Rated T for alcohol and violence.
(Before I start, I'll just say that I'm hoping for this to be novel-length one day. Please leave feedback; it's the greatest encouragement!)
Author's Note:First is first: this story is set during the time period between the games Oblivion and Skyrim, (just before and during The Great War,) so any and all events portrayed are written with, in many cases, a healthy dose of creative license. It is unlikely, in fact, that I'll so much as mention an actual character from the games, (namely Oblivion, as the story is set in Cyrodiil).
With that, keep in mind I have done extensive research into the lore of this time period, and I'll try to remain as accurate as possible - though the main character and his actions are entirely from my mind, which is my way of filling a gap in the lore (what happened to the smaller Cyrodilic cities, such as Leyawiin, after they were taken over by the Thalmor) and telling a story of this incredible universe that's intriguing, interesting, and thrilling for you, the reader.
In short, don't be expecting another tale of the great Dragonborn Hero of Skyrim, or the Hero of Kvatch that saved Tamriel from the terrible Daedric menace. Rather, expect a tale of a man fighting an uphill battle against an enemy far superior to himself, all the while living in the magnificent world of The Elder Scrolls that we've all come to know and love.
So sit back, relax, maybe fetch yourself some popcorn, or perhaps a sandwich; it's hopefully going to be quite the ride.
Chapter 1: Dawn
I wake at dawn.
The dim light encompassing my barracks is just enough to make out the soft silhouette of my sword, propped at the end of my modest cot. It gleams with a sort of devilish smirk, requesting hungrily to be put to use. It's foolish to be hopeful of such an incident. The blade hasn't met steel since my days in the Academy.
I hear the steady, relaxed breathing of my roommates, still sleeping. The Captain wouldn't be in for another twenty minutes, and they were taking advantage of every second. I, on the other hand, am habitually up early. I enjoy the peaceful, if short-lived, time to myself in order to collect my mind for the coming daylight. It makes me feel like I'm on the front lines somewhere, rather than patrolling the walls of this insignificant outpost. Walking along the same stretch of stone for several hours a day doesn't give one much of a sense of importance. If asked, I could recall, on a whim, the exact number of battlements lining the segment of wall I am responsible for, along with the number of floor tiles, number of distant mountaintops, and count of Bungler's Bane mushrooms clinging to the bark of an old oak tree ten yards off. Simply put, the guard gives me much excess time.
I look to my left to see my greatest companion slumbering in his own cot, as always. Astius Laenius. We've known each other since before the guard, when I had lived on a small farm - my home - near the harbor city of Anvil. I couldn't have been ten years old at the time. My mother would send me into town to fetch the horse's grain each daybreak, and precious little boy Astius would be prancing about the streets, convening with me by the time I had reached the docks. We would chatter - about the ships, the pirates, the Argonian sailor men, and about more important things such as war and politics, for what little we could understand at the time - and it never ceased to astonish me how the whole lot engrossed him so fiercely, even as just a mere child. Instead of aspiring to be a pirate, as I and any normal child would, he would ask questions as to why they plundered and pillaged. Instead of avoiding the town guard, he would question them. Challenge them. Instead of running around the streets playing hunt-the-dragon, he would lay back on a grassy hill and gaze out to the sea. Actions not generally taken by a child of ten.
I was always a polar opposite; the purest, most uniform lad to ever mature in the Cyrodillic region. I followed the orders of my elders without question. Worked tirelessly in the barley fields of my parents' farm, and without payment. Much of what Astius did repeatedly puzzled me. I always told him he would grow up to be a scholar or a wizard, like the men of the old Mage's Guild. And that was, in fact, what he desired to be. Yet instead, we both lay in a guardsmen's barracks earning no greater than ten septims a day.
Astius' father was a soldier, see. A Praefect - and a decorated one, at that - of the Imperial Legion. In retirement, he couldn't bear to see his only son - the only heir to their family line of soldiers - become an academic or a philosopher. Astius told me precisely of his father's words. "Scholars, philosophers; they do not know what is really true. They do not know the answers. They know only of numbers and letters, of words and dialects. Useless information; nothing but a source of bothersome pedantry. A warrior, conversely, knows only of what matters. Only knowledge of true importance. Of blood and of steel. Of iron and sword. That is knowledge of the gods. Of Ysgramor. That is the knowledge that will make you a man, Astius. Not the silly and irrelevant taskings of the defenseless intellectual." My poor friend had memorized the entire lecture after hearing it but once. It was the turning point of his entire life.
I, on the other hand, did not inherit any warriors' blood from my family. My father, and my father's father, and the father before him, were, every one, farmers. Honest, hard-working men, loyal to the Nine and to their wives. My mother was just as much a farmhand as my father. On no account do they fret about war or poverty or the rain period being unseasonably dry, or their son failing to accomplish anything of true importance but then to walk the fort barrier every day. Unfortunately for Astius, his guardians were not so permissive.
And so, by no decision that was his own, Astius was sent with me to the Academy which trains boys to be warriors, at the fragile age of just thirteen. It was internally that I held excitement for the matter; contrary to what Astius wanted to pursue, I was looking forward to the experience. I had always gawked in awe when the Legionnaires would come trotting along the road, on their normal rounds, their mighty iron shields and strong helms glinting brilliantly in the silky afternoon of the Golden Coast. The many tales and triumphs I would hear from Praefect Laenius wouldn't do a great deal to dampen my willingness, and he often praised me for demonstrating what he called "utmost loyalty to the Empire", Astius standing idly by, a look of disheartenment crossing his face. It was no surprise or wonder to anyone when Astius took nothing at the Academy to a great level of seriousness, and as not to harm his honor, I hadn't either. After years of failed tests and painful training bouts, we were finally released from the school and put into duty at this very post. In the words of Legate Trillien - the regional general - at the graduation proceedings: it is "an honorable position; perhaps not as imperative as that of a Legionnaire, but one which must be still fulfilled". To the rest of the Legion, we aren't even considered Legionnaires. Simply guardsmen. Watchmen. A joke.
I often used to despise Astius for holding me down; a silly accusation, as I see it now. It was my decision to tail him. To accept his influence. Nonetheless, I could have been a celebrated Praefect by this time, just as Sir Laenius was; a frontrunner in the Imperial Army. Leading tens, maybe hundreds of courageous men into battle. Such achievement is still a dream of mine.
The barracks is a drab place. Guardsmen's banners line the walls between every cot, worn and frayed, and personal possessions (of which there are few) rest on the nightstands of each guard. Not much else is to be found in the way of decoration, save for a diminutive stone hearth at the end of the foyer. The flooring - constructed with now old and cracked wood - groans with the weight of movement, the edges protruding clumsily into equally old fort walls, made of aged stone. The ceiling does nothing to hide its inner workings, old wooden beams and rusted fasteners exposed across the entire room. A lit torch hangs in its vessel just right of a single, heavy wooden door, and the only other light comes from the hearth, when it is lit, which it currently isn't. We don't have a single window.
I know that it is my duty to light the fire and fetch our breakfast, as I am the Barrack Supervisor. As if I'm anything greater than a caretaker. Only the Captain of the Guard has any real significance; she commands the entire fort, taking orders only from the local vassal.
Groggily, I slide my feet off of my cot and begin to dress. I slip edgily into my greaves, boots, and cuirass, taking care as not to pinch my skin between the plates of metal. My hand washes over the Imperial emblem - a dragon compressed into a diamond-like shape - plastered onto the rough iron above my right breast. I leave my gauntlets off, as well as my helmet, and calmly fasten my sword's sheath to the simple leather belt wrapping about my waist. I then pick up the sword.
It's standard issue; a short-sword, no longer than my arm, with a light oak grip and the Imperial symbol engraved just above the cross-guard. The blade is fat, like a broadsword, with a light iron fuller and a hardened steel edge, narrowing near the tip and ending in a sharp, smooth point. I run my hand along the flat of the blade, and then hold the weapon out in front of me. It is top-heavy. Imbalanced. Its weight favors its left, dipping inward to a horizontal position. It's probably a defect. It didn't pass inspection, so they gave it to a guardsmen. What else?
The sword slides roughly into its sheath, and I quietly make for the fireplace. I stack kindling over rough paper , and small logs on top, then cross the room and take the torch by the exit, lighting the paper. It catches quickly. After a minute, the blaze begins to cast a pleasant, warm glow over the hall. I proceed to leave, to retrieve breakfast, placing the torch back into its holster and pulling the latch on the door.
"Aye, Ferand." The voice startles me just as I am about to leave. It comes from Gualver Felannus, a short, sturdy Imperial, who I had also trained with. He sits up in his cot - the one nearest the door - and nods to me. He's missing an ear; an accident as a child, he tells us. He'd never go into specifics.
"'Ey, Gualver; Rufius told me about your leave. You're one lucky bastard, you are."
He shrugs. "Not too lucky. I only have four days; not enough to get into the Imperial City. It's a shame, really. Barely a fine woman in Leyawiin!"
I chuckle. "When are you gone, at least? Tomorrow?"
"Fredas," he says, "which is fine with me. Taverns are always busier during the weekend. I doubt it matters anyway. With their selection of ladies, I'd reckon there'd be further success in the Imperial sewers." He sighs.
A sarcastic smirk crosses my face. "Don't be too disappointed. I know of your adoration for the Argonian women. City has plenty of them to share."
He laughs. "Not too certain of that," he says, "though that lass you pleased back in Skingrad sure reminded me of one. Now scamper off and fetch us our rations!" He smiles at me, commanding jokingly.
I return the gesture and wave him off, walking out of the room and latching the door behind me.
The exit leads into a small, cramped hallway, at the end of which lies the Captain's quarters, and at the other end directly into the small courtyard of the garrison. It's an aged post by the name of Fort Blueblood, located in the southeastern reaches of Cyrodiil, and was in decommission until after the Oblivion Crisis. It was re-stationed in order to protect from the non-existent "threat" of vengeful Argonian slaves, attacking from the east. In other words, it's a place to leave failed Legionnaires; a title we all could claim for one reason or another: Gualver, for his unruly disobedience; Lucret, for his mediocre combat performance; Rufius, for his overconfidence; and I, for my loyalty to a friend.
Our rations chest lies across the way, shaded by a sheltering wooden structure, and as I click its bolt open I am not shocked with its contents. Bread. Just bread. That and water from the adjacent trough. I sigh of boredom.
As I push through the entrance, again, to the barracks, bread basket in hands, I am greeted by the Captain standing with her hands behind her back, facing the rest of the guard - all seven of them - who all stand - inelegantly and undressed - at attention, their eyes now fixed onto me. Without moving her head, the Captain speaks to me.
"Fair of you to join us, Ruriel." She never called her guard by their forenames. Ruriel has been my family's name since my ancestors lived in High Rock. It is an entirely Breton label.
She doesn't seem happy. I set the food down by the door and reply.
"Of course, sir. I have our breakfast, as usual."
She turns her head back, slightly. "Have you not noticed, guardsmen? You're late. These men should be fed and dressed."
My face begins to flush. I see Gualver attempting to hold back a smirk. I speak hurriedly.
"Yes, sir. I apologize, sir."
The Captain twists her head straight again. "We have work to do, gentlemen. It may not be enjoyable to do, but it needs doing. And I expect no slacking under my command. Especially from you, Supervisor."
"Yes, sir!" We all answer in unison.
"Excellent. Now, eat and ready. I expect first shifts at the walls by sunrise. And Ruriel, you take Laenius' rounds today. Laenius, you have the day off. Dismissed!"
She turns and sweeps past me, eyes locked ahead.
None of the guard knows her actual name. Sure, there are guesses from the men - Trinia, Lyana, Vellata, or even that she doesn't have a name, and was selected at birth by the Legion - but no one knows for certain. I figure she only wants to preserve authority.
As the door shuts in her wake, the guard begins to collect their food. I pick up a loaf and go to rest on my cot. A moment later, Astius takes a seat in his own, digging hungrily into a rather large piece of bread.
He's a fine-looking man, as Imperials typically are. His hair - short and dark - forms natural spikes at the top of his forehead, which runs evenly into a thick, black brow. His eyes, stiff but gentle, burn a strong shade of dark blue. They fit well into the curve of a wide and smooth nose, then are, in turn, followed with a mouth embraced in subtle, affectionate laugh lines. He looks up to speak, swallowing a large chunk of bread.
"It's too bad the Captain has to be so bitter, eh? I doubt such little time does much to flaw the defense. Not like there's a great deal to defend." He pauses, his mouth hanging open, and then looks to me. "Sorry about her doubling your rounds."
I shrug, and reach for my gauntlets on my bedside stand. As if to tease me, he slips out of his boots and props his feet up.
"Not your burden," I say, and slip my left hand into its glove. The piece is heavy - unwieldy - and the leather thick and hot. But it's regulation, and I must wear it. "She's just fulfilling her duty, I suppose. Not unlike the rest of us."
He narrows his vision, thinking for a moment, and responds. "I suppose." He finishes his bread in an impressive swallow, and leans back into his pillow, closing his eyes. He has the whole day to relax.
I proceed the march to the wall, as I normally do, three of the others in my wake. Outside, we split off into our own sections of causeway. The Captain sits idly at her post, by the gate, scribbling something onto a sheet of parchment as if she was creating a document of utmost importance. I roll my eyes at the scene, and focus onto my watchman duties.
The morning is pleasant and moderate as the sun rises in the east. I patrol a segment directly across from the main entry, which means I have nothing to watch other than rocks and trees. The forest in this part of Cyrodiil - the Blackwood - is dense and notoriously swamped, an awkward transition province from the lush oak forest of the Nibenay into the swamps of northwestern Black Marsh. Large, sweeping willow trees dangle over great trunks, and oaks or maples fill any spaces left bare. An occasional squirrel or bird can be seen rustling through the branches, and every now and again, a deer, grazing over tall grass. Adventurers and travelers often tell of imps that fly mischievously about these trees, but such creatures are only a myth to me. Deer are as remarkable an animal I've seen.
I walk steadily along the wall, back and forth, to and fro, my hand on the hilt of my sheathed sword (I have no shield) and my head straight, but eyes wandering. I have the worst patrol; nothing to watch and the largest walk, about fifteen yards across. Gualver, the lucky bloke, has the gate guard's position; he stands above the gate and watches the road. I'm sure I could have taken the position, but I volunteered on my first day to take the segment I walk. To prove myself to the Captain, I imagine.
It's nearly midday when I hear the clapping of horse hooves. I would normally be switching rounds at about this time, Astius or Lucret taking my place. I could go inside, sit by the fire, unwind. But instead, I'm forced to walk until dark. A wave of anger rushes through me, against the Captain, and I will myself to repress it. It is difficult.
The horse of which I was hearing soon appears within the mouth of the fort, clopping to and halting at the Captain's desk. It's a skinny horse - its hair a mix of brown and white blotches, as is the norm for the Paint Horses of Blackwood - with a feeble rider to match. He wears the outfit of a courier, and has a bag of letters slung over his shoulder. After a number of exchanged words, he hands a message to the Captain, and turns to ride off.
I figure it's nothing of importance; probably a notice of payment, or a personal letter to the Captain. It isn't until I finish the day's sentry that I find out for sure.
I'm walking into the barracks - last, as usual, besides the Captain, who is behind me - when she pulls me back.
"Supervisor; I need you to report to my quarter. Bring Laenius."
I nod, and do what she asks. When we step into her room, she's sitting at her desk, tapping her fingers over a folded letter.
Her room is better furnished than ours, but the walls are still old and cracked. Her desk is directly to the right of the door, standing on a tattered rug, and surrounded with books, papers, and shelves. Across from the desk is an individual dining area, and the rest of the room is hidden by thick stone walls save for an opening to get behind them, through which a large, proud, and upheld banner - bearing the Imperial Emblem - hangs to the floor. Ornaments of decoration litter the office, and the entire room is well lit and temperate. It's much more comfortable than the barracks.
The Captain nods toward us, and we both salute her. She looks oddly attractive; a woman of strong appearance, but her stiff features, squared nose, and auburn-blonde hair - tied into a bun - provides her a beauty that can't be overlooked. A strong and defiant beauty, like that of a striking Nordic lady. She is, however, an Imperial. Astius and I stand, backs straight, side by side at the front of the desk, waiting for her to speak.
"Good evening, guardsmen. Laenius, I trust you enjoyed your time off."
Astius nods. "Certainly, sir. Very much so. Thank you." He performs a quirky bow.
The Captain raises her brow. "Good," she responds, and an expression you could nearly call a smile crosses her lips. A frown crosses mine. She turns down to the piece of mail under her palm. "I received this notice today, from the Imperial Office of Legionary Affairs. It's for the both of you." My curiousity heightens. "Apparently, you're being permitted a leave of absence, beginning Fredas. You're gone for a week."
I nearly fall over. A leave? Have we done something wrong? Did something happen at home? Are there problems with payment? Astius embodies my questioning with his speech.
"Sir; if you don't mind my asking, what would be the reason for such an...eviction?" The way he asks, he makes our escape sound like a curse. Perhaps he's attempting to please the Captain; make her think we enjoy being trapped in this cave.
"Nothing of significance," she replies. "At least, nothing they wrote about in the letter. I would think they're just granting you a vacation, of sorts."
Astius frowns. "But Captain, I wouldn't want to leave the guard to just the four of the men, with Gualver leaving as well." I see right through his bogus, and it puzzles me. He never ceases to do that; is he nervous about something?
She chuckles. "Don't be absurd, Laenius. I know what we're guarding, and it's practically naught. You do decent enough work, at least." She speaks directly to Astius, not once looking at me. "Gods, perhaps you've earned a holiday."
Astius begins to blush, and visibly tightens the muscles of his jaw. He speaks again. "Thank you, sir, but what of-"
"We'll be off on Fredas, sir," I say, cutting into Astius' sentence. I still can't understand what he's trying to do. It seems as though the Captain isn't opposed to the news, so what are his intentions?
The Captain looks at me, her expression startled, though bored. Any hint of gladness she seems to have had quickly fades, and after a moment, she replies. "So be it, Supervisor." She looks once more to Astius. "You both gather your things tomorrow. Ruriel, I expect the men readied and on patrol at first light, before the two of you leave on Fredas. You'll travel with Felannus, I presume?" After a short silence, she extends her sentence. "As long as you're all headed to the same place."
We have a week, and, even though Gualver only has four days, a week still isn't enough to go anywhere but into Leyawiin. I turn to Astius, who presents an agreeing shrug. "We will," he says.
She nods. "Right, then. Now get some sleep; you still have tomorrow's normal shifts. You're officially on leave on the midnight bridging tomorrow and Fredas. Dismissed!"
Astius and I once more salute the Captain - myself reluctantly - and the exchange abruptly ends.
With my annoyance toward the Captain peaked, I trail my cohort out of the room and back into our bleak garrison. As he approaches his cot, I grab his shoulder and turn him around.
"For the love of Mara, Astius, what was that? You made me out to have roughly the charm of a Chaurus!" The men - most of whom are lounging around their cots, chatting amongst themselves - turn at the outburst. I look around, realizing how accidentally loud I was. "I apologize, friends. Ignore me." I turn back to Astius.
He's staring at me, surprised. "I was amazed you weren't trying to appeal more diligently. I was just helping myself. Attempting to, anyhow."
My irritation flares. "Helping yourself to do what?"
"Haven't you heard, comrade? Cuts. The Captain's getting a raise, and we're losing a septim a day, to her, unless she turns the offer down. Was only trying to lighten her up. It was working...for a while."
I frown. Gualver, sitting a few yards away, pipes up: "Cuts? Where did you hear that nonsense?"
Lucret, a tall, defined Imperial, responds. "Astius' right. Heard the Captain talking to that Courier today; weren't you sitting just above her?"
Gualver's face reddens. "Of course I was! And I never heard such gibberish! Your ears must be broken, kinsman."
Lucret laughs. "I'm not the one with the broken ears, Gualver. At least I have both of mine."
Gualver yells flippantly and dives across the room, tackling Lucret to the floor as the rest of the guard whoops and howls. I let it go for a while before stopping them, laughing myself. My temporary anger fades.
Astius gives me a smirk, as if saying "I told you so", and then turns back to his bed. It never ceases to amaze me how he's always one step ahead.
As I sit on my cot, Astius speaks once more, both of us removing our armor piece by piece.
"Don't worry about the gold, Ferand. We have an entire week of leisure to forget about it."
"Until we get back," I reply. Getting back is something I'm not looking forward to.
And with that, I undress down to my undergarments and lay back to sleep, my mind set on the day-long journey ahead.