I have been in many fights and even what could be considered battles, and I have seen plenty of tv shows and movies (and even played a video game or two) that described or depicted, in historical or fictional detail, what a medieval siege is like. None of them were lifelike, it turns out.

 

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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