Prologue
The soldiers collided on the banks of the White River, a century of legionaries led by a young quaestor, and a drengjaval led by a Nordic veteran. The screaming and yelling was indecipherable, but the death cries were not. Swords, axes, and spears lashed out, killing, maiming, and missing. The ground became drenched with blood, but the fighting didn't cease. Reinforcements arrived from both sides, the better part of a cohort for the Imperials, and a strong hird led by the local Stormcloak commander.
The death was endless, and the battle was shifting, spanning both banks of the river, and the only bridge that allowed a crossing. The Legate who arrived to assess the battle knew the value of the bridge, as did the Stormcloak Thegn. Plans were issued, reassessed, changed, and issued again. Nothing changed. The bridge would be in Stormcloak hands, then Imperial hands, then back to the Stormcloaks. Either this battle would end with the withdrawal of both sides, or the death of all involved.
Overlooking the battle was a hill with a tomb dug into it, and in front of the tomb were two men and a woman, watching the battle unfold silently. The first man wore an iron breastplate and seemed horrified by the proceedings going on down below. The second man wore a brigandine vest of boiled leather and small steel plates over a woollen tunic and sat with a sword resting in his lap as he pulled a whetstone across the blade, seemingly unphased by the fighting. The woman wore a set of steel armour, and was leaning on a large battle-axe, clearly disturbed by the battle, but also resigned to it.
XXXVXXX
"Will you not intervene?" Golldir all but begged him. Karsten looked up from sharpening his blade but kept the stone moving across the metal.
"How would I do that?" He asked, "I am but one man, and they are many."
"You could shout, like you did in the tomb!" The young Nord exclaimed. "They are slaughtering each other!"
"Yes, but what would that solve?" Karsten asked him. "Even if they did stop, the war would not end. More men would die, and they would be sent somewhere else to die. Or perhaps they would kill me and continue as they were. Who can say?"
"But… you are the Dragonborn!" Golldir said, "you are here to save us!"
"Do they look like they want saving?" Lydia asked him. "They are soldiers, Golldir, not farmers. They do as they are ordered, because someone else has made the decision for them. You saw how the greed of men works in your family tomb. That was a small version of what you see here."
"But whose greed ?" Golldir cried out. "I am of the Pale, but I cannot support this! I cannot support Ulfric if this is what his war entails!"
"If there were more men like you, Golldir, there would have been no war," Karsten sighed. "You asked whose greed this is? It is Ulfric's greed, and it is the Empire's greed. It is the greed of the Thalmor, of the thanes, and the jarls. The emperor and the counts, and all the kings and queens in Tamriel. That is why there is war."
"Then why do you not stop it?" Golldir challenged him, "you have the power to do so."
Karsten rose from where he had been sitting, sliding his sword into its sheath, and slipping his shield over his back.
"Power is always dangerous, Golldir," he told the Nord. "Power is enticing, it attracts the worst, and it corrupts the best. There is a saying, though I am not sure where it came from. 'Absolute power corrupts absolutely.' I did not understand it at first, but I was uneducated then, because I did not have any power for myself. I did not want this power, and I did not ask for it. It was forced upon me. That is my burden. I would not have others suffer for it. So, yes, I have the power to stop this fight, but then what? What do I tell them as to why I stopped the fight? Do you think they would listen to me if I told them they were both wrong? That their enemy was not each other, but the dragons roaming the land, killing their families and burning their homes? No, they would not believe me, because there are not enough dragons to threaten them as such."
"But…" Golldir drifted off, "it is pointless death."
"That it is," Karsten agreed, "but it is their deaths, nonetheless. Many of them are already in Sovengarde, I expect, with tales to share, and friends and family to see once more."
"I do not understand," Golldir admitted.
"I did not understand at first either," Karsten told him. "However, since my destiny was revealed to me, death has been a constant companion. I have learned much that I did not want to. One day, when we are both old and grey, you will understand."
"I want to do something," he said, "but I do not know what I can do. I do not wish to fight in this war, but I do not wish to see my homeland ravaged."
Karsten spared a glance to Lydia, who shrugged at him.
"Do you have a map with you?" He asked Golldir.
"Of course," he told him, pulling it out. It was a decent quality, but nothing exceptional. The major cities, some of the larger towns, with the roads barely marked at all.
"There is a camp deep in the Reach," Karsten explained, marking it on the map with a stick of charcoal, "it once belonged to the Forsworn, before I cleared it out. It sits on the entrance to an old fortress of the Dragonguard, if you wish to help, go there. Tell them that I sent you."
"Tell who?"
Karsten smiled at him.
"The Blades, of course," he answered. "Who else is going to kill dragons when I am not around?"
"What will you do?" Golldir asked him when Karsten went to leave.
He spared a glance to the fighting below him.
"I am going to stop a battle," he answered with a tight smile, "I have seen enough death for today."