Trendil had an ongoing headache by the time she and the women she had rescued reached Windhelm, stemming solely from the constant complaints from said women, none of whom wanted to go to Windhelm because, as they said many (many many) times, the wedding they had been traveling to see was in Solitude. Only Trendil’s “offer” to drop them off where they were shut them up, and that only for a brief time.

 

So she was already annoyed when the guard at the foot of the bridge to Windhelm stopped them from passing.

 

“Where is your escort, ladies?”

 

All the women began babbling at once while Trendil tried to make sense of the question. After much confusion, talking over each other, and accusations aimed at Trendil for not going where they had wanted, the story of the attack finally made its way out, leading to a huff by the guard.

 

“All right, I suppose that is acceptable. Go on in.” As Trendil started to follow the other women, the guard held up his hand again. “Just a moment. Do you have a license for those weapons?”

 

Trendil frowned. “A what?”

 

“A license, girl! Those blades aren’t exactly made for carving vegetables, are they?”

 

A vision of someone using a y̌êz shûngbo to carve vegetables in her mother’s presence passed through Trendil’s mind. There would be so much blood…

 

“Certainly not.”

 

“Then either show me your license or I’ll have to confiscate them.”

 

Trendil bristled. “These are kaay̌êz shûngbo from the shûyaa shî yee y̌êz. They will only be confiscated from my dead hands.”

 

The guard placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If they’re all that important, you must have a license for them. If not, hand them over or I’ll take you up on your offer.”

 

Rage tore through Trendil and her hands twitched to call the man on his arrogance, but the conversation had drawn the attention of other guards. She had no doubt she could win against them, but that would surely draw the ire of the entire city (along with the Stormcloak army she had come here to join). But the alternative, to hand over the kaay̌êz shûngbo to outsiders, was absolutely unthinkable.

 

She had already started to reach for the hilts of the swords when the realization hit her that this version of her had been in this version of Skyrim. Which meant she had had the swords with her before. Surely that version of her had known about this stupid licensing requirement. With a frown, she reached into the pouch she had recovered from the ambushers and felt around until her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She drew it out and glanced at it.

 

It was, indeed, a license, for “Permanent Allowance of two (2) swords and one (1) dagger.” She shook her head as her rage began a slow descent and showed it to the guard.

 

He took it, looked it over, then handed it back. “Was that so hard? Divines, woman, next time just have it ready. I nearly took your head off.”

 

He waved her away, his attention already focused elsewhere, which was probably good because he would not have liked the expression that crossed her face as she stowed the license and began the trek across the bridge to the gates of the city.

 

 She thought it couldn’t get worse. She was wrong.

 

The city was just as she remembered it and it took very little time to find the recruiting table outside the Stormcloak barracks. The response to her request to join was not what she had hoped for.

 

“Hmm? Well, that’s great! It’s nice to see you girls signing up freely to help bolster the morale of the men! And don’t worry – those who join freely are usually restricted to the officers. No worries about all the dirty low-rankers!” The Nord man laughed. “Just go down the hall and report to…”

 

Trendil glared as she interrupted. “I’m sorry, I’m not here to sign up to be a camp whore. I’m here to fight.”

 

The recruiter looked annoyed at the interruption, but by the time Trendil had finished talking, his annoyed expression had been wiped out by a loud guffaw.

 

“A woman fighting?! Hahahaha! That’s a good one! Oh, you’ll be popular in camp, that’s for sure. As I was saying, just down…”

 

Trendil’s irritated brain blanked out and she found herself interrupting again. “Since when don’t the Stormcloaks take woman combatants?”

 

The man’s laughter died out – he was back to looking annoyed. “Since always, woman! Everyone knows that! Now stop wasting my time! If you want to help the cause, go down…”

 

Trendil didn’t hear the rest because she was already twenty paces away, fuming as she headed back into the city, her plans tattered to shreds. Time for a new plan, then – she would not join the Stormcloaks this time. That was probably better anyway, because she then wouldn’t be tied to the whims of officers who would limit where she could go and what she could do. She would find her pseudo-sisters instead. She knew where one would be, at least. It would take some time to get to the College of Winterhold, but…

 

She stopped, both physically and mentally, when she saw him – her nemesis-turned-lover, her second in command, her reason for being here. Dragonspite/Hammerleaf/Bent stood at the recruiting table, chatting with the Nord she had just walked away from. Trendil felt a wave of disorientation – it had been less than a week since she had cradled his head in her lap as he took his last breath at the massacre at Solitude, yet here he stood, hale, hearty, and whole. Not to mention six years younger and countless battles less worn.

 

She fought down the urge to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, tried to temper the dim hope that maybe – just maybe! – he remembered, just as she did. She took a jagged breath as he left the table, then set herself on an intercept course with him.

 

One look. She just needed to be sure he got one look at her and she would know if he remembered. Hope flooded her even as she mentally tried to tamp it down; the chances he would remember were slim, so slim! But maybe, just maybe…

 

She watched him as she drew near, stared as she set herself in his path at such a point and angle that he could not help but notice her. When the moment came, she held her breath; when he passed with no apparent heed of her, she deflated as her hope turned to sour bile in the pit of her belly and a wave of sorrow washed over her.

 

Of course, he did not remember. This was a different world, though it looked the same on the exterior. He was the old Bent – no, not Bent, even, not yet. He was the rapey man-child Koren. If she wanted her Bent back, she would need to drag him out of this version of him. She would have to start all over.

 

To do that, she would need to join the Stormcloaks after all. And to do that, she would need to stop being a she.

 

Trendil turned as a new plan formed in her mind. She didn’t have much time – in order to give herself the best chance to get close to him, she would need to be in the same recruiting group. Hopefully she would end up in the same squad. If not, perhaps she could find a way to trade into his.

 

Whatever happened, she was determined to get him back – facing all the things that were coming their way seemed impossible without him.

 

 

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