Author's Notes: Thought it would be fun to let everyone's favorite Average Joe Legionnaire get the spotlight for awhile. No long-term plans.

The whole purpose of this work is character development, so don't get too excited if that's not your thing. For those who haven't read any of my stuff before, you should know this about me: I like character development. A lot. So much I should probably marry it. Ah, Longwinded & Description-Heavy Backstory, is that an amulet of Mara you're wearing…?

No Dragonborn in this largely Civil War-based tale. Though there will be several original characters I hope you'll find amusing. And a massive Legion presence. Also, however, quite a few Cloaks.

Hope you enjoy!

GOOD MEN

He has not lived badly whose birth and death has been unnoticed by the world.
-Horace

A Simple Name

Well, Hadvar couldn't say he was pleased about it.

The road between Falkreath and Helgen was poorly-beaten, woody and unremarkable. Of course, little words like these did nothing to faze their brave regiment; they had been marching since dawn, he and the stout twelve-man outfit General Tullius half-jokingly called his honor guard. Six hours now if the high-reaching sun was any judge. Hooves flattened timber chips and damp dirt; wagon wheels cut deep tracks; crimson capes were flung around necks to ward off pneumonia. Rays sliced the cool, dense mist and through fir canopies to dully light their steel loricas. A barrel of lantern oil had bucked its straps and cracked open just after they'd set off today – a resource these soldiers might have used against fleet enemy archers, fiery ambushes rigged in canyon passes or wildflowers – liquid bursting on fallen leaves. It had been their last full unit with miles left to go. But, as it always was in the Legion, you kept trodding on.

It looked as though rain might stop them 'ere too long, however. The morning was a dark one, sky plastered in shades of wet grey. The forest air was cold in that verdant and lung-biting way Skyrim's heartland tended to be during early springtime. It smelled heavily of these thick-bark conifers that crowded around them, flaking orange. Moss and ivy bearded fallen logs. Sap ran freely down the sides of woodpecker holes and gave everything a sweet, honey texture; you might have stuck your fingers in it and made water mugs taste like weak mead. Hadvar wouldn't have done that, though. He'd heard a story once about how Cousin Vari (Uncle Alvor's nana's nephew) somehow got a belly full of carpenter ants from a honeycomb and had to drink spider poison to kill them 'fore they ate his innards. Granted, most of the stories Uncle Alvor told were nonsense, but he wasn't going to take any chances here and now. This territory was rugged enough without getting sick on the back of his horse. It was uncut, clammy and rustled with the witch-tales of his youth.

And, more than anything else, it was teeming root-to-pinecone with bees.

Someone must have kicked a nest or something, because for the past three days, there had been a constant buzzing around Hadvar's ears. Furry hornets clustered in their apple sacks and harassed mounts haltered at rest. Jackets popped themselves in campfires. Biting wasps hovered about noses, hoods, satchels and canteens. Worse still, they gravitated towards the dark red of his hair. Hadvar had never liked insects of any kind, to be honest. There were dozens of foggy childhood memories – infested gourds in Aunt Sigrid's garden, whittled-out rafters behind The Sleeping Giant, Ralof and Gerdur throwing rocks into the trees that would one day feed her inherited sawmill – to make him squirm at six-legged nuisances. All of them inspired phantom itching, and another uncomfortable bubble he did not really want to explore. Instead, he'd jump and duck and slap the back of his neck uselessly at every zuzz or wing-beat. Two welts and a crushed bumble later, the good-natured Auxiliary from Riverwood was not feeling wonderfully about his day.

"All things considered, soldier… we're making good time," their commander had remarked, speaking to no one in particular, a comment made in that grizzled but inclusive manner of his.

Hadvar sometimes thought General Tullius, wrinkled eyes and off-center sneers, reminded him of a graying wolverine. Or a badger. The first might've been a mightier image than the second, but make no mistake: he had nothing but respect for Skyrim's military governor. Mostly, anyway. It was difficult to know how their Cyrodiil-born superior, bearish and direct, felt about this violent country behind closed doors. He was an individual of few words and hardly any poetic ones; but for the gruff military character of their battalions, stoic and discontent were both traits of an acceptable leader. There was less to know about his opinion of Nords and their homeland, always soaked in blood or snow. Maybe it didn't matter. Legate Rikke's ashen expressions probably said more to that subject than any of the man's clumsy speeches could. They were scheduled to meet up with her scout regiment, thawed from the north reaches, outside Whiterun in one week's time.

"Aye, Sir." Hadvar answered, because no one else had. There were reins sitting slack in one large left hand and a sheathed gladius waiting for his right. The steed he'd been issued was a young spotted roan, strawberry-brown, and the sleepiest beast beneath an army saddle in this entire hold. It looked lackluster and backwoods compared to General's muscled dapple grey. His heels goaded the colt's ribs to keep it awake. "We should be set up near the passage sometime tonight if we keep this pace."

"That's what I wanted to hear. I didn't think this little 'detour' would detain us. Can't wait to see Rikke's face should all go as planned, and we ride up with a dead king's cowl on the backs of our shields." Tullius grinned under the bitter wings of his helmet. It was at once both a cruel and encouraging expression. "There anything else I should be updated on, ah… what was your name, soldier?"

When he'd been newly-assigned to the general's company from Fort Greymoor, this wouldn't have been a surprise. Two months later, it still wasn't. In deeds and rank badges, this well-mannered warrior was never a man who had stood out terrible much – not that it bothered him. The imperial (small-i) way was one of victory and practicality over sentimental brotherhood. He liked this philosophy better than empty honor and hollow war tales. You did not live off fame, but service performed. "Hadvar, Sir."

"Right. That was it." There was nothing to suggest he'd really even had a hint. You could tell the commander didn't like his accent – a tiny twitch in that yellowed, leathery cheek; a bristle whenever their rural-born enlistees spoke – but Hadvar understood such aversions were common among outsiders. Homeland Nords didn't have the finest reputation for tact and intellect. Being in Skyrim was a constant fight with prejudices, yours and others; fairness was a hurdle when civility was hard. He didn't let it bother him. At least there was an attempt at tolerance in this army, gestures forced by footmen and captains, as cultures clashed in pteruges. Their squad proved no exception. General, sleepless eyes and haggardness, tried to manufacture warmth. "Well. I know I won't be the only one tired, hungry and ready for drinks after we've shipped a few carts full of traitors off to Sovngarde. Don't suppose you'd also be able to tell me the closest place between Helgen and civilization with a decent inn?"

"That would be Riverwood, Sir. It lies on the due north road to Whiterun. Not a large town, but they should have room to board our unit."

Tullius grunted recognition; his lip, cut with some decades-old scar, curled. "You a scout or something, son?"

"No, Sir. I'm from there."

Another grunt – not a question, but a name. A mere statement of fact. "Hadvar."

"Sir."

General thumped his charger in the gut and moved forward to the front of their line. It was a simple name, not too difficult to recall… yet those details hardly mattered in the wake of a thousand bigger worries and gold plate glittering through juniper branches. He wouldn't remember it in an hour, but that was all right with Hadvar. He hadn't done much worth a general's memory, to be honest – and was never comfortable with too much attention, anyway.

Yes, the ride through Falkreath Hold was typical, casual, and not too terribly interesting… not unlike the Legionnaire, himself.

Hadvar was a good soldier – and, generally speaking, thought of himself as a good man. He had never been a division's brightest troop, but he used his head, and tried not to let the uglier Nord traditions or blood-pounding cloud his better judgment. He was not very handsome – the fair-maned midland children teased him about his color since Hadvar was small – but all right. He had Uncle Alvor's smith's shoulders, Mother's sharp chin and vaguely blue eyes, all his teeth, a pale complexion that got very embarrassingly pink when angry, and – of course – Grand Ma Embla's hair. He hit fairly hard; could haul unsplit logs up the lumber rack; but there had been many men in Solitude and (and even a few in Riverwood) stronger, larger and meaner than him. He was not the finest or best-spoken. He was not the toughest, fastest, shrewdest or most brave. In all things, he fell somewhere in-between.

This never troubled Hadvar. He was not a boastful or competitive personality. "Hadi! Where's our good lad?" Uncle and Auntie used to beckon, calling him home from the thickets around their village, looking for a hale, pudgy, awkward child of ten years. And he always would come running… bounding to their stoop, all panting and flush-faced, to see what was the matter. Alvor and Sigrid had babied him since their nephew came to live in that cramped wood cabin beside The White River – after Forsworn had taken both his parents' lives in a silver mine outside Markarth. Hadvar had been only seven. The softness of boyhood had worn bare since then, but the praise stuck. Ask this soldier what he was, and in one word, he'd answer good. A good man: one who did what he must, met his commitments, did not condemn too harshly. It was enough of a life earned. He did not need gallantry or glory songs. The young Auxiliary mostly hoped that others looked upon him as a thoughtful, kind and careful person – someone to rely upon in a fight or a famine – and this would suffice for being a "true son of Skyrim" more than battle-braids, bad speech and a wall of bloody Thalmor ears ever could.

Hadvar was average in most things, but he had always been a good citizen – fine solider, too, mind you – and good citizens-turned-soldiers didn't start lighting fires or sharpening axes when politics took unfavorable turns.

The breadth of their officers, most shipped in green from Nibenean barracks, had adjusted roughly to residence in this country. It was partially a product of Imperial (capital-I) supremacy, and other parts the fault of their own nation's mistrust for those who looked, acted, spoke differently from themselves. These foreigners were shorter and sterner and worshipped timeliness like old gods. They determined honor from gold badges, formal stripes, cabinet seats and bank holdings; they scoffed at superstitions surrounding barrows or fairy rings. They did not love their children right, he'd heard Hilde say many times; there was more import placed on progress and self-refinement than family. They were hardnosed, unsentimental people who did not understand the precious principles of to the last man or following your heart… and, if they could, probably would've found a way to commoditize them. But they had been everything an Empire needed. Hadvar could appreciate the truths, trade and reason they brought; he hoped there was something in the obstinate, hot-blooded northern way to offer their union, too.

And, if not, he always thought himself to be a pretty reasonable Nord. He even liked the lists. Honest to Tal… Akatosh, he did; they'd grown on him.

Uncle and Auntie hadn't been happy when he expressed a desire to join the Legion, but neither had stopped him. It was understood that chirping hamlet didn't offer much opportunity for a person like him – who had never been handy with forging, and cringed at the thought thirty years chopping wood 'til his back gave out. Besides, it was high time the lad set to fashioning his own profession. They had little Dorthe to look after, now… and Hadvar was nearly grown when he stepped off the docks at Solitude with leathers rolled under one arm.

There had been so many people, an echo of those twisting marble streets in his childhood. Fish and incense replaced the smell of wheat and sweet timber. Fine stone housed shelves of college books and nobles that wore emeralds, perfume, cashmere. Lit celebration fires burned, bards recited poetry on tower steps, vendors sold spiced Hammerfell ales and sandwiches made with strange meat. So many people, horses, carriages, guardsmen, storefronts, inns… it was hard to make sense of it all. So he hadn't, really. Not for a long time. That first dawn in Skyrim's capital, exploration took a backseat to duty, something even farmland bumpkins could manage. A line of army outfitters in that powerful Castle Dour had handed him polished steel, two sets of uniform clothes, and cut the boy's short ponytail at his jaw. He'd been passed a newly-minted blade and swiveled around towards the training courtyard with a pat and a shove. And that was that. Suddenly he was not Hadi the Town Smith's orphan, but Hadvar of Riverwood, Legion Auxiliary under Emperor Titus Mede II.

It had all moved at a brisk pace, but he recalled those early days very well. Conditioning had been easy and satisfying. Meals were hearty and imperial mattresses soft enough. His fledgling platoon kicked in a bandit's door six weeks after their induction ceremony and liberated eight crates of stolen East Empire moonstone, small rewards that then seemed exciting. He was the point man. Two steps through a darkened cavern threshold, body full of adrenaline, he'd stumbled into a barbarian and hit that villainous lookout so hard to the face with his shield that molars flew, neck cracked. Blood welled on slick rock face. It was the first person Hadvar had killed and it didn't feel as bad as he'd been afraid it would. He could remember sending home his payment with a humble and deep-seated pride. Or maybe not pride, per se, but relief. That day, the clean and polite recruit from Whiterun Hold had learned he could be an imperial soldier and still qualify as a good man. This was more than enough for him.

Hadvar was a simple name, unmemorable and plain as it was, but it fit him… and you know, it could have always been something unpronounceable like Fritdjov or Grwyn.

He startled at another bee only to discover it had been a fly. Would've put his helmet on to try and ward them off, but it shortened the trooper's vision, and Hadvar thought that an unacceptable risk in all these shadowy trees. Tullius had ordered them to abandon the direct route to Jarl Balgruuf's lands when a handful of Bosmer hunters came sprinting up with reports of Stormcloak encampments. A modest, tired unit, they'd said – full of lieutenants moving with anxious stares and quiet feet. General's eyes lit up with a predatory and well-fed instinct. Officers. It meant an easy take, a disquieted band, a big catch. So he'd steered them to intercept these travelling rebels in the bristling scrub beneath Bonechill Pass. Hadvar couldn't say he was a lover of sneak attacks on stray rangers or all this shifty strategizing… but then again, you can't always get what you want.

And he certainly could have done without these damned bees.

"HADVAR. Pay attention. Rear guard – back of the line! NOW."

… could have done without Captain Vera, too. And the first problem was definitely easier to manage than the last.

Hadvar's direct superior was a short but intimidating woman – harsh, scowling, built like a sabercat in a mudcrab shell. Dark hair was knotted flawlessly tight beneath a crescent helm; dark skin spoke to hours spent drilling under a wicked Skyrim sun. Her voice was grating and more like a dog bark than anything else. It took no more than that that brutal, telltale shout; his horse, his equipment, and the man himself all clattered nervously forward to obey. There was something infuriating and unsettling about the captain. You got the feeling she enjoyed executions. You always had this perturbed inkling she'd simply lunge forward and bite for your throat if you didn't pretend to, as well.

Hadvar recognized that Imperial (small-i and capital-I) intuition required a few furious Captain Veras to keep order, but that didn't mean he had to like it… or her.

The Auxiliary signed. He wasn't looking forward to springing upon a tidy troupe of Stormcloaks in that fragile, needled-strewn snow of the Pass. It was an invariable experience. When you cornered Legionnaires, they would fight with the brute force of tigers, slashing with menacing claymores and arrow volleys… but knew when to fall back. Ulfric's martyrs would throw themselves upon spears before sullying their honor with the "cowardice" of retreat. Hadvar had seen many a farmer's wife-turned-scout run hopelessly onto sword tips in the name of Skyrim for the Nords.

"You jump into it," he could remember Aldis instructing during a blade-play demonstration. Hadvar had held forth his weapon, sharpened to a quick, and leapt into a combat dummy with one tidy little spring. It spat stuffing onto cobblestone in the same way a miller's jugular spat blood with his hands full of hammer, his heart full of a false king's promise, a Legion sword stuck straight down to the lung. Jump, thrust, step, forward. Jump, thrust, forward. Jump. Forward. Eventually it became as mundane and necessary a motion as simply moving on down the dirt roads of his fathers' country. You did not think about it too much and you were all right. There were plenty of reasons to press on: the undeniable mood of politics, succession and stability. Innocent slaughtered by lawlessness no fief could reign in. And the grim, bracing realization that it was necessary. No peace could be had with the selfish master of fanatical hordes; no calm could be brought upon peoples told every dead suit of steel was a victory for their race. Hadvar personally tried not to envision the faces of men he had known behind bear helms and blue scarves.

"The next time I see you, you die," he'd told Ralof when they'd accidentally crossed paths outside Embershard Mine last year. It was hard to forget how different and how horrible Gerdur's brother looked under that sunny afternoon – gold hair badly-cut and braided; paint made of mud, blood and dye smacked across his face. He'd had a wolf's jowls for a helmet and bear claws for gloves. And he'd flashed a similarly wolfish twist between grin and snarl that almost made the soldier withdraw his bargain – one that promised similar treatment when they inevitably met again.

Hadvar rode that overgrown path between Fort Greymoor and Riverwood once every three months to check in on Uncle Alvor and Aunt Sigrid. Confrontation was certain in those rocky underpasses below Bleak Falls. Ulfric's men did not tout their presence in Whiterun Hold, but he knew – surely as soft boot tracks in the dirt and elk bones stripped clean – they were there, lurking, peeking on their own relatives' unassuming homes. He never ventured out without shield strapped on saddlebag. He was aware how some of his old neighbors now looked at him – how Hod's young son began to eye the royal red trim of his Legion suit with very adult derision – how Gerdur's hellos grew cold and taciturn – how townsfolk vented silent hatred towards the coarse imperial flags rippling above their wooden gates. He could remember taking Little Dorthe's hand one evening by a warm, familiar forge – under an immense, familiar night sky – and telling her sternly to never go into Frodnar's house, unable to quite explain why.

It was a fearful disquiet. Great battles were rare, but skirmishes had become increasingly common in these past several seasons. No surprise they did not face war directly. Legionnaires marched en force upon foes, daunting and massive lines of fighters. Stormcloaks struck from the trees, deadly guerillas to a slow-moving convoy… but most of that desperate, peasant army petered out into bloodbaths the moment they got within arm's reach. What could you expect from a revolution armed with sticks, furs, and hatchets made for cutting wood?

He did not pity them – not for the treason they'd committed – but sometimes, Hadvar did wonder if this was all a horrible waste.

"Ouch!" There – right on the underside of his knee – sting number three. It already stood bright scarlet between stirrups, plated boots and the fur lining of imperial skirt. One hand smacked sharply, but changed nothing. The bee flew off mostly unharmed. "Son of a…"

He looked down at the welt, down at his fair-weather horse, out through the wild pine groves ahead.

Hadvar wouldn't say he was pleased about it – but, you know, it could have always been worse.