A/N: I do not own Naruto or the Elder Scrolls series.


Prologue

"No, no. I refuse it entirely. I'll not lose all of Skyrim to these callous and cunning bastards!."

Jarl Hizashi Stormcloak stood above his advisor contemptuously. How dare he—has the man no shame?—request a surrender to the Empire? They were Nords; such a concept should not even register in his mind. No, he thought. He was no Nord.

"Yes, my Lord, but please understand," his advisor continued insistently, "our armies are barely half of what they were. We are losing men faster than we can replace them—not to mention our lack of supplies renders us incapable of providing for the men we do have. Shouldn't we cut our losses—cut the loss of life? This is not the Nord way."

"Don't," Hizashi cut in, "presume to lecture me on the merits of Nordic traditions. You know nothing. Surrender? Lie down on our backs for those Imperial bastards? I would sooner see all of Skyrim reduced to blood and ash!"

He spun angrily and stalked away, his robes swaying violently. The door to his chambers slammed shut behind him. The advisor sighed, tossing his books down and splaying the map of Skyrim across the desk. Each division was marked with red and blue flags, according to different segments of control. Their blue flags easily outnumbered the Imperial's red, but how long would this last? Days? Weeks? The Imperials had the resources to fight for centuries. What was so hard for Hizashi to understand? There was a fine line between dedication and obsession, and Hizashi had not just crossed it—he'd catapulted himself over.

"Is he giving you trouble again?"

The advisor whirled, afraid he'd been speaking aloud again, but relaxed. It was only Neji.

"Not particularly," he lied. "We are just struggling to… understand one another. But it is of no consequence."

"I wouldn't say that," Neji replied bitterly. "My father is a man of action. He'll live up to his promise of 'blood and ash.' You know he will."

Why did this brat have to be so nosy? As if he didn't have enough to worry about now without people thinking he was deterring from Hizashi's wishes. "I will stand by your father regardless. He is the true High King."

Neji made no reply, but simply turned and walked away, though the irritated set of his shoulders startlingly resembled his father's. Somewhere deep within the advisor a flicker of pity sparked. This boy was what, nineteen? And at this young age he is forced to comply with his father's demands, is branded a traitor to the Empire for bearing the Stormcloak name, and is made to sit idly by as his own father destroys the land of his birth. The boy seemed to resent his father—that much was obvious in those shoulders. He was powerless. But perhaps he was right.

No.

The advisor picked up his books, and shook thoughts of treason from his mind. Jarl Hizashi was simply enveloped in the passion of the moment—he would never stoop so low. He had to be doing what's best for his country—his homeland. Wouldn't he protect it with his life if that's what it cost? The advisor froze suddenly, shivering and shaking. The answer to that question: yes, there it was. It was so obvious, why didn't he see it before? Didn't it manifest itself repeatedly in the course of the battles and blood? Tears fell, stinging his eyes, breaking into droplets across the books he clenched, harder and harder. All of this fighting, all of this death, and it was too late. The answer:

All hope was lost.


Chapter One

Blood and ice. Weeks and months of blood and ice. Both mingled sickly across the entire span of her prison; the thought that they were ever separate at all was strange. It was all Tenten could do to keep herself together. She didn't know how long it had been since the raid on Whiterun, but it had been long enough. Of the four of them who were kidnapped, she was the only one still alive, the only one who could still feel the sharp sting of winter in her lungs. Maybe she should just die already.

No, she thought sharply. She hadn't come this far for nothing. She will survive.

She will win.

Her captors were out there now, laughing heartily and tossing frayed pieces of wood into the fire. They seemed oblivious to her cage, though she was not 10 feet from them. Perhaps it was better that way, but she'd rather be sitting by the fire, even if it meant she'd have to sit on one of their laps.

"'Ay," one called out. She kept her head down, picking at her worn fabric. He stood up precariously and stumbled towards her cage. "Look at me when I'm talkin' to you, wench."

She remained aloof. Maybe he'd get bored and go away—it sometimes worked.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Closer and closer. No, it wouldn't work. Not this time. He rattled the bars, and fumbled with the keys. No, please, she thought. Not again, not like this. But she knew better, and kept her head down.

"Gotcha," he said, finally clicking the lock into place. The door creaked open, blood in the hinges. He stood over her, his face twisted in a gnarly sneer. "Bet you didn't think I'd get it?"

Nothing. She could say nothing. She just prayed he'd be fast—he always was.

Suddenly a loud bang echoed in the distance. Tenten looked up quickly, praying to the Divines that this would be a distraction enough to spare her a few more minutes. The thug above her scratched his head.

"Didn't we put J'zaar on guard tonight?"

"I dunno," another responded. "Didn't we throw 'em outside?"

"Yeah, actually," the thug said. He gripped the war-axe girded about his belt and stepped out of the cage, swinging it carelessly shut behind him. "So who's that?"

As if an immediate answer to his question, an arrow whipped forward like black lightning and buried itself between his eyes. Tenten gasped, cringing against her cage. He went down. Hard.

His teammates, stiffened and startled, readied their weapons and shields, as they waited for their unexpected visitor like cave bears skulking in the shadows. A blur of blonde suddenly flew forward, her sword a tempest that easily felled the unprepared men. They all collapsed before they knew what'd hit them. The woman approached them, flicked the gore from her weapon, and silently knelt down by each kill, scavenging for gold or other goods. So she was no better than they.

Tenten dared not utter a sound. This woman was in a whole new league, and she knew that one swish of the blade and she'd be done—all her arduous struggles for nothing. No, Tenten would live.

Tenten would live.

However, her silence was unnecessary because the moment the woman stood up she whirled and kicked the cage open. Tenten lay crumpled against the bars, breaths short and shallow. What did she want? Why was she here? What would she do to her? She stood above Tenten for a time, and each heartbeat must have sounded like drums to this strange woman.

"You've been here a while," she remarked. Her eyes shone with understanding and empathy, her voice as smooth as silk. She knelt down beside Tenten.

Her sudden kindness was jarring. "Y-yes," Tenten replied, startled and wary. "It's been three weeks or months. I don't know. I lost count."

"The attack on Whiterun happened about six weeks ago but, Divines; to you it must have felt like years."

"That's one way of saying it." Tenten's voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. It had been six weeks since she'd spoken to another living person.

"Well, let's get you out of here." The woman stood, and helped Tenten up. Her legs wobbled like thistle branches in the wind. When was the last time she'd used them? Stepping out of the cage was like being alive again. She unfurled her arms to their fullest extent, arching her back as if preparing for flight. Maybe she was.

She glanced down at the men at her feet. Their clothes soaked in their own blood for a change. Their faces were all marred with frozen expressions of horror, mouths agape and eyes bulging.

She felt no remorse.

She stepped over them and stood by the fire, rubbing her hands and feet and arms and legs. The warmth spread through her body, seeped into her soul. The day had come. For so long she felt as if she was doomed to live out the rest of her life—be it days or weeks or months—in this rot. Spouts of hope were few and far between. But every death had instilled that necessity to live.

The only solace Tenten had found in this pit had been the company of four other girls who could only communicate through nods and sighs and tears; the first girl who attempted to speak had her tongue cut out. And one by one Death made his rounds, each passing harder to bear than the last. But with each girl who died in these cages, Tenten knew she wouldn't be next—couldn't be. She had to make it out, she had to triumph.

Even if it meant playing by the rules of the thugs.

"You seem lost," the woman said. Tenten jumped. She'd forgotten much in the face of the fire.

"Sorry, I'm just… thinking, I guess," she said. "Much has happened here."

"I understand."

And she did. Tenten could feel it. This woman knew the pain and emptiness that could eat away at one's very soul—that could rend it utterly. This woman felt it deeply.

"What's your name?" the woman asked.

"It's Tenten."

"Ah," she replied. "That's lovely. You can call me Tsunade, if you wish."

Tenten looked up again. This whole situation seemed too good to be true. Perhaps the Divines were watching out for her, after all.

"Okay," she said. "I will."

Tsunade grinned back at her and they began their trek out of the hold. The stone walls were worn and corroded, and the dank floors echoed her steps loudly, though Tsunade was as silent as a sabre cat. Tenten turned frightfully at every corner, dreading the faces of her abusers, lest they should rise from the dead and harm her again.

"You need not worry." Tsunade's voice was soothing. Tenten felt instantly calm, and she marveled. Was this some sort of magic? "I have cleared out the scum. I promise."

They continued in silence through the labyrinth, weaving and twisting and turning. The exit seemed ever elusive, taunting them at each corner. Finally, there it was, shining in a dank and moldy halo like some gift from the Nine, wrapped in a crusty package—a door. Probably the most disgusting door Tenten had ever seen: its marred surface appeared to have been white at some point, but deep scars painted red pictures across its back.

Tenten could have kissed that door.

Tsunade opened it, and suddenly the entryway was drenched in sunlight, bright and blinding. Tenten squinted as she approached, her every nerve on edge. It was so warm and inviting—she hadn't felt the sun's kiss in six weeks. It was like coming home.

As she stepped out the door, the sun wasn't the only one to greet her.


Thanks for reading!

This story was initially created as a crossover, but it was, first and foremost, intended to be a NejiTen fanfiction... So I changed the properties of the story to fit my intentions. Besides, I don't think one needs a thorough knowledge of the Elder Scrolls world to understand this story.