I was born in 2000, a year before the world (Earth, that is, not Nirn) changed forever.

 

Is that too bold to say? Too arrogant? Are a handful of terrorist attacks on one country when other countries have them all the time worthy of being called “permanently world changing?” I guess if the country in question is the most powerful in the world and is run by greedy rich lunatics who are more than happy to make their problems everyone else’s as well, the answer is yes.

 

Iraq and Afghanistan formed the news cycle of my earliest years. Hell, last I saw, the war in Afghanistan was still raging. I watched in horror from the comfort of Columbus, Ohio as news of Darfur, the Yazidi (I have thought of that one a LOT in the past seven years), the Uyghur, the Kurds, the Armenians, the invasion of Ukraine, and more took turns crossing the headlines of the various social media platforms I enjoyed, like the universe’s worst parade.

 

I have bitched quite a bit about how much I hate Skryim, but that’s compared to Ohio – the truth is, the same shit happens on both worlds. And the bigger truth is, I was horrified for those people but I didn’t pay much more than a passing wish for things to be different (“sending good thoughts!”). Until, of course, it happened to me.

 

Where was I going with this? Oh, right. As I recall, the term “ethnic cleansing” was coined during the Bosnian war a few years before I was born, but it has been going on since the dawn of time because people suck. And I have seen enough news reels, magazine photos (before those mostly went away), and videos to know it when I see it.

 

I saw it in the Reach. Or, I should say, I saw that’s what we were meant to be doing in the Reach. I didn’t actually see it because there was NO fucking way I was going to take part in it.

 

My company and I reached…

 

Hmm…I should probably talk about them real quick so there is some context. I was really nervous when I went to where the company assigned to me was…bivouacked? Is that the right term? I don’t know. Where they were staying. It turned out I didn’t need to be nervous because it was the same company (well, the company that contained the squad) that went through Korvanjund with me to get the fucking crown (that I had heard nothing about since) and they remembered me quite clearly. It was the first time in either timeline where I was treated as someone important.

 

Snappy salutes greeted me, including from Captain Hjorn, the guy in charge. I saluted them back to the best of my ability – I hadn’t practiced much – then Hjorn said, “Would you like to address the company?”

 

I did not answer with the truth (HELL, NO!) and he stepped aside, so I took his place in front of them, took a deep breath, and tried to do that trick where you picture your audience naked. This did NOT work because they were all young and in phenomenal shape, so picturing them naked only turned me on. I cleared my throat and gave the best speech I have ever given:

 

“It is an honor to work with you again! I have just one thing to say: no one is allowed to die! That would lead to too much paperwork!”

 

This had the intended effect of causing laughter and ratcheting down the tension. Soon the camp felt like a camp…until I started pitching in with my womanly duties (if you will) by gathering firewood and was stopped by Hjorn.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked

 

I blinked because I thought was it was obvious, but he took the wood from me and said, “You are the naasektenti. An entire squad of mine would be gone if not for you. You do not have to do this kind of work. Nor,” before I could say anything, apparently trying to anticipate what I was going to say, “the other work. There is no need to visit the tents at night, today or any day. Not when you’re with this company.”

 

I’ll tell you the truth, I was elated. Finally, I was in a place where I wasn’t expected to yank a bunch of dicks every day! I hadn’t felt so light in weeks. That lasted about three hours, which was the amount of sunlight left; until the camp started settling down and all the other women started working their ways through the tents. I stood and watched for a solid thirty seconds before I swore a litany of curses under my breath, grabbed some oil, and dove into the dick fray.

 

Now to be clear, I may have imagined the resentment they felt toward me but I sure as fuck would have felt resentful if I were one of them. Rikke was right - you can't be in command and expect people to do things you don't want to do. Not if you want people who will willingly follow you.

 

Being in charge sucks.

 

Anyway, it took a couple weeks to get to the first redoubt. We made it there on New Years Day of Nirn year 202, a little over five months since this whole thing started over. I didn’t know what to expect – although I had spent far too much time with the Forsworn in Cidhna and I had travelled north through parts of the Reach in the first go-round, I had very little understanding of their culture (what happened in Cidhna was a "culture" in the same way a pathogenic bacteria sample is a culture) so my first look at a redoubt took me aback.

 

Picture, if you will, a fort. Not a modern fort. Wait, do we even have forts now? We have places called “Fort Whatever,” but…anyway, sorry, let’s try the other way.

 

Picture, if you will, the earliest forms of a fort you have seen in history books or Wikipedia or whatever: a “wall” made of pointy sticks sort of lashed together with surprisingly stout twine-like rope, huts made of jumbled wood daubed with clay, an open communal firepit, and clothes – what there were of them, they were all nearly as naked (some moreso) as me – made of hide and feathers. The only thing that looked Skyrim-modern about them were the very sharp weapons that appeared as soon as we got close.

 

Now, this is a world where the highest form of single-person weapon is still a crossbow, and even those are super rare (and, yes, I am disregarding magic in this analogy). This was not the equivalent of rolling up on some dinky town in Afghanistan with a fucking tank. Technically they outnumbered us because this was an entire village and we numbered 103. But during those two weeks, Hjorn had filled me in on what was likely to happen, which was this:

 

Warriors would stay behind to fight us while the rest fled into bolt holes that riddled the entire Reach. We would kill whichever poor saps got left behind then find the rest of it deserted and go away. The people would then come back out and resume their lives after they were certain it was safe.

 

In other words, a meaningless cycle of death that accomplished nothing, which was why our orders were slightly different – we had been given twelve heavy wagons (this is why it took two weeks to get there) loaded with what the Imperials called tow jdût, which apparently means “fiery gas" and which, from what I understand, basically eats away anything organic it comes into contact with.

 

And we were supposed to pour this shit into the bolt holes.

 

On the orders I have been given, this had been referred to as “Operation Gopherhole.” It’s probably a good thing it did not go into details or my reaction would likely have ended up with me dead or in a prison cell.

 

Hjorn was...we'll call it pragmatic: “You have to understand, this battle has been going on for centuries. The Reach has been bleeding since before the Mede Dynasty, before the Septims, before the Empire existed at all. All the men here have lost friends or family to the Forsworn.”

 

To which I only had two words: Fuck and You.

 

What I actually said was, “And all of them have friends and family who have been lost to you. That is not justification for genocide. I’m going to talk to them.” He called it suicide; I called it basic human decency.

 

So that was a long interlude to get to where I was at the beginning: Kellan, Kangme, and I walked toward the “gates” of this “fort” with hands well away from our weapons while the entire redoubt bristled. Fortunately, no one from either side attacked. Instead, an old man with a bear-claw necklace stepped through the gates, planted his spear in the frozen ground, and crossed his arms. His eyes swept over the three of us like he was reading a wanted poster.

 

"That's far enough,” he said, and we stopped in place.

 

He was middle-aged, with gray streaking through a beard that had seen more winters than I, even with my extra seven year bump. The scar running from his temple to his jaw was pale and puckered – old and healed clean, but it must have been a hell of a wound when it was fresh.

 

His gaze landed on Kangme first and held there, which made sense -- the Imperial uniform was loud in this light, bright against the gray stone and dead grass. He didn't comment on it, but his jaw tightened. Then Kellan, dressed in his leather and steel, carrying a soldier's posture even when he was trying to look casual.

 

As an aside, we would half made for terrible spies.

 

His eyes finally turned to me (odd that I wasn't the first place they went, for a number of reasons) then stopped. Then blinked once before traveling from my face down to the minimal metal hugging my chest, to my bare thighs, to the heeled boots, and back up. He didn't leer -- he was too old and too wary for that -- but there was a crease between his eyebrows that wasn't there before.

 

"Who are you?" He glanced over my outfit again. "What are you?"

 

"I am..." Several things flew through my head but I shook my head -- this was not time to be philosophical. It was a fucking good question, though. "...someone who wants to talk. Someone who is tired of death."

 

His posture shifted slightly. The spear stayed in place but his weight settled differently -- less aggressive. I mean, relatively speaking.

 

"That's a strange thing for one traveling with Imperial soldiers to say." His eyes flicked to Kangme again, then back to me. "The Empire sends soldiers. Soldiers bring death. That's how it's always been. What's different about you?"

 

Jesus, so many fucking things. "You mean apart from the outfit? And the fact that I'm talking to you at all? I'll tell you exactly what is different about me: perspective. I don't find meaning in killing."

 

The wind tugged at his fur mantle as he squinted at me. "Perspective. Forgive me, but in my experience, the only perspective youth have is in their loins. What possible perspective could you have?"

 

I took a deep breath as flashes of news reels danced before my eyes. "I have seen entire civilizations worn down to nothing. Ethnicities erased in a matter of months. People lined up and shot because their skin was a slightly different tone or they were born on the wrong side of a river. Death and rape and horror on a scale of unimaginable magnitude. All so the people in power could profit. Corporate criminals playing with tan...er, playing with catapults, as the bard prophet Michael Been said."

 

His eyes didn't leave mine. "You cannot have seen so much devastation in your short time. You said corporate criminals playing with catapults. I don't know what ‘corporate’ means but I know what a criminal is. I know what it means when the powerful play games with the lives of the powerless. Is that what the Empire is to you? A game played by criminals?"

 

I smiled. "All governments are that, to one degree or another. Including yours. It can't be helped -- the only way for a nation to survive is to play the same game." I sighed. "I am not here to offer solutions because I have none. Not for the long term. I am here for a short term one, though, and it hinges on you."

 

He studied me for a long, quiet moment as the wind carried a thin veil of snow across the ground between us then pulled the spear off his shoulders and planted it back in the ground, leaning on it with both hands. If I was a better poker player, I’m sure all these tells he was showing would have helped me in some way. “What could you possibly offer that would make me trust a confessed enemy?"

 

"Offer? Nothing but peace for now." I motioned toward the path, though the rest of the company could not be seen from there. "We were sent to destroy you. I would rather not do that. Answer me one question and we'll turn around and go after our real enemy."

 

His hand tightened on the spear shaft and his eyes narrowed, but there was something else there now -- curiosity, wariness, and the faintest flicker of something that might be hope, buried deep and well-guarded. Or I could have imagined that.

 

I probably imagined that.

 

“One question." He glanced down the path then back at me. "Very well. Ask. Then I'll decide if your question is worth answering."

 

"You surely know of the war between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. Presumably you know of the defeat of the Stormcloaks at Whiterun. I know these are beyond your borders but I also know you are connected to the land. I believe I know the answer already but it must be asked. So tell me this: are your people planning on attacking the exposed underbelly of the Imperial army -- say Dragonbridge, Rorikstead, Solitude itself -- while it stretches to remove the splinter in its side in Windhelm?"

 

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower than before. "The Stormcloaks are not our friends. It was Ulfric, after all, who defeated us the last time things came to direct confrontation. If he wins, we gain nothing. On the other hand, if the Empire wins, we also gain nothing." He shrugged. "Either way, the same boot presses on our throats. Only the color of the leather changes."

 

He took a step closer. 

 

"So, yes. We watch. We wait. We sharpen our blades and count our supplies. And when the Empire's back is turned -- when Legion supply lines stretch thin and every available soldier is bleeding at the base of Windhelm's walls -- we will remind them that the Reach is not theirs to hold." He held my gaze. "That is your answer. What will you do with it?"

 

I smiled. "I will make sure the Legion lines do not stretch that way -- I and my hundred men will finish this war ourselves." Uncertain of the protocol, I gave him a small bow. "Thank you for your time."

 

His eyebrows rose slightly -- the first genuine surprise I’d seen from him since we walked up. "A hundred men against the Stormcloaks. Against the Legion. Against the whole grinding machine of war." He said it without mockery, just a kind of tired wonder. "You speak like a saga-walker. Like one of the old heroes." A laugh, brief but without venom. "You know what happened to the old heroes, yes?" He paused but I only waited. "They died. Usually alone." He tapped the spear shaft once. "But sometimes -- sometimes -- they change something first." He gave me a long, measuring look. "I will remember your face, Naasektenti. And your words." He jerked his chin toward the canyon behind me. "Go. Finish your war. And if you live through it..." A pause. "The Reach will still be here. Perhaps we will have more to discuss."

 

I frowned. "Well, hopefully not against the Legion. Although they may consider this deserting. I hadn't really thought about..." An elbow to my shoulder from Kellan stopped me and I cleared my throat. "Um. Yes. Farewell!"

 

I waved then felt stupid and lowered my hand, then just turned and started walking before he could see me blushing. Which likely failed since my entire back was bare. Fortunately, my dark Redguard/Moroccan/whatever the hell I am skin does not show blushes easily. A low chuckle rolled out from behind me, carried on the cold air.

 

Beside me, Kellan was very carefully not looking at me while his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

 

"Not a word," I muttered.

 

"I didn't say anything."

 

"Your vibrations said something."

 

Kangme, walking on my other side, made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh of his own. I couldn't tell and I didn't want to know.

 

It was not until later that night that it occurred to me to wonder how the hell the old man knew who I was.

 

 

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

 

 

 

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