Finally! I never meant to take this long writing this one, but here it is.
I hope you all like it :D

Enjoy!

Welcome to the Empire

The crowd finally dispersed and moved on as the street became open again. The driver clicked his tongue at the horses and the wagon jerked into motion as we moved once more. I leaned back down in my seat as the others sunk into theirs.

"Shor's bones," someone uttered under their breath.

"Never thought I'd see something like that," another uttered back.

The buildings here were different from other cities—Whiterun and Riften—cities I've seen before. Carved stone bases and brick walls. White painted stock frames with flower beds beneath every clean glass window. They were all taller than they were wide. Three, four, some were even five floors high. Narrow alleyways and wide streets of square- and hand placed stone. This city? Down to the stone beneath us, this city spoke luxury.

"Did Ulfric really kill the High King?"

Sturdy oak doors with signs, flags, notice boards, and signposts beside them. Taverns, inns, bakeries. Stores and shops of every kind riddled the main street as we continued down the crowded street.

The buildings alone made the city feel crowded.

"Why else are we here?"

Even the people looked different. They wore brightly colored clothes and walked in fine shoes. Men with ornamented coats over custom-fitted shirts, women with patterned dresses and braided hair. I could smell the quality of their leather– the bouquets. They carried wares in painted baskets, heavy pouches on well-made fur-belts.

The people themselves looked . . . expensive.

"No, I mean… how could he do such a thing?"

And their faces? Everyone looked clean. Smelled of perfume, flowers. They were all smiling, spoke gladly to one another—jests of naught. Children laughed as they ran alongside the wagon and with sticks and pointed their fingers at us.

"I heard he shouted him to death."

A flock of doves shattered for the air before us and disappeared over the high rooftops as they took to the blue sky. Cats rubbed and purred against fish stands as they begged to be tossed leftovers. Dogs were barking.

"How do you ¨shout¨ someone to death?!"

The air was rich with chatter and rumors. Song and music escaped the open tavern doors—the windows—together with the scent of morning food and yesterday's leftovers.

I could hear church-bells ring in the distance, and a constant, everpresent, deep grinding groan from the towering mammoth of a windmill that slowly came into view. An eight-winged mill.

"No, no, no. I heard he stabbed him. Cut him down."

And every breath I took came with the smell of freshly baked bread and flowers. Flour. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Garlic. Bassil. Spices and herbs. But most so, freshly baked bread and flowers.

"That makes more sense."

Everywhere I looked, everywhere I saw; this city was the opposite of Riften in every single way—I couldn't see a single beggar. Not a single sign of suffering.

"No, I'm telling you: he shouted him to death."

Solitude, eh? This city felt very much alive. Joyous. Happy? It certainly felt different from anywhere I've ever been before.

"You can't shout someone to death!"

And it didn't even seem fake; their smiles looked genuine, felt genuine. Their voices. The music. The smells. I couldn't sense any hostility or ill intent whatsoever. They were all glad.

Why did that feel so wrong to me?

"No, I'm serious. Haven't you heard the stories of old?"

It gave way to a pit in my stomach. An uncomfortable churning sensation that made it hard to breathe—as if I had swallowed a lump of dry ashes. This city? It didn't feel right to me.

It felt as if I've been invited somewhere I don't belong. Somewhere I don't fit in. Somewhere I do not deserve to be.

Yet here I am. Rolling forward with the scent of freshly baked bread and flowers in my nose.

"My father told me Ulfric shouted people off the walls of Markarth, when they took it back."

More stores, more tiny gardens as we rolled on. Old couples taking breaks on iron-framed wooden benches surrounded by flower-dotted greenery—to think there was room for a garden in the midst of a city? A Capital at that? An old lady looked straight at me from her bench.

I looked away.

"You weren't even born back then, what do you know?"

A high stonewall on our side, steep stairs leading up along it. I could see the top floors of tall buildings sticking up behind the edge of it, a massive wall behind them, and the sky-high tip of a castle behind that. It must be where the church is—that's where the sound of the bells came from.

"Didn't people do that all the time back in the days? Shout down walls?"

More laughter as I churned and sank into myself. Children. I turned my head and saw a marketplace, a playground approach. Kids played with wooden swords and built towers of sand and colored blocks. Others, climbing large and hefty branched trees.

"That's all fairytales."

She would've liked it here.

They would've liked it here. A summer trip to the city? New clothes and berry-tasting bakery. Jida would've played in the playground, met other kids, while we browsed the marketplace for over-expensive clothes we didn't need. Tasting foods we'd never have the ingredients to make ourselves. We'd even share a glass or two of foreign wine, laughing at one another. Wine we'd never be able to taste again. But that's all fantasies now.

Painful fantasies, sad broken dreams that can never be.

Why didn't we leave when she wanted to? Why did I have to be so stubborn?

"What do you think?" he said with a shove on my shoulder.

I twitched, returned, and briefly looked over at Erik before I regained myself and turned away again to rub the morning tire out of my eyes. At least that's what I pretended it to be.

"About what?" I asked.

"You really think Ulfric shouted the King to death?"

"Shouted?–" I looked over at him, saw, confusingly, that the others looked at me as well. It took me aback—what had they been talking about? "What?"

"See!" one of the others exclaimed—a scrawny-looking blond kid, waving a hand in with an obvious 'duuh.' "Not even the Companion believes it!"

Believes what?

"I'm telling you!" another one started, another rough-haired kid with a silly, thin, teenager's mustache, "People shouted each other to death all the time back in the days. Even shouted down walls. Haven't you heard the old stories?"

"Baah..." The scrawny kid waved his hand again, "And white elves once ruled Skyrim."

"Yeah, yeah," Erik interrupted and looked at me, "Aren't there stories like that about those old legends you spoke of? How they 'shouted?' Ysgramor? Ysmir?" He turned to the others, "And didn't Tiber Septim do that too?"

Some of them were still looking at me. Oof, the annoyance, why did he have to drag me into this—but they expected an answer: "Not Ysgramor," I sighed and crossed my arms, thinking back at the scriptures I've read; the old tales Vignar told. "But there's plenty of stories about Wulfharth, and Ysmir. How they won large battles by singing–"

"By singing?!" the blond scrawny kid shouted out, eyebrows going high, as he almost broke into laughter. "Right!" he laughed.

"You idiot! Have you been living under a rock? I'm telling you those stories are true!" the one with a mustache spat, face turning red. "Haven't you read a book in your life?! And Snow Elves did rule Skyrim back then!"

They did, I internally agreed. Ysgramor's conquest against the Snow Elves is the whole reason behind his fame—such legends aren't born from nothing.

"Oooh, look at me Mr: I-can-read!" The scrawny one bullied, "Well maybe you shouldn't believe everything you read in old children's books and start using your head instead. What makes more sense?! That Ulfric challenged the High King and cut him down? Or that he yelled at him until his ears bleed out?! Or?..." he looked over at me with a grin, "Maybe Ulfric gave a serenade so poorly the High King couldn't help but kill 'imself?!" Again he laughed.

"You're an idiot."

"The only idiots here are grown men still believing in children's tales." he snorted.

"Tch," I let out involuntarily and faced away: ¨grown men,¨ that's the biggest pile of crap out of his mouth so far—a bunch of kids on a wagon of shit on their way to fertilize war, is what they are.

"Quit your bickering!" the driver shouted: angry looks and un-patient brows over his high shoulder.

The mustached one bittered under his breath and the scrawny one chuckled silently to himself as we rocked on into awkward, relieving, silence.

The sound of crows. Beside us. There were gravestones. They don't bury their dead underground? Well, right, this city sits atop an arching mountain—digging into it might not be the best of ideas.

The wagon slowed down, took a turn, and sped up as it continued up the climbing cobble-road. The buildings here looked different. Just as tall, clean, and impressive as those before. But there were no more shops and stores. The small streets breaking off revealed more tall houses. But no more gardens and street decor. These were houses. Probably the residential area. And ahead of us, the castle walls approached. Another large gate stood open, more guards standing posted hailed us to check the papers a third time.

Didn't take long this time: the guard barely glanced over the papers before he handed them back and gestured us forward and through.

A courtyard. More people. Not the sort from before; soldiers yelling at old and young people alike. Archery training and sword practice at play. Recruits in training—we weren't the first ones to get here.

"Grab your belongings, get off!" they shouted—guess this is the end of the line—I took my bag, axe, and stood up with the others.

¨Just do as told and you'll be fine.¨ Eyes on the prey, not the horizon. Same thing as ever. Nothing new.

My feet landed on firm, flat stone and I straightened up to look around, straightened my legs to rid myself of the prolonged stiffness. Finally, unmoving earth beneath my feet had been missed as I sheeted my axe on my back and heaved my bag over my shoulder—standing on solid ground felt welcomed, and much needed.

There was a well in the middle of the large courtyard, and the whole opening was surrounded by high dark-gray brick-stone castle walls. Tall and sturdy. A towering, colossal castle of heavy stone stood as part of the wall, decorated with red flags beneath every window, the Imperial symbols—a square-shaped dragon. Another castle, not as large, on the opposite side. There were others, smaller, buildings of stone built into the wall along the edges. Storehouses and barracks I assumed. Another gateway in the wall, two more, that I could see, that led elsewhere. The one on our right led into another large courtyard with yet another building with stained glass windows depicting the divines—the temple, I assumed: too far away for me to be certain.

It was strange how being surrounded by walls suddenly made us so isolated from the city—only birds and the mountains could be seen above—the sounds of the city were gone, replaced by the more familiar sounds of sword practice and discipline.

"Look at that one…" a distant whisper took my attention, I glanced over my shoulder—tilted my ear really—two soldiers. One of them pointed discreetly at me—lowering his hand before he took notice,

"The guy? Look at his axe…" They were far enough away to probably believe their whispering private, but, my ears? I could hear them. "Wanna' bet who lives the longest?"

"Pfft, sure. That man'll probably end up on with the Vanguards. So I'll hold my bet until I see which one ends up in city defense, or better yet, kitchen duty."

Always the same, wherever I go I feel myself standing out like a sore thumb. Always the center of rumors: The vanguards, eh? Perhaps not the worst set of rumors this time, though.

"Ha! If he ends up with the Vanguards, the Stormcloaks will be the least of his worries."

'The Stormcloaks?' So the opposition already has a name? After Ulfric himself no less.

They laughed: "Hahahaha-hööhööhöö" he changed his tone and expression mid-laugh—going overly deep and sinister—as if he mocked, or mimicked someone. He looked over as they laughed, locked eye contact, and instantly fell silent and awkwardly cleaned out his throat as he elbow-jabbed his friend into silence. Hands behind his back and sudden squared-up shoulders, he turned his attention toward us, "Recruits! Line up!"

I didn't need to look over my shoulder: Everyone down to the last man was off the wagon, looking confused and misplaced as they fumbled with their bags and gear. It didn't take long for the soldiers to lose their patience and shout at us, herd us like sheep so we'd line up in the courtyard—bags and all—and once we were all in place, they told us to be silent and wait.

And wait we did.

We watched the wagon turn and leave. Uncomfortable bag over shoulders and feet growing weary on stone, we waited to the point of restlessness and tire, and with tire, inevitably, came impatience:

"Didn't Ulfric train with the Greybeards?" A voice behind me—the mustache—asked. Though it wasn't a question as much as it was a statement.

"So what?" the other stubborn voice whispered back.

"Haven't you heard the tales–?"

"And what do you know of the Greybeards? Ever met them?..."

Sweet silence answered his question.

"Thought so: old tales and fables, the Greybeards are little more than old men praying to the wind–"

"Old men?!–" he spun around, drawing attention, "Old men! Have you no respect for our ways?! To live– to dedicate oneself to live at the Throat of the World is the closest thing to Sovngarde any true Nord could wish for in life! To study their ways is an honor–"

"I respect what I see, not old tales and stories!"

"Why, you daft, ignorant–!"

"Silence in the ranks!" anger shouted, but it was too late—I could smell it before it happened—as the brawl broke out; boys fighting boys with nothing but stubbornness behind their fists. Always a sight; it went little further than a one sided nosebleed before shouting steel welding men in red uniforms broke them apart and plowed them down flat on their bellies. Even those who trained in the distance had turned to watch the commotion, why shouldn't they? If anything, it was comical as they wheezed and whimpered, pushed down on the stone floor.

"What's going on here?!"

And here comes the next red uniform to beg for a piece, tired as he sounded,—or perhaps not—I recognized him: the dark-eyed, dark haired, officer from the bloody execution.

"Attention!" one of the guards shouted at his appearance—all were too confused to act, most simply didn't know what he meant.

"Hot-headed recruits, Captain," one answered with a knee pressing down on the mustache boy.

"Let them go at it then," he spoke casually, gestured, and locked his hands behind his back as he stationed himself in front of us. "I have one rule and one alone when it comes to disorder in the ranks: Fight it out! It's good training. So let them go," he told the soldiers.

There was an awkward moment before someone chuckled and they let them go, they both rose even more awkwardly on their feet—their 'heat' was clearly gone, washed away by circumstances.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get up here. In front," the Captain said without a gesture, "Get up in front and let everyone see."

But they didn't. They both remained awkward, confused, and over-clearly embarrassed as they gave each other odd glances.

"What's wrong?" he continued, surprisingly soft in his voice, with a calm look in his eyes, "farm-boys can't fight?"

A stutter came from one of them, but little more, as they continued their embarrassment; guess they had realized how dumb it all was.

"Then get back in line then!" he said with a sudden harsher tone, harsh enough to straighten the back of us and put them in their places—reminded me of the first time I met Skjor. "First one to speak unless spoken to won't be eating today; first one to move unless told too will be doing laps around the courtyard 'till dawn." Definitely reminds me of Skjor.

Tired eyes or not, it wasn't hard to understand that the threat was real—not that it mattered to me, but I could sense it stuck with some of us: the ones it was aimed at as they both scurried back in line and all fell silent.

So now what? I thought as we stood and the Captain turned away to speak with the other two. Was he waiting, like we were? Or is this some ridiculous Imperial strategy to put us in place? A test of patience? Might as well be, another good half hour or so passed before anything happened—those in the background had long since returned to training:

"Stand straight!" we were told, "The General is approaching!"

A woman? Thick-braided blond hair going behind her back and clear blue eyes, dark leathered uniform with red cotton and brown, chafed, knee-high boots. Shoulders back and chin held high, she had the posture of confidence and importance as she approached—her walk, too, reminded me of Skjor.

But it was not her the guards were honoring toward, but the man walking by her side. Just as stoic, albeit shorter than the woman. He was no Nord.

His uniform was one of ornaments. Golden medals and pins and decor glistering against a silver chest plate with the Empire insignia, with a long red cloak, nay, mantle following behind him. A good head of short silver-gray hair and experienced eyes that spoke tired, reluctant age. Still, his back was as straight as a maple. Only his eyes spoke of his age.

"General," the Captain greeted, "third summons of recruits. Sixteen and–"

"No more?" he answered and raised a hand as they approached. Didn't even face us. "Well…I suppose it's better than nothing. I'll take it from here, Aldis."

"General," the Captain nodded in response, and the General turned to face us.

"Welcome to the Imperial Legion, and welcome to Castle Dour. You should get acquainted. For the next two months, this place will be your home. I am General Tullius—Military Governor of the Imperial province of Skyrim—placed here by our Emperor—Titus Mede the second—in order to restore order to these lands." He paused with a correction of his stance, interlocking his hands behind his back. "I suppose there's no need in hiding it anymore, you've all heard the rumors. they're true. Ulfric Stormcloak came to Solitude and murdered High King Torygg in cold blood in front of his entire Court. And by taking matters into his own hands, he began his rebellion against the Empire. That's why you're all here, to end his greed for personal gain; to safeguard your homes. Make no mistakes, the man is a criminal with no interest for the wellbeing of the people, a criminal who needs to be stopped."

It was short, but once finished, he nodded at the Captain and the woman and they all headed for the far left side of the lineup. Begun inspecting us one by one.

I couldn't help but feel that his speech had sounded rehearsed, repeated, and straight up bored. It probably wasn't the first time he held that exact speech. Either way, I didn't care for most of it. But one detail did linger in my mind: two months. That's gonna be a problem for me.

Kodlak's right. There is no Underforge here.

"You there…" I heard a voice directed at me, taking me out of my thoughts, and I saw the General look at me from the first line. "You're no farmer? Why didn't you arrive with the second summons?"

"The second?–" What?

"Step forward, out of line," he said. I did as told, walked past the two rows in front of me until I stopped in front of him.. "I'm saying you're late, and I'm asking why."

The first thing to hit me was how calm his voice was, a speech-pattern of simply stating facts. The second thing that hit me was how short he was no that he stood in front of me, up close. Well, I suppose he was rather average for an Imperial, but compared to a Nord—especially me—the man was short.

"Answer my question," he stated and waited. I didn't know what to say, I hardly understood what he meant.

"Wait…" the Captain mumbled, "I know this man…" I had no memory of ever meeting him. Not before the execution. "He's a Companion."

"I thought the Companions refused our summons?" the General said and looked over at the woman.

Refused? They attempted to summon us? Kodlak never mentioned anything about that. But then again, why would he?

"They did," she answered and the General sighed as if the answer had given rise to a problem.

"Remind me again why perfectly capable soldiers aren't allowed to serve their country?"

"The Companions have political neutrality. They're not allowed to participate in any war or political conflict of any kind," she stated accurately.

"¨Political Neutrality…¨" the General mumbled in clear disagreement, rubbing his eyes with one hand as if to rub away a headache. "Where's the logic in that?"

"It's an old tradition that's been honored for thousands of years," she continued.

"You damn people, and you damned sense of honor," he spoke and looked over at her as if to lecture. He sighed and looked back at me, "So, why are you here then?"

Moment of the hour, I suppose: "Because I'm not a Companion."

He bent an eyebrow and I reached down my satchel to find my papers. Handed them to him.

"¨Savlian Shoal,¨" he read.

"My father. I'm here in his stead."

"I see…" He handed the papers back, "That explains things." He clicked his tongue and looked over at the Captain. "Process this man and have him transferred to the second summons. He'll have to catch up with the others, but I see no reason that he should go through basic training."

"Aye, General" the Captain responded and gestured to his men to take me away.

". . . Wait," the woman said, looking at me slightly curious before she looked over at the General, "I might have a better idea, General. That thing we talked about?"

"I thought you already found your man?" he said.

"And now I've found a Companion," she stated.

He sighed and waved his hand dismissively before walking off. "Do whatever you want, Rikke. I trust your judgment."

She looked over at the Captain. "Have him go through the basic process procedure with the others. Once he's settled, have him sent to me." she said.

"Yes, Ma'am," he answered and she gave me another look-over before following the General. "Step back in line," the Captain told me with a nod. And I stepped back in line.

Basic process procedure, eh.

First thing they did was show us to the barracks, had us pick our bed and leave our personal belongings in our own personal chest by the foot end of our bed. They gave us new clothes, had us pick our sizes—rough fabric Imperial fatigues with their golden insignis, the romb-shaped dragon, on our left shoulder—and made us change. Then they took us to the barber. Shaved our heads. I don't remember ever having hair this short. Once all of that was over and done with, they herded us to the dinner hall in one of the buildings. Had us line up for food with trays in our hands. The food was surprisingly decent. Way better than what we usually got in Jorrvaskr. The bread was as freshly baked as could be, still steaming, and there was no abundance of pork and owen-grilled potatoes. Peppered cream gravy. Milk, water, or weak mead for drink. Multiple kinds of cheeses. Grilled onions and fresh vegetables. Tomatoes. Though I did miss venison.

Erik didn't spend any time waiting to get to know the others at the table. Learning names and telling tales. Making friends with a smile on his face. Same as on the wagon. I did not. I did the same thing I always do, ignoring looks and whispers as I ate in silence. The fact that the General had pulled me out of the formation was already a spreading rumor, probably building into something it was not. I heard the word ¨Companion¨ being used a lot.

Once we all had our fill, they herded us away once more. Showed us the temple where we were allowed to pray, should we wish to. Showed us the storehouse where workers would clean our clothes and give us new ones, should we need to. The bath house. The shitter with the seats so tight you'd rub ass-cheeks with whoever sat next to you. The courtyard. The training area. They showed us all the places where we were allowed to go, and where we were not. The main building of Castle Dour was one of those places. Only officers were allowed in there, or the invited—the guards by the main door made sure of that. Neither were we allowed to leave the castle walls, enter the city.

Once we were familiar with the layout of the place, they took us back to the store room where they handed us a bag and set us up in a line. We walked, one by one, from workbench to workbench and were handed equipment that slowly filled our bag. Everything a foot soldier would need:

A second set of clothing. A light leather armor to wear for practice. Rucksack, satchel belt, attachable pockets. Personal shaving kit. An old smelling towel. A soap. Marching boots. Things like that. And once our bags were filled we marched back to the barracks where they instructed us how and where to place every item in our lockers, until everyone's locker looked exactly the same. Identical. In a sense, we all looked identical. Same clothes, same buzzcut, same beds and same lockers. Imperial soldiers without identity, eh.? Just another face in formation. Just another recruit in the crowd.

And after all of that, it was time for evening supper.

"You, Companion," a soldier said loudly in the doorway as I sat on my bed, familiarizing myself with my new setting. And even though he drew the eyes of everyone it wasn't hard to know who he meant. "Follow me," he continued before I could answer and headed out the door.

And here we go. I rose from the bed and followed.

"Where are we going?" I asked as if I had figured that out already as I walked behind him into the courtyard.

"You've been called to the Chief Legate's office," he answered.

We crossed the courtyard and the guards by the door gave a nod and allowed us entry to the main building as we approached. We entered the decorated entry, paintings, flags, and embroidered carpets—everything looked expensive—and the desk clerk on the right hailed us as we entered, asked for our purpose and took notes in his ledger before pointing us toward a set of stairs.

"Remember to stand straight in her presence, and always refer to her as ¨Ma'am¨ or ¨Legate¨…" he said as we climbed the stairs and continued down a long hallway. Doors on the right side and lit candles on the left. Soft red carpet with gold-colored edges beneath our feet. Same luxurious decor. I could smell food, books, ink, and burning wood. Heard the crackling of fireplaces through the walls. "Only speak when spoken too. Do not turn your back on her. And whatever you do, do not leave until you're dismissed."

"Aye," I said, looking around. Sounded simple enough.

We finally came to a stop in front of an oak door. The man knocked twice and a voice told us to enter.

The large room was well lit. large, red-curtained, windows on the wall across from us. A warm fireplace along the right wall. Furniture, small tables, and bookshelves. A candled chandelier hung from the high ceiling. One-third of the room was divided off by white painted wooden panels. I could see the foot end of a bed sticking out, smell the soap and after-scent of a recent bath. The room seemed to be both a personal quarter and an office.

"You're dismissed," she said, sitting at a heavy desk with her focus on papers as she worked, wrote, and my escort excused himself and closed the door behind him.

I remained where I stood for, what felt like, a very long minute, and the only thing to break the silence was the sound of her pen and the crackling of the fire. Every now and then she would dip it in ink and continue writing. She hadn't looked at me yet. I took a deep breath through my nose, smelled the room. She wore no perfume. She smelled clean, but still, there was a hint of salt about her. Dirt, and leather. Probably worked up a sweat training sometime earlier. She had an earthy and grounded natural smell.

More pleasant than how most people smell.

"Straighten up, you stand like a hulk," she said abruptly, taking my eyes off the wide bookshelves behind her and onto her person. She was still writing. Still not looking up at me, but she had raised a hand and gestured across the table for me to approach.

I did as gestured.

For a moment longer, she kept on writing. Until she put down her pen and placed it parallel with the edge of the paper and leaned back against the backrest of her chair, sat up straight and folded her hands over her lap and looked at me.

She had blue eyes that went well with her deep blond hair that, like the first time I saw her, was braided back to keep out of her face. Blue eyes with a dark gray edge and a disturbingly confident and sharp intellect behind. She was studying me.

Still, she didn't speak. I wondered why.

Was she testing me? Looking for something? Was this some lame intimidation tactic?

None of the questions mattered though. If it was an attempt to intimidate, well, I've been around enough 'important people' in Riften not to care for importance. Handled enough contracts with their Jarl not to care for status. I've been given enough judgemental looks by snot-nosed, teenage blue-bloods to know they're just as much scum as any other sewer rat, if not more. Honestly, by now, I couldn't care less about 'important' people and their delusions of grandeur and fragile egos.

¨Ooh, look at me, I'm important!¨ Fuck off.

And this little test of hers was beginning to get . . . annoying. ¨Don't speak unless spoken to?¨ Screw it.

"Why am I here?" I asked. As If I didn't know the answer already?

No reaction from her, other than a deep calm nasal inhale followed by the oncoming exhaled one.

"How long have you been a Companion?" she started.

As I expected, what other reason is there? How long? What year is it now?

"About seven–" no "eight years."

She hummed at my answer. "I'd say you have more fighting experience than most of our troops combined then."

"You overestimate me."

"I don't think I am," she said and leaned her head against the neck rest and turned her head to look out the window. "Skyrim hasn't seen real blood since the Great War, which ended in -75. That's almost 30 years ago. And even then, that was on foreign soil. Sure, we have a few aged veterans left. A handful of mercenaries and adventurers who've seen some action. But them…" she nodded at the window, toward the recruits training outside, and glanced back at me, "You think any of them ever killed a man?"

"No," I said.

"You think any of them ever had a near-death experience? Been in a life or death situation?"

I didn't answer.

"You think even those who joined us ten years ago have?"

"I see your point," I admitted and broke eye contact.

"So no…" she continued and waited for me to look back at her. "I don't think I overestimate you at all, when I say: you have more fighting experience than most of our troops combined then."

I didn't speak. I only watched as she leaned back in the chair.

"I've met a few of you Companions. But I've never seen you, never been to Solitude?"

"Not my hold," I answered with a slight shake of my head.

"Which hold was yours then?"

"The Rift."

"Then I assume you know Laila Law-Giver?"

"More than I care too."

"Hm," she hummed indifferently, "She ever spoke of Ulfric?"

"No."

"The Stormcloaks?"

"No."

"Her thoughts of the Empire?"

"We don't do politics."

"Of course," she said, taking another breath. Clearly thinking . . . something. "I see you're married."

The question took me off guard, made me look down—flash myself my ring—before catching myself to stop.

"How long?"

Not a question I wished to answer, much less one I wished to think about. But she didn't need to know more than given. Definitely not the details.

"Four," I reluctantly admitted.

"Children?"

". . . No."

"A true Companion then—a man without weaknesses–"

"What do you want?" I snapped.

Her look shifted, turned more focused, curious… less relaxed as she briefly eyed me up and down. Whatever she had been probing for, she found it. I saw it in her eyes, and I didn't care. She could dig her way through any and all personal questions she wanted too, but I'm not answering another one until I know what she wants.

" . . . and a man of temper, I see," she slowly spoke.

Again, I didn't care, "What do you want of me?"

She straightened up, returned to her previous self. "I assume you can read?" she said as if nothing.

"Yeah."

"And write?"

I felt my look alone answered that one.

"Good," she continued, leaned forward, placed her elbows on the table and closed her hands in front of her. "Can you lead?"

"Never needed too—every Companion their own."

"Then, at least that we can teach you." She turned my attention to her desk, the pile of books one her left side—my right—to be precise. "You are here because I have something in mind for you. Something that can't be trusted to just anyone. But before that, I need to make sure you're up for the task. Make sure you're not wasting my time."

"Just tell me what you want."

"Straight to the point then," she said, and—oooh—how I wanted nothing more than to point out that I've been nothing but ¨straight-to-the-point-then¨ since I entered this room. "Starting tomorrow, you will no longer take part in the mandatory recrutement program and their basic training—if you wish to participate in their training, you're free to do so. But I think we both agree that would be wasted on you. You will continue to sleep with them, eat with them, bathe with them. But other than that, you'll follow my program from now on."

I was about to ask what exactly that was, but she already tapped her finger on the pile of books, "I want you to read through these. Study them." She looked up at me from her brow.

"Is that all? Read books?" I had expected more. How annoying.

"For now," she said. "I'll call for you one week from now. I suggest you be done with them by then. Any questions?"

She didn't speak further. She merely looked at me, casualty, as she waited. Waited for what exactly? For me to agree? for me to say ¨Yes Ma'am!¨ and lick her boots.

I only gave her a resentful "no," grabbed the book off her desk and turned to leave. Heard the sound of her pen returning to scribble onto papers.

"I expect a great deal from you. Don't dissapoint, Companion," she said and I stopped to glance over my shoulder.

That's the thing, isn't it: "I'm not a Companion. Not anymore."

"Oh, please," she started without looking up, "You can keep telling yourself that. But I'm a true Daughter of Skyrim, and I've been around long enough to know that once a Companion, always a Companion." she looked up at me, "And don't think that title won't go unnoticed here. You're with the Empire now."

Right, the Empire. That reminded me, "Actually… I do have a question." There was that thing on my mind, "Can I leave the castle walls?"

"Why?" she came on.

"If I'm gonna do nothing but read, I'd like a change in scenery." She gave me a prodding look, "I distract easily," I added to answer her suspicion.

She turned her attention back to her papers, "As long as you're present at the morning and evening roll calls, I don't see why not. I'll let the guards know you're free to walk around."

That easy, eh? Almost too easy. I had expected her to say 'no,' and I'm pretty sure she would've. Had I not been a Companion.

I faced forward, headed for the door. Found the soldier waiting outside to escort me back to the barracks.

Honestly, thinking back on our conversation, as much as she had tested my patience and prodded my temper? The first impression she left didn't leave the worst of tastes in my mouth.

Thank you for reading!
I'm seriously gonna step up my writing schedule. So, hopefully, it's not gonna be months until the next one.

Do drop a comment. :)
I'd love to hear what you think of the chapter.