Chapter twenty-five
There's a civil war in Skyrim.
My family stays out of it, as best we can, and it helps that we make wine. Everyone, soldiers and civilians alike, needs alcohol after seeing all the horror this country is going through. The phrase "don't bite the hand that feeds you" works all too well in this case, and even though Hrodgar and, to a lesser extent, Freya are out fighting more often than not, no one who knows our family name attacks them.
The vineyard protects us, just like the name Lindström protects us; we're out of the way, hidden in the back end of nowhere, south of Falkreath and Riverwood and thus too far away to sabotage.
That makes the few times I do end up in a battle easier. None of the people out for revenge know where the Lindström Vineyard is, so my family is safe. Other soldiers have family in the cities, or in the farms around them, and those are easy targets. Those people can become hostages.
My family – my mother, aunt and little cousin – can't be, because they're hidden and safe.
Not that I would be a target for any but the overly zealous. I haven't joined a side, no matter what my Nord heritage says, and no one tries to force me to. A few of the soldiers I pass on the roads try to suggest it to me, but they don't push. They don't try and put me into a corner – Nord pride versus the Elves – and they don't do anything more than subtly guilt trip me into making a choice.
There is no choice, really. There are too many sides in play, not just the Empire against the rebellion. There are the Elves, who always have another motive, and whoever the Elves are really trying to move against. That fourth side is the only one we're not aware of, me and everyone with eyes and ears, and they're the ones I'm truly wary of.
A little update, since some people actually do read this.