"May you live in interesting times", an expression which purports to be a translation of a traditional curse. While seemingly a blessing, the expression is normally used ironically; as life is better in "uninteresting times" of peace and tranquillity than in "interesting" ones, which are usually times of trouble.
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INTERLUDE
Road To War
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The road becomes less of a secluded mountain trench and more of a proper trackway the further north they travel.
A relief, for constant rough terrain was hard on the horses and even harder on the men. The Pale Pass had been broadened by traffic and strengthened during the course of the last war by long corduroys of logs in the softer places. Supposedly, there were also supposed to be contingent of border guards from the Seventh, but he hadn't seen any of them, yet.
And now he probably wouldn't. Despite the odd improvement signifying civilized life, the area was just as wild and treacherous as it was described back in the First Era.
1E 2703. The Akaviri Invasion. Commander Mishaxhi. Reman Cyrodiil. He has a soft spot for history, you see. Back home it was the only non-mandatory political or soldiering literature found on his shelves.
As they ride among the developing mountainside, rock formations thrusting further and further into the sky, he can't help but think. Wonder. What would it have been like, back then? The Army of Reman, how different had it been? How different from his - admittedly bedraggled - half-troop of professional Legionnaires marching behind him at this very moment?
They're not the only ones feeling the strain of long travel. Worn down merchants with oddities and rarities; country folk driving shaggy cattle along. A band of gruff-looking mercenaries who had to be chased off away from the collum. The occasional nobleman. Sometimes, a light-stepping hunter with obedient hounds who hurriedly went in the opposite direction the moment they saw their uniforms. Supply wagons, the occasional courier, the road saw them all. Today, it saw the Fourth Legion. Or, it saw the First and Fifth Cohort of the Fourth Legion.
Tramping steady along with the same thirty mile-a-day pace which had brought them up from Kvatch, the solid bulk of over a thousand soldiers made their way towards Skyrim with a grim sense of impending misfortune and general pre-conflict anxiety.
Only this time, there are no Akaviri forces awaiting to abruptly surrender. No Tsaesci veterans beyond the crests of the mountains. Not where they are going.
Theirs was the road to war, as it were.
Still, they follow it, even as it slowly fell victim to overgrown foliage and protruding grassroots. Officers at the front and footmen in the rear. It's comforting in a way, really. To know that even in such far away places, the spectacle that is long-distance marching is exactly the same.
Although he is not marching. A man of rank must ride on horseback.
Which lends the opportunity to daydream somewhat substantially. Unconcerned with the trivial matters such as keeping pace and the conversations of his comrades, he rides in his uncomfortable new saddle on his unfamiliar officer's horse and drifts away, content.
It's different, Skryim. They had informed him when they crossed the border in the Northern Province some time ago, as a courtesy, but until now there hadn't been much of a change in his surroundings that he could strictly note. The world around him was not entirely dissimilar from the rest of the trek; same road, same tall mountains, same coldish weather that was not too severe but different from the sunbaked white stone of the Imperial City. Now, several hours in, with a warmth that could only come with lower altitude and the creeping growth of sheer... green, he cannot help but take notice. Passively observe every little thing as his mind wanders wide and free.
He'd grown up in the City, but the Fourth Legion was historically stationed in the foothills surrounding Kvatch. They'd been there since the days of Legate Andromedus and the close of the Third Era, the Oblivion Crisis. They'd been there since the time of the Camoran Usurper in 3E 266. True, they had also seen action across the Empire since the days of General Augurius Bucco in Blackmarsh, from Stormhold to the other end of the world, to Hammerfell's Sentinal - even to High Rock, half a dozen times. But even after being reconstituted twice, after hundreds of individual Generals, even though the Fourth Legion went where it was needed — no matter where, Kvatch was still their home.
That charming untamed wilderness with its sturdy golden highland grass, it's intense summer sun and cold winter winds, he remembers. Good, solid vegetation. The kind of stuff that survived wars. That was his home. This, this Falkreath, was starkly different. Sharp hills, dense forests. There is a constant fine mist that gives the impression of it being seasonless. It's dense and thick and he never expected it from looking at a map. He had to see it with his own eyes.
And he's glad he has. Seen it, that is.
He rides at the head of his column, his troop of First Cohort soldiers, offset to Legate Rikke, their battle commander and from there, a little further along, the General himself. He rides, and he sees and he thinks.
He probably should be paying better attention. It's not like he'll probably ever participate in a movement like this again. For while all Legions have a general; a war cabinet officer whom separates the serving Legion from the realms of high government officials, to have all three tiers of high command in one marching formation — to have their general, their superior legate and her primary and secondary lieutenants respectively, to have him and his ilk; senior field officers of centuries — was incredibly rare. Half of the high command and the senior staff from cohorts one and five.
They're all going to Skyrim. The whole lot of them. Gone is his general's days in the Imperial City; he's to take the position as provincial military governor by the authority of Emperor Titus Mede II, to lead his Legion in the task of defeating an uprising led by the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak.
And that meant that he, the plucky new cohort commander, would soon experience his first-ever command in a real military campaign. He tries not to show it, but he couldn't help the odd show of pride as he rides along. Wherever it was a sneaky glance at his new soldiers or the sudden flash of a grin whenever someone mentioned him by his new title; the delight from his new command was clear. It's a complete contrast to that of the general. A man who if anything seemed almost burdened by the responsibility of rank.
But then, while he certainly resembled the general, First Centurion Aristaeus Tullius Valerianus wasn't much like his father to begin with.
General Tullius hadn't bothered himself with Aristaeus throughout the journey. Even though they'd spent the entire trip travelling little more than five feet away from one another, even beside each other from time to time, the older man had made sure to almost blatantly ignore his only remaining son. It's not the first it has happened, nor does Aristaeus suspect that will it be the last, but if he was being truly honest with himself, he prefers the distance.
For while he is indeed excited for his impending campaign, he's also... Well.
Terrified.
Aristaeus was not a veteran Legionnaire. He'd been in the ranks for almost four years, six if you count his time as a squire, but very little of that was actually spent on the field. This was his first proper campaign. His first real service. He's finally going to war. Not those silly little spats that happened between the Imperial nobility in Cyrodiil, or the occasional public dispute - the ever same and never-ending problems with criminality. A real war. Battlefields and skirmishes against an actual enemy, like in the Great War.
A war Aristaeus had not seen, of course, but has been raised from. His entire life had been spent in the throws of one long aftermath, all in preparation of another interlude. Up until Ulfric Stormcloak murdered the High King, it had always been some blurry potential happenstance, the prospect of another war with the Dominion — now, not so much. Aristaeus tries not to think about it too much. It distressed him, the concept that his life was little more than a countdown to another Great War.
The thought makes him frown, and all previous excitement and pride vanishes amidst the twirling leaves. Aristaeus looks over towards the general, at the man's decorated Imperial war plate, and struggles to remember him any other way.
Maybe the general was thinking about it too and that was why he was being... the way he was being. Granted, General Tullius was a more ill-tempered man than most but rarely was he inaccessible.
Aristaeus, for a split, brave moment, considered asking. But then in the space of one heartbeat to the next, his courage dissipated and he looked away instead.
While the general might have been giving him space, Legate Rikke, in contrast, had been giving him her undivided attention ever since they began to enter Falkreath territory. Commander Aristaeus was her responsibility, of course, and as such direct supervision was to be expected, but Rikke was also just one of those people who simply enjoyed a conversation.
Even if it is somewhat onesided.
And unappreciated, if the stern line of his father's mouth is any indication. Aristaeus couldn't help but smile.
Stop grooming the boy into a heathen barbarian, Legate.
The general's displeasure aside, they talk about a lot of things, Rikke and he. The legate goes into great detail about her people. About how the young men of Skyrim go out for weeks into the high peaks in the dead of winter, hunting the ice wraiths that will give them claim to full status as citizens. She tells him about their music, how they celebrate their festivals — the burning of King Olaf, which they might experience first-hand in Solitude. She describes to him her old ancestral home, deep in the snowdrifts of Winterhold and how as children, she and her brother would go ice fishing and ride upon her father's tamed herd of white-furred elk until the day they got old enough to serve the Empire, and she left for Kvatch.
There's more to this than creating a rapport between them, though it is indeed the foundation from where they'll build their relationship as chief and officer. Commander Aristaeus is kept away from the bulk of unnecessary duty in order to focus on developing a firm sense of military intellectual and tactical qualities but to do that, he needs officers to learn from. It's not through birthright and politics that Aristaeus will ascend; he's one of several hundred young officers the Legion is hoping to advance in merito belli in preparation for when — not if — the Dominion comes back.
But for now, of course; Skyrim. Aristaeus tries to put the thoughts of his impending, though distant, future out of his mind to focus on the one right in front of him. This old and proud land where he'd be expected to grow into the role of a senior commander, physiologically, like his father. To prove himself capable of leading the Empire's armies, or fail.
It's a heck of a first hurdle, all right. Scowling at his surroundings from beneath his helmet, Aristaeus tightens his grip on the reigns, making the leather gloves creak. He tries to summon up that courage from earlier and squares his shoulders.
He can do this.
"Look ahead there – Helgan, in the flesh." Legate Rikke calls, pointing up over the rise of the road. Aristaeus blinks himself into the present, hoping that his body language hasn't given his wandering off away. He follows her pointing finger to get a glimpse of what awaited.
And it was... painfully mediocre.
As if he could sense the commander's presumptuous thoughts, General Tullius shifted to glance across the line of officers in order to look at Aristaeus. The man does not say anything, but then he did not need to. Aristaeus hunches instinctively, preparing for a rebuke he did not sense but rather just expected.
But then he remembers that if he looks guilty, his father will automatically just assume that he was guilty, and he sits up straight. He looks at the grey depressing blob before them and pretends to take a great interest.
Helgan was a fortification town. A bolstered up Imperial garrison that had gradually succumbed to the needs of a civilian populace, perhaps numbering no more than forty, if he was being generous. It was filled with little solid wooden buildings and fenced off shrub gardens, shadowed by the tall old walls and rapidly darkening sky, even with the occasional blazing torch. From his position, he can see Masser and Secunda peaking through the pines beyond. It gave the whole thing a spooky sort of impression, made the space between his shoulder blades itch.
He's glad his cohort will not be travelling into the Nordic town, even if it was because they wouldn't fit. Instead, they will cut across towards an Imperial fortification by the name of Fort Neugrad.
The only reason they come close to Helgan at all is to split away from the Fifth, which will travel East with Legate Fasendil into the wilderness of the Rift. There they will establish a forward camp near Riften and, hopefully, one day, advance into the area and seize one of Ulfric's most important holds, completely cutting off the rebels from the south.
The commander looks down at his map. From Fort Neugrad, the First cohort will then follow the road into Whiterun Hold, turning east and continuing on until they reach Solitude. Four more days of travel — three, if on the last day they extend to fifty miles. When he looks up again, he catches the faint bulge on the distant horizon, speckled with glowing orbs and the faint, wisps of smoke plumes. He tilts his head. He thinks that might be what he thinks it is, but is not sure.
Aristaeus turns to Rikke, obviously, so she knows her attention is needed. He points over towards the horizon at the faint glowing mark once she regards him.
"It is indeed, Captial of Whiterun Hold," Rikke says, proudly. The general makes a noise.
It's massive. Aristaeus stares at it, giving his map a final glance before rolling it up smartly and sliding it back into its holder on his saddle. He wonders if it's as big as Solitude. He's seen drawings, here and there, but that could never account for the whole thing.
Commander Aristaeus snaps his head over to his left to find the handsome armoured form one of his junior centurions; his primary lieutenant and personal secretary.
And better translator.
His real name was Winston Corvinus Alto, but everyone within their cohort called him Winston the Swordbearer. As the primary lieutenant, Corvinus was technically in command of the First Cohort's Century I, but his responsibilities were waivered upon the discovery that he was perhaps one of four people on their entire plane of existence fluent in what his father termed, Arisisms. As such, Winston's duties included little more than doing the paperwork Aristaeus did not want to do, saying what Aristaeus wanted him to say, effortlessly defeating combatants in melee drills and flirting with apparently everyone.
Actually running the century strategically was Centurion Canter's job. Corvinus was there to look pretty in Imperial plate and speak on behalf of their primus. In another world, they might have been actual friends as opposed to... whatever absurd dyad they were at the moment. Rouges, his father called them.
Where there was one there was the other — and trouble had a tendency to shadow them both.
The second Corvinus looks at him, Aristaeus tilts his head up in his standard gesture, meaning 'ready'. Two nods would be an affirmative. Winston stares at Aristaeus' hands as they move, nods twice to confirm that he understood, and turns towards the Legate. "Is it as big as Solitude is, Ma'am?"
Rikke appears to think for a moment, turning her head away to face the declining road beneath them. She purses her lips and seems as if she's thinking back.
This is why Aristaeus liked Rikke as much as he did. She took him and his questions seriously, because she took everything seriously, with a dignified gravitas that you couldn't help but respect. In the Legion she went by many names. The Legate, Tullius' Heavy. The Battle Commander. The First Lieutenant. Rikke was her 'real' name, Aristaeus supposes, but whatever one called her, whatever face she happened to be wearing, she was a force to be reckoned with and a brilliant military officer. Immovable and unconquerable, a 'True Nord' at heart.
Rikke was the kind of soldier Aristaeus wanted to follow. He's very lucky that he does.
"Solitude is commonly described as the biggest city in Skyrim, befitting for a Captial, I suppose," Rikke says then, turning her head to look at Aristaeus. "Whiterun is more spaced out. It holds the majority of Skyrim's farmland." She smiles at him, small but indulgent. "Solitude is of a far greater defensible nature. Big, sprawling, yes, but it's walls are towers and the mountains protect it like barricades reaching up into the sky. You'll see for yourself. There is nothing like it, not even Markarth."
Aristaeus tried to imagine that. The map he has is not very informative in that way. Borders between the holds are drawn in harsh lines, all the major roads marked in blue heavy ink, and the insignia of each city drawn upon the parchment in the vague location of their positions, but there is nothing to show the size or layout of each city, nothing to distinguish the size of each to the other. There existed, somewhere, highly detailed maps drawn by masters of cartography including such details and he'd love to get his hands on one, but they were expensive and rare.
But he'd like one. Yes, he'd like that very much. Aristaeus always had a strange fascination with maps, collected them incessantly throughout his youth. Most of them were useless now, but they appeal to him all the same.
Fort Neugrad, Aristaeus discovers, also appeals to him. In an archaic, depressing kind of way.
They are met by one of the new bands. Aristaeus does not know the specific numerical designation, only that they are most obviously not in his cohort — they'll belong to one of the local Legates, Skulnar, and his First Centurion, whoever that happens to be. The cut of their uniform is different from the Cyrodilic one; furs, nordic steel and trousers. They stare and many of Aristaeus' men stare back. Not so much in genuine hostility, but perhaps more unabashed curiosity.
Look at these strangers, from an entirely different country, wearing the same uniform as himself but just with the tiniest variation, just enough to notice! Aristaeus suddenly wishes he was old enough to have gone to Hammerfell, to have gone to Black Marsh. To see the Legion's soldiers in High Rock and Morrowind - though there were none of them, anymore. Apparently, the uniforms of the old Morrowind Legions had been something spectacular indeed. Here, they're not much to look at; more brown leathers than red or gold, hidden under layers, for the most part. Serviceable, but dull.
Then again, Aristaeus wasn't much to look at either. The road had turned him gritty and uncomfortable. He hadn't shaved in a few days, the constant exposure had left his skin spotted from insect bites and his eyes red-rimmed from constant rubbing. He thinks he might be allergic to the plants here.
Having their hosts, the Fifth Cohort under Legate Fasendil and his attending retinue of eight centurions and four-hundred-odd men take their leave for the Rift. The Legates all clasp arms, departing officers saluting to the General as they trade their farewells. Aristaeus watches the exchange but does not participate; he's a new boy, and many of his father's core officers were all long-standing veterans. Even friends. It could be months before they all see each other in person again.
Depending on how well everything goes, they might never do so.
Aristaeus pales at the thought. Fasendil, slender and long with a classic elven facial structure and an unrelenting hatred for the Thalmor in which could be read simply by looking into his face the moment they were brought up in conversation, seems to misinterpret his expression. He gives the junior officer a small, grim smile.
"And good luck to you, too, Commander." Fasendil supplies the younger Tullius' extended cohort of over seven hundred men with a long stare, and then raises an eyebrow. "I dare say you'll need it."
Legate Cipius makes a noise that was somewhere close to a half-cough and a half-laugh. "Boy'll be fine. Can't get into much trouble with a half-cohort, not with Legate Rikke breathing down his neck."
Rikke hummed through tightly pressed lips, to which Aristaeus could only shrug. He wasn't intending to get into any trouble.
If the look his father gave him was any indication, he probably wouldn't have the chance.
"And good luck to you too, Legate." General Tullius replies on behalf of his son, as was usually their custom. "Go bravely and with honour."
"For the glory of the Empire." Fasendil clenches his fist and raises his arm half-way at the elbow. He smiles, terse, before turning his horse away and declaring in a half shout. "Fifth Cohort, move out!"
There was a fair amount of commotion as all of the men filed out of the way and separated off. Aristaeus steers his horse away from the bulk of the column and decides, after a moment of madly trying to find Legate Rikke and failing, to move into the fort. Amidst the throng of men, he spots the general's armoured back and prods his horse into a faster trot until he catches up.
His father was not a fan of crowds; after the Battle of the Red Ring, he claimed to get itchy in situations where he couldn't see past large bodies of people. It made sense that he'd disperse as quickly as possible.
Once they make it past the threshold, General Tullius raises himself up to stand in his stirrups with a muffled grunt of discomfort, slipping one leg over the back of his mount and dropping to the ground. Aristaeus follows suit, grimacing when he realises just how sore he was.
He stands at half-attention, opting to look smarter than he actually felt but not entirely committing to the perfect Legionnaire look. The local Legionnaires already stationed here all stand to gruff attention, the rhythmic clatter of fists slamming into Imperial plate acting as the first and final warning of the general's arrival.
A far younger tribune Aristaeus recognises from his father's personal staff marches over towards them, stopping at a respectable distance away and saluting in the same manner.
"General Tullius, sir." He greets and the man in question nods slowly, eyes on the battlements, then the boy's face. "Orders for the remainder of the cohort, sir?"
The general gives the general area around him another look. "State of the defences, soldier?"
"Well manned and well-conditioned, sir. No immediate concerns other than space."
General Tullius nods. "In that case, have the cohort fed and settled. We move out at first light."
Another salute. "As you command, general."
"As for Salvius' lot, have the reserves clear the ground and set up the tents for Rikke's men. Send for my secretary. Those are my orders for now, Tribune – you are dismissed." The general removes his helmet and turns, heading straight for the bowels of the fort. "Primus, you're with me."
So much for inaccessible. Aristaeus sighs and threw a flat look at Corvinus, who merely smiles back.
"I'll rendevous with Canter," Corvinus salutes. "Enjoy your debriefing, commander."
Aristaeus made the gesture for Fuck, and then, sharply, You.
Rarely did the general have Aristaeus in his office for formal debriefings. Very rarely, for informal conversation.
It was just the way it was. Their relationship did not compromise of the fond platonic trappings observed with most wealthy civilians. Even if it had been, General Tullius was not a demonstrative man and the difference in their respective ranks made regular camaraderie impossible. There was a precarious balance to having one's own kin in your ranks and his father tended to air on the side of caution.
Not to say that the general was unkind, of course. He was just... the general. Only moodier as of late.
But then, getting sent up to Skyrim until one either retires or dies is not exactly a glorious opportunity. The Emperor sent the Fourth Legion here because the man trusts Gaius Tullius to get the job done, because Aristaeus' father is one of few commanding generals left from the War with a functioning army capable of both fixing — and defending, an entire province. But it also looks like they're getting shoved to an abandoned, unloved corner of the Empire and that sort of impression stings, even if it's not wholly accurate.
And it's because of this that Aristaeus is not offended when his father doesn't ask how he is, or fusses with him overmuch. They are what they are. The fact that Aristaeus sees his father fairly often at all is more than enough. Most soldiers do not have that sort of privilege.
"I don't suspect you'll have much of an opinion of Skyrim yet," the general says to him as they enter the sparse, large room that would serve as his father's office and quarters until tomorrow morning. A whole eleven hours. "But keep in mind, soldier, that it's nothing like Cyrodiil."
Politically, his father means.
Aristaeus nods twice, because it's an easy gesture to make and he's not entirely certain as to what else he could even say.
The general sits down behind his desk, sets his helmet down in one corner and immediately begins undoing his bracers. Aristaeus meanwhile picked out a spot on the floor to stand, and while he did not wear his helmet indoors, he didn't bother to put it down. Strapping it to his belt wasn't an entirely difficult thing to do.
"I don't suspect that these so-called Stormcloaks will risk any outright engagement with us during the march to Solitude," the general continues. "They are likely to be cautious once rumours of our arrival begin to circulate – but Ulfric Stormcloak and many of his chief officers were Legionaries, once. It won't take them long to respond. So with that in mind, soldier, I want you to reorganize your men. I'll leave the arrangement to you and the Legates, but under no circumstances is anything to get in our way in the next few days, am I understood?"
Aristaeus nods twice, again.
"Good." General Tullius just about manages to suppress the sigh. He leans back in his chair to look at the ceiling. "I know this isn't going to be a normal routine command for you, but I'm also going to go out on a limb – you'll get your men, as will Legate Cipius, but for all I care it's you who is in command of the cohort for now on. Prove to me that you can do your job properly and when Cipius is in Whiterun, when we get there, I'll see about giving him a local battalion of auxiliaries and issuing you the troop in full strength."
Nodding was starting to become annoying, but it's not like he could respond with anything else. While it seemed like a reward, in reality, a 'thank you' would not be appropriate.
The first cohort of every legion was a double-strength troop. Where the other Senior Centurions in command of the nine junior cohorts all had six centuries of eighty men each, Aristaeus' own centuries had approximately one-hundred-and-sixty. Granted, he was not at full operation and did not wholly expect to be; for the Legion conducted on what they call an exercitus dēfectus, a deficit, with major shortages in areas of lesser significance and careful deductions for Legions in areas of dispute. Calculated losses, as the folks up in the city'll say. Anything to cut costs, since a full-time army was expensive.
At the moment, Cohort I had just about seven hundred men. He was missing an entire century and two of the remaining half were at quarter-strength. That left his calvery, which the Legion had spent great expense in bolstering, and his two veteran centuries - the first and third, respectively.
That would be manageable, but his woes did not end there. As Aristaeus was a new officer, and the Fourth was a veteran force with a surplus of overly-qualified officers of Legate rank, he'd have to share his forces with Cipius on top of falling under Rikke during actual combat. It meant that by the time he was reinforced with auxiliary troops, Cipius will have taken a whole two centuries to Whiterun, leaving him with six-hundred-and-forty men and maybe a cavalry, if Rikke could convince the general to leave it with them.
Before this, Aristaeus had been a tribune and rarely took charge of anything more than forty men. He understands why his father and the rest of the command are being cautious, but it doesn't half grate on him. To be held back like this.
Aristaeus tries not to look at all disappointed and gives his father a fixed, flat half-smile. The general raises one eyebrow at him.
"Not that you'll be commanding much from the get-go. You're the Primus after all, and Eight forbid if I neglect to introduce my First Centurion to the glamorous loyal lords and ladies of Skyrim." The smirk that works at General Tullius mouth was sarcastic and a fair bit cruel, the sight of it made Aristaeus' faked expression turn instantly into a grimace. "Until you get your men, Aristaeus, I want you on your best behaviour. There are at least two separate receptions at the Blue Palace that you'll be forced to attend, that I know of."
Standing still and looking like a shiny metal ornament. Aristaeus sighs.
Ulfric better get his arse moving.
His father gives him a flat look. "And how do you think I feel? I've got a meeting with the First Emissary the evening we're expected to arrive."
Nevermind that then. Aris will take Nordic nobility over the Thalmor. He clenches his teeth together and waves both of his hands down in a show of clear distaste.
The general grunts in agreement, lip curling upwards.
"Just be sure not to advertise that around her, eh?" His father replies, before sitting up waving his hand at the stack of paperwork piled on the very far left of the desk. "In the meantime, give that to Corvinus and sit down with Rikke, go over a plan of operation. I'll review in the morning."
Aristaeus nods twice, goes to grab the offending paperwork but before he can even get close, his father's hand slams down on the top of it.
He flinches away on instinct and looks up, startled.
"And for the love of Stendarr don't go drinking your own weight tonight. I don't care how lean your travel rations are, or how much these Nords urge you, the last thing I want to see is one of my senior officers spewing his guts over the side of his warhorse."
He lets the papers go once he's certain that Aristaeus understands, and the commander, wide-eyed and suitably warned, grabs the papers so quickly it was as if they burned to the touch.
Only, he couldn't just leave without defending himself. So instead of actually walking away, Aristaeus adjusts the papers under his arm and stuck up one finger on his free hand, before bringing his hand up, chest height in line with his shoulder, then pulling hand to the centre of his chest whilst clenching. It was an accident — and it was only one time!
"Uh-huh," his father flicks his eyes to two gestures Aristaeus made before leaning back in his chair again. "One time too many, soldier." A jerk of the chin. "I want that operation plan done. Now move out."
If this was any other man, in any other situation, Aristaeus would have been actually offended. Instead, he cracks first and just about manages to savour the amused mirror-exact smile on his father's own face before he turns around to leave. Fine, then.
Time to get to work.
On his rations, if nothing else.
.
the course of war
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Authors Note:
So what is this?
This is a rewrite of a fic first published by Faulkner a million decades ago /s. As Faulk is no longer publishing any of their works but is otherwise keen to see the story unfold, we have decided to work together on a revisited version. Now, my lore is a bit sketchy between ESO (and, I imagine, the impending new game), but most things should be consistent with TES: Skyrim — with a very healthy and indulgent dose of worldbuilding and game-bendy fuckery on top.
That being said, while this is a story that intends to delve into the deep and gritty parts of the civil war — discourse and all — it is also set on the Imperial side, and ergo (spoiler alert) will feature an Imperial victory. Folks who prefer the Stormcloaks, be forewarned; in this house, we're legion for life.
As a result, there are bound to be a number of warnings ahead. Unlike on Ao3, there are no real ways for us to mark content warnings aside from the overall rating, so there will be individual warnings in the beginning author's notes every chapter. Please, please read them carefully.
Other than that, please enjoy!