly setting the scene I had feared, but because I had a second flashback of my own head laying on just such a device. The way the air had stood still; the flash of my meaningless life; the headsman and his axe, and the rushing of air as it descended.

I rubbed my neck with absent fingers, then jumped when a voice spoke from behind me.

“Ah, you’re here! Feeling better?”

I turned and nearly broke out in tears when I saw Kellan. Then I decided, fuck it, and did break out in tears. Without thought, I threw my arms around him and unexpected sobs ripped from me.

“What? What’s wrong?”

His arms wrapped around me, the most comforting thing I had ever felt, and I just wanted to melt into them and cling to him forever.

But there was no time for that.

“No!” I sniffed and pushed away as panic began to replace all other feelings. “It’s happening! This is it!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“This!” I waved a wild hand around, then apologized to the people I accidentally slapped. “This is how it started!”

“I don’t…”

“Alduin!” I hissed the name, then glanced up, fearful that just saying the name would produce the monster. “The dragon! This is the day…the moment he shows up! We need to get out of here!”

“That again? Look, there is no dragon, this is just the Imperial army. Well, part of it. They…look, they have prisoners. They’re going to exe…wait, is that ULFRIC STORMCLOAK?!”

We had been talking in semi-whispers – not that anyone around us was paying us any attention – but his voice rose in a shout on the name of the Stormcloak leader and it turned the air of excitement into an instant frenzy. I gave a desperate glance around as two carts rounded the corner and stopped side by side by the wall that separated the residential and miliary districts. The crowd began to murmur and then shout out.

“It is!”

“Ulfric!”

“Traitor!”

“They got him!”

Closer, quieter, the child’s wondering voice, “Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub.”

“Why? I want to watch the soldiers!”

“Inside. Now!”

“Okay.”

The boy’s disconsolate walk (and peeks back over his shoulder) to the door of the inn shook me back to myself.

“Forget him,” I told Kellan as I shook his arm. “We need to go! Now!”

He frowned down at me. “That is Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion. They are about to execute him and end this bloody war. I am not missing this.”

“Please!” I tried yanking on his arm as the prisoners began clambering from the wagons, but it was like iron.

“This won’t take long. We can leave right after.”

“You don’t understand, it happens…”

For the first time, he turned his full attention to me with a look of anger in his eyes. “Look, woman,” he snapped in a low but fierce voice, “I have been more than patient with you, I have put my life on the line for you more than once, I have followed you even though you wouldn’t listen to sense. I am going to stay here and watch history get made. You go do…whatever it is you are going to do. I am done with you and your lunatic ravings!”

It hurt. I cringed back from his rant and looked for any signs that he didn’t mean it, that he wasn’t so mad at me that he really wanted to part ways, but he just resumed his watch as the last of the prisoners disembarked.

It took a few heartbeats for me to be able to gulp away my tears and speak; even then, I could only manage a whisper – anything more would have turned to instant sobs.

“I…I know you don’t mean that. When…if…when you are able, I’ll be outside the western gate, just around the corner. I…hope you make it.”

And then, as one of the prisoners made a desperate attempt to flee, I turned around and did the same.

It took only a few moments to gather my things. I hesitated but decided against trying to gather Kellan’s armor or weapons – I needed to move fast, and armor would bog me down. Plus, with my luck, a guard would accost me for having it.

With my stuff gathered in my pack, I went back into the inn’s main room, hoping to see the child so I could try to talk him into coming with me, but the room was silent.

Well, silent for a moment. Then there was a huge BOOM and people began screaming outside and I fucking ran.

I went through the kitchen, grabbing a knife as I went, out the kitchen door, around the back of the inn, and out the western gate that, fortunately, stood open and empty of guards. I did not look back until I reached the spot where the road curved a little north and a little downward, then collapsed on the ground and turned my head.

The city was on fire, of course. Places made pretty much entirely of wood will do that when an enraged (I just assumed Alduin was enraged all the time, like Bruce Banner) dragon decides he doesn’t like the look of it. I couldn’t hear much except his roar as he rose then dipped, over and over, fire spewing from his mouth.

I don’t know how long I sat there. It felt like hours, but the sun still had not touched its zenith by the time the dragon decided it had managed enough wanton destruction for one day and flew off to the northeast. I gave him another amount of time I judged to be thirty-ish minutes then made my way back to what was left of the town.

I felt little hope as I approached the gates, and that little hope withered and died as I broached them. All I saw before me was death and destruction, and I felt my strength leave me. I collapsed to my knees and, aided in part by the acrid stinging air, wept until I could weep no more.

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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I sheared away from the dark bubble of nauseous fear that arose when I thought about that. The first time getting raped is something one does not soon forget, especially when that first time is a gang rape; Riverwood remains my second least favorite place in Skyrim (after, of course, Markarth). Actually, make that third – Falkreath can go to hell as well.

Anyway, we got a room at the local inn and spent an enjoyable day simply resting and eating and strolling about town. Our first stop was at a rug-maker, where I purchased a new lighter-weight rug. I paid extra to have him cut a slit in the center so I could wear it like a poncho. I was afraid adding the hole would make it recognizable as clothing but, to my great relief, it remained a rug with a hole cut in it. I turned to Kellan, narrowed my eyes, and growled, "There's money to be made in these parts." Needless to say, he did not get the joke.

The city itself was designed rather oddly, to my eyes – it was a big circle, split into four roughly equal quarters by walls with open gates, with a small-ish central keep at the center. Each quarter had a primary use. The inn was in the residential district, as one might expect, along with most of the homes, bracketed by the market district and the military district (which was just a large building and an even larger open area for training). The governmental district made up the last section.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, frankly, I am stalling to avoid talking about what happened, because it was…weird. Which, to be fair, “weird” is my normal in this stupid world.

*sigh* Fine. From the top, then.

The next morning, as I sat studying my silver eyes in the mirror on the vanity in our room at the inn (did I mention my eyes had turned silver? I hadn’t realized until Kellan mentioned how unusual they looked, which had prompted an argument since I have always had yellow eyes) and wondering what horrible implications the color change must mean because it was intuitively obvious this was part of that asshole Sanguine’s shenanigans, I heard voices. Tiny squeaky voices, but still clearly voices. I looked around but saw nothing but Kellan’s snoozing form on the bed. I figured it must some sound he was making in his sleep and shrugged it off, but the voices returned a moment later. I looked all around the room and finally found the cause.

Here's where it gets weird.

Two mice stood along the baseboard on the far side of the room. They gave me a start, but one thing I had grown at least somewhat accustomed to in my time in Skyrim was the general lax attitude toward vermin – no matter how grand the building, there were going to be rats and mice and insects, and no one seemed inclined to start an extermination business to deal with them. What I had not grown accustomed to was vermin who could talk.

“I am not going out there,” said one.

“You must. We need food,” responded the other.

“THEY are here again and one is moving.”

“There is shelter if you are quick.”

“Then you go.”

“I am not going out there. I remember what happened to Fur With Patch.”

“As do I.”

“You are fast. You…”

“If I get you food, will you shut up?”

That last was from a quickly-growing-irritated me; they were being very loud while Kellan was trying to sleep.

The mice froze and turned toward me.

“It speaks.”

“They can speak?”

I frowned. “Of course I can speak. How can you speak?”

“We have always spoken. You only roar.”

“I have always spoken. You only squeak.”

That seemed to ruffle their fur. “We speak, not squeak,” the second responded in what passed for a haughty tone for a mouse.

“You certainly do now, at least. Here.” I grabbed my pack and dug through until I found the remains of a chunk of dry cheese near the bottom. I tossed it in their direction. “Take this and go before you wake my friend.”

“What are you doing?”

Kellan’s voice, and the mice let out tiny screams and scurried away, although not without taking the cheese with them.

I glanced at him and gave him an apologetic grimace. “Ah, you’re awake. Sorry. I told them to keep it down.”

“You told who to keep it down? Are the people in the next room being loud? And why were you making squeaking noises?”

Squeaking? I frowned at him. “I wasn’t, I was talking to the…”

And that’s when a wave of…clarity, I guess we can call it, washed over me. “…um…”

“You were wiggling your nose and squeaking. Is that some otherworldly thing?”

“I…no.” My brain tried to scramble to make sense of…well, everything, but none of that everything made a lick of sense. Finally, in desperation, it resorted to the truth. “I was…talking to some mice I saw.”

Kellan laughed. “That is adorable! Just be worried if they talk back!”

He tossed in a wink as he climbed out of bed, still laughing at his own joke, and I added half-hearted laughter of my own as my brain tried to organize things into a shape I could recognize.

This was the second time I had been able to understand rodents. I could eschew the first time – it had been a moment of stress and confusion – but this time…

This time, it had definitely happened. Apparently I could talk to animals. Or, at least, rodents. Were other animals included? I thought back, but the only other animals I had seen so far had been the wolves, and there hadn’t seemed to be any attempts at communication there. Of course, I had been running for my life, so maybe I hadn’t been paying attention?

It bore some experimentation. Just not in public – apparently when I talked to them, it was in their…language, I guess we’ll call it. I already stood out enough in the garb I was forced to wear – no need to exacerbate the issue by publicly barking or squeaking or whatever.

I kept my eye out for animals as we left the inn and strolled to the market. I saw plenty – a few dogs scampering about, some cats idling on rooftops or porch rails, the occasional glance at a scurrying mouse or rat – but none seemed interested in chatting.

Then I saw Delphine and everything else was flushed from my mind.

My first instinct was to go to her and greet her, and I had even taken the first step toward doing that, but then I froze. She would almost certainly have no idea who I was and I would have no way to show her. Right now, in this version of Skyrim, she wasn’t a Blade – she was an innkeeper from Riverwood who had no inkling her former profession was about to become relevant again on the wings of a giant black dragon. I could try to explain, perhaps, but I would sound just as mad as if I told her I could talk to animals.

Better to wait. Better for her to learn about the dragons first. Definitely better for me to have the ability to Shout at least one word, or I would have no proof even after their return.

Suddenly, for reasons I could not pinpoint, I not only did not want to see Delphine, I also did not want her to see me yet. I’m not sure why that is, but I tugged at Kellan and told him I wasn’t feeling well, and we headed back to the inn.

As we approached, a black cat sitting on a chair near the door paused from cleaning his foot, looked right at me, and said, “There is a storm coming.”

I nodded. “A big one. You should gather your friends and leave this town.”

He unfolded himself and stretched. “I think I shall do just that.” Then he plopped down from the chair and strolled away.

“You are so good with animals,” Kellen remarked as he opened the door to the inn. “That’s a sign of a good person.”

I laughed as I stepped through the doorway, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling that had seemed to spring out of nowhere. “Is that right? I have heard it is a sign of madness.”

Don’t feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

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