-[| Show No Quarter |]-
"Although victorious, the Imperial armies were in no shape to continue the war. The entire remaining Imperial force was gathered in Cyrodiil, exhausted and decimated by the Battle of the Red Ring. Not a single legion had more than half its soldiers fit for duty. Two legions had been effectively annihilated, not counting the loss of the Eighth during the retreat from the Imperial City the previous year. Titus II knew that there would be no better time to negotiate peace, and late in 4E 175 the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion signed the White-Gold Concordat, ending the Great War."
- A Concise Account of the Great War Between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion,
By Legate Justianus Quintius.
-[| SnQ |]-
| Part II : Youth Without Youth |
| Chapter I : Barney |
His current profession does not often lend time for idle pondering; but he has always been a thinker. A stoic intelligentsia in a Legionnaire's uniform, sat pondering the little things while encamped in the dark corners of the world. It's a relic of a youth long forgotten, a trait that has become tainted to fit and inhabit amongst this world of soldiers.
When he's not being a soldier however, in those strange, quiet moments where he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, Quintillus often finds himself pondering. Only in these quieter moments - never at any other time, because when the threat of war hangs thick in the air like an upcoming storm, there is little, if any, time for simple reflection. There is only time for the tactics, the cold and often harsh calculations and predictions. He's like a god in times of war, analysing the land, the soldiers and shaping the battlefield before him to suit his needs. A destructive creator.
No. In his current profession, he is the tactician well before he is the thinker. Always. Otherwise the lines of reason start to become blurry and that is not acceptable. He is a soldier, he is a Legionnaire. His Cohort rides on his performance and his name, rides on the Cohort.
Legate of the Second Cohort. The Second Lieutenant. The Tactician. All titles that have to be worked at to keep relevant.
It sounds undoubtedly cruel, but there is simply no time for thinking when there is a war to fight - a war to win. Everything else is relevant. Though, when the time is right and he has none of those things to do, he does. He tires to make sense of it all. Not that there is much to think about, honestly. Take away the soldier, and just who is he?
Regardless.
Recently, he's been thinking about stories.
Not those exaggerated, simple children's tales exactly. Or the ancient carvings found in dusty Nordic tombs, the ones filled with honour and prestige and rightful battle and happy endings. The ones Rikke had insisted on showing him. No. Not at all.
"All stories with happy endings are lies."
Since Helgen he's been thinking about his story quite a bit. More importantly, however, he's been thinking about where it starts. Where it begins. Oh, he knows what happens, he knows the content - the middle and chances are he can predict the end. It's the beginning that eludes him.
It always has done.
Everything is supposed to have a beginning. Otherwise, it can't have an end - and nothing lasts forever. He just doesn't know at what exact point his beginning started at. Usually, these things that do not bother him, but recently, with creeping threats, dangerous campaigns and ever increasing age, he feels that he has to know before it gets to late. Quintillus has a vague idea, of course. It could be with the obvious, his birth - the meeting of his parents perhaps. Though he can't help but feel he's looking to far back.
After all he wasn't born the man he is today. He was born Thaddeus Cornelius Quintillus - after his namesake. What came before does not necessarily prove what is to come, or what is now. No. He wasn't that boy, he changed his name in order to refrain from being - but then, he's not the boy he was when he enlisted either. Barney Quintillus lived as a unprepared boy and he died as an unprepared boy. Barnabas Quintillus on the other hand, the wayward Imperial Legionnaire with a genius mind and a headstrong attitude raised from the ashes of those two young men's youth. A soldier, a leader and sometimes, a stone cold killer - the legate who operates on dreadful genius thought. So perhaps that's where it starts. Where his story begins.
In that case.
The story of Barnabas Quintillus begins with a war.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
While he did not openly admit it, Legate Quintillus knew that the majority of the Stormcloak's leaders were... intelligent. Not all Nords are thickheaded - it's a stereotype, one that Quintillus has come to train himself out of using since his deployment in Skyrim. This particular leader had managed to divide his men into two groups along the ridge, with a few stragglers in the middle. Five on the right, six on the left and with the remaining dozen or so moving around freely. They were heavily outnumbered, but they also had the high ground and had access to ranged weapons. None of them were injured, as far as the Legate could tell and they still had ample amounts of arrows for their standard short-bows.
Clearly, said leader was a Great War veteran. Quintillus has seen this tactic before - it's Imperial.
Which, inconveniently, means that Quintillus has to improvise. There are a number of ways that he could solve the issue, with strategies and formations that are familiar, but chances are the Stormcloak commander at the top of that ridge will know what he's up to and therefore, will act accordingly. It's not a problem, per say. The Legate's reputation is hard fought and well earned.
He just doesn't like it. His men depend on him almost completely when he improvises. Legionnaires are trained to follow a set group of strategies and tactics, and it's these select routines that they are familiar with, after all.
Slamming down into the mud beside Durgash, Quintillus eyes the ridge through a crack in the barricades. "What now, Sir?" the Orc asks. During the Legate's breif absence, the Decanus has had the unconscious Primus Pilus taken away it seems.
"Hmm?"
"Legate, Sir. What are your orders?"
Jerking out his plotting thoughts, Quintillus turns towards one of the other Legionnaires, a Tribune - not his, but it doesn't really matter. "Are the men ready?"
The Tribune turns towards him, somewhat startled, spluttering as he talks. He clearly thought that the Legate was unaware of his presence. "The archers are in place. The special ones..."
"The Optimi."
"They've found their missing man - they are awaiting further orders."
The Legate looks away for a moment, eyes narrowed. He grunts and then with a tick of his head, nods at Durgash. "My orders are as follows; Have the Optimi move around towards the back of that ridge, aside the mountain. Send three of the tent groups alongside, they will keep the Stormcloaks distracted while the archers can pick them off, the men positioned towards the west will go up one side, the east doing the same from their side. Push them down towards us and we'll surround them completely. If they are smart, they'll surrender as soon as they realise that they've got nowhere to run."
"And if they don't?"
"We'll need to dig a bigger mass grave."
Durgash slams his fist into his breastplate, his head ticking in acknowledgement. "By your orders."
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Skip back thirty seven years and Barnabas Quintillus is no different from any other boy his age.
He's nothing other then a child. He has not yet experienced the hardships or war, nor has he come to fully understand the gravity of his future. He has not yet surrendered to the calling of a soldier. He's spoken no oaths aside from his own.
If anything, he's smart. A grinning little genius with a gap between his front teeth and a rather aggravating attribute of not being able to not notice everything. So he's good for schooling, perhaps good enough for the Synod when he gets older and it's here that he becomes dragged under the pathetic patriotic delusions. In a few short years under the tutelage of a sympathizer, Barney is a staunch imperialist. He's headstrong and brave with grand opinions and great expectations of the Empire he's going to serve. Like the others, he's filled with idyllic patriotism and at some point, he concludes that he's pretty damn fine with that.
But he's not the brave Legionnaire he often makes himself up to be.
And that, is proved in his entirety by the Man who shall Remain Nameless.
He's a convict, a stumpy little Breton man who's still bound at the wrists and bleeding at the ankles. From the Imperial Prison, he says and he smashes Barney's head against the tree while he's out playing soldier. He yells a lot and speaks questionable threats with breath that is putrid and disgusting and nothing that Barney has ever faced before.
The Man tells Barney to run home, away from here and to never return and to never, ever speak of this meeting again. And he does, because Barney is scared and he's intimidated and he doesn't yet know how to put the man in a wrist lock and snap his spine. He runs home, leaving his scarf behind and looping around so the Man can't follow him home. Scared he may be, but Barnabas is as much of a learner as he is a thinker and he's learnt a few things from his books on the Imperial Legion. Covering his tracks and making the route difficult is just two of those things. Creating problems. Even at the tender age of eight winters - Barney operates as he would in a battlefield.
Bluffing is another thing he's learned, though not from the Imperial Legion.
His Father comes running down the path towards him when he's finally on the road home. It's dark now, but Barney had to be sure. Had to be sure that the Man would never be able to follow him. "Didn't you 'ear us calling?" He grabs Barney roughly and sends him into his torso hard, hugging him with the strength that only a devoted labour could have. "Barney, you know - You know not to further outwards when you 'ear us calling." The man pulls backwards, holding him by the shoulders and judging by the fact that he is silent, apprehensive - he's waiting for an explanation.
"Well... I. I lost 'me scarf." Barney replies, staring at the ground below him and thinking so hard about pretending to sorry that he almost feels it. "I wanted to find 'me scarf."
His father tilts his chin upwards and sighs between exhausted pants. "Barney old boy, no need to go searching for no scarfs. Scarfs get lost, you have others."
"Sorry for what I' done'."
"No, no. It's all right." His father rumbles, gives him another crushing hug and then turns them both around to face the other way. "Let's get you home."
He doesn't let it show, but Barney knows he doesn't feel sorry for venturing further out. What he did, would most likely protect them from the Man that Shall Remain Nameless.
Eventually he picks up the courage to tell the Kvatch Guards and no more then five days later, the Man who Shall Remain nameless is brought back kicking and screaming. Barney was not to know this, but it was pretty damn obvious. He could read his parents like an open book.
He smirks every time he passes the prison, at any rate.
Perhaps he'd be a good soldier after all.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
He didn't become one on the battlefield, per say, but instead with of all things - an insect.
Red dented eyes stare back at him casually as he sits, panting and exhausted amongst the grass behind the barracks. Over him, the blue sky stretches wide, dotted at spacious intervals are little white clouds. It would be a carefree scene, if it wasn't for the constant rumble of soldiers as they mill about, the steady thrum of a training ground. It's not that loud, in hindsight - the buzz of passing bees drowns it out, but it's a reminder of how difficult life is for him now - and he does not care for it. The grasses sway their tall spears, ticking his upper arms and thirteen year old Barney Quintillus rips of his helmet and lays it beside him. The wind plays with his freshly cut hair, as well as his thoughts. Turning to look at the insect, he regards it for a moment.
He knows what it is, he used to be quite fascinated by the little crawlers in his short and younger days. Though this one does not live up to it's name. It's a disinteresting little speck, a dozen millimetres long and it is coloured neither blue nor shaped like a bottle in any way, shape or form.
Barney watches it with unspoken dispassion, merely grunting when the speck starts to happily slurp up the swear that drips off of his brow. Across the grounds, over the meadow, the shout of his commanding officer grabs his attention. He freezes for a moment, tense, but allows himself to burst into action a few moments later. Blinking and then slamming a hand down to squash it flat, scrambling upwards to join the rest of his tent group.
He doesn't stay there long enough to comprehend it.
But it's his first kill.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
The six month training period had, initially, been much harder then Barney first anticipated.
For for what people might assume to be the usual reasons, but rather, because he had joined up three weeks ago with shining enthusiasm only for it to be completely knocked out of him - because it's not about enthusiasm, it's about orders. He had joined up wanting to be a hero, only to be forced in line with the others - because the Legion doesn't want holier than thou heroes, they want Legionnaires. It wasn't about honor, for the moment, it was about a polish set of uniform. It wasn't about service, for the moment, it was about drill.
Typically, all Legionnaires went thought he same degree of training. Initial muster, arms and weapons drill, formation, marching and tactical exercises. Gymnastics and swimming, learning and mastering combat techniques, long route marches will full battle gear and equipment to get you used to the hardships of the companions. Barney quickly realises just what he's good in and what he isn't and for the moment, it becomes he main focus point of his life. But, nothing was ever going to be easy and it's also about this time that he realises - realises, that he's way out of his depth.
No matter what the other men think, he's only thirteen winters old. He may have developed the traits of adulthood faster then his similarly aged peers, but he's not fast enough, he's not strong enough and he's not fighting hard enough. He's not ready. He can't do what the other men can do and much to his dismay, the Hastiliarius notices. He likes to make an example by regularly using Barney in demonstrations. Demonstrations in what a 'Bad Legionnaire' is. It's because he's not ready that there is nothing he can do about it but struggle through and just damn hope that the man finds someone else to exemplify.
But, nothing was ever going to be easy. Not for him. He comes to this realisation again when he's flat out on his back with a busted nose.
"Useless." The Hastiliarius spits and goes to lecture the other Legionnaires. His head is pounding, his legs feel numb and his nose is killing him, but as hard as it may be however, Barney just pulls himself upwards and moves back in line with the others. He knows he's getting looked at and he doesn't bother to draw attention to himself by looking back. He just stares at some random part in the horizon. "Are we going to make a better effort this time, Tirone Quintillus!?" The Hastiliarus asks, and Barney exhales sharply.
Orders are Orders, and they do have to be obeyed, after all.
"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."
"Are you going to put up an actual fight this time, Tirone Quintillus!?"
"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."
It goes like this for a good few minutes, eventually the Hastiliarius gets bored of Barney's deadpan responses and moves away to let them practice. Barney like usual waits until the men have chosen their partners, however this time he is grabbed hard by one of the bigger members of his training group. When he looks upwards properly, he's face to face with the Orsimer, Durgash.
Barney had only seen him a few times, the Orc did not often spend his time alongside the other Legionnaires. The rest of the men try to keep their distance from the large green skinned ones, but for what reason he himself does not know. "Watch what I do, then copy." He grumbles, pushing Barney towards one side and grabbing one of the wooden swords.
"But how am I 'supposed to lear-"
"I see the way you look at us," Durgash snaps, "Watch what we do, copy. Watch, copy."
It's the first time he realises just how sharp his memory is.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Durgash and Barney become something of a team.
He's not a very good teacher - quite frankly he's downright horrendous - but Durgash manages to drill the basics into Barney most nights. While the rest of the men have their two hours rest before lights out, Durgash drags him to the field behind the barracks and makes him perform his drills in order to build up the necessary strength.
"You are big, but you have the build of a child." He explains at one point, thumping him hard in his ribs. "Make yourself bigger, faster, stronger and coupled with that crazy genius brain of yours and you'll be able to best any opponent."
And he's right.
Barney stands over the Hastiliarius, holding the man's arm at an odd angle. He only has to apply the slightest amount of pressures and he'll snap it like a twig. He doesn't however, but rather lets the man go sprawling onto the floor with a sudden push. As an afterthought, Barney tosses the man's wooden sword beside him on the grass.
Through snot and blood and spit the Hastiliarius glares at him, but Barney doesn't give it any mind. Come what may, he's no longer a boy. He certainly doesn't think like one. Walking over to join the rest of his men in the line, he stands to attention smartly.
No sooner then he begins to observe, he realises that he's got a good head for tactics. It's simple, it's just numbers but with it's own twists and turns of military urgency. Everything he does has a consequence, every plan has it's flaws, but when he takes a step backward and sees it all from a new angle, everything fits into place. He comes to learn what certain patterns mean, what to expect and what to consider. He learns that quite literally, he can stay seven steps ahead if he plans accordingly.
He takes advantage of this ability, and does so shamelessly. It doesn't make him popular, far from it, but it makes him good.
Barney knows Durgash is right when he says that good is better then dead.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
The next three years are barely comprehensible.
Barney ends up with a skull fracture somehow during the March of Thirst and he nearly dies twice from dehydration. He stubbornly keeps on going however, and even Durgash is surprised and perhaps a little disturbed by his apparent refusal to die. By the time they get reinforcements from High Rock, he's no longer lucid and the most he can do is walk in a vaguely straight line. A few of them think him brain dead, but be begs to differ.
He's not going anywhere anytime soon.
They end up with two days to prepare and Barney runs through as many war games as he can. Even if he's doing it alone, he doesn't give up. It hurts, the lot of the time, but since his deployment to Hammerfell, pain has become irrelevant. At one point, Durgash comes ambling into his tent.
"You are going places," He tells him quietly, firmly and sixteen year old Barney glances once in his direction, before standing before the now-shorter Orc. "I want to be right behind you when you do."
"You already where." Barney replies, and Durgash gives him one of those mad, no fooling insane smiles that pretty much forged their never ending friendship there and then.
He doesn't know if its a good thing, having such close friendship when one of you could die at any moment.
But he knows he'll eventually grow to like it, he often does.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
General Decianus has them surround the entrance to Skaven and they take the perusing Thalmor head on. It was bloody and indecisive but he manages to survive.
As he stares at the corpses of what was once his Contubernium, his Decanus watches to. "Unlucky sods," He mutters, slapping Barney on the shoulder as he walks away.
Seventeen year old Barney decides that he hates luck.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
The Battle of the Red Ring, for him, is a downright shitstorm.
Barney is holding his Decanus together, literally as the rest of General Decianus' men fight against the Thalmor's defences. His hands are slicked with blood and he's holding the man's innards to keep them posing as 'outards. He begs, numerous times for the man to just hold on but he can't keep it up. At one point, he's slumped against the corpse and for what seems like ages he is actually crying. He didn't really like the man, the Decanus cultivated fleeting bouts of interest in him, but most of the time they where distinctly disinterested in one another.
He's jerked upwards at some point and he's being shaken violently. There is a lot of shouting and some sensible part of Barney's subconscious kicks his brain into gear.
"-Over!"
Barney brings himself to look at Primus Pilus Tullius and he chokes.
"Quintillus, get out there!" He barks and smashes both his firsts into Barney's breastplate. The Primus Pilus for a few moments looks as if he's about to hit him, but he pauses at the last minute, wrenches the Decanus' helmet from off the corpse and shoves it roughly into his torso.
"Quintillus, get. Out. There."
And with that, he pulls the helmet on and glances in the direction of what resembles the majority fo the battlefield. Tullius goes first, leading his Cohort against the walls of the Imperial City. He doesn't look back at the corpse as he follows.
After all, Orders are Orders and they have to be obeyed.
Decanus Barnabas Quintillus decides soon after, that he hates most things.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
When he returns home, he is told that the service to the Empire is the greatest thing, and Barnabas smiles and nods. It isn't. He knows that the fear of death is even greater inwardly, but why would he want to ruin their view on the world? The view on him? He joined the Imperial Legion when he was thirteen. He's nineteen now, and his eyes have been opened to the point where he can distinguish things clearly. Here they are, gloating and cheering - and their Empire is falling around them. Crumbling. Some of them see it, others don't.
His family are a little angry, at first. He left without telling them. However when he stands exactly three meters away from the front door, standing taller, standing stronger, standing in the armour of a Decanus, they soon forget and come to the terms that he is indeed, alive.
And a hero too, apparently.
He knows that despite the reclaiming of the Imperial City, they have lost the Great War. He knows that joining up with the Legion is a death sentence, but he returns anyway. Five years is it has all taken to completely change him, nothing of his former life remains. He's a Legionnaire now, and he'll have to come to terms with it, as a Legionnaire.
"Your back," The now-General Tullius mutters when Barnabas enters his tent, pausing to stand behind the desk smartly.
"There is no such thing as peacetime." Quintillus replies in the way of explanation, and he holds the General's gaze. Tullius breaks the eye contact first, nodding as he assembles his paperwork. He doesn't need to pry, he knows.
Quintillus had found his place a long time ago.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
He does turn out to be a good soldier, but in a completely different way.
He doesn't care for patriotism or doing his duty or anything of the like. While back home, they were giving speeches and preaching about the good fight and the Legionnaire's honour and the greatness of the Legion. Quintillus was giving out orders, spurring his comrades onwards when yet another man dies of either infection or dehydration. He was making decisions between the fight and his fellow soldier's lives, and he was gambling with the image of the Imperial Legion as a whole when he returned and had to fake a smile because gods damn it where they all this stupid?!
It's not stupidity, he knows.
Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
Still, he calls them stupid because diverting his anger and weariness and frustration at the Thalmor only works when they are at the other end of a sword.