((this is going to be a silly guilty pleasure self-insert modern girl falls into skyrim, sort of- this character, Lydia/Lilija, is an aspect of me- Lydia. she is the "myself" that i envision when i make myself in video games. she's got my memories, but not my personality or emotional responses; they adjust to the moralistic climate of the video game. so, as with skyrim, she'll eventually be ok with killing other sentient beings, wheras i am not.

also, this fic will be using jargon from the Ta'agra project on Khajiit language, Literally Any Jel that I can find online which i will Cite as I find, and dragon translations from Thuum org. I will include a key at the bottom of each chapter that uses any, so never fear!

warnings for this chapter, and fanfiction in general: fantasy racism, ye olde sexism, mentions of gore/guts/blood/fighting, mentions of self harm/suicide. it's skyrim whaddaya expect))

It was a simple hike in the woods to go camping, just like any normal day, following the paths her husband would cut into the forest. He had even made her a little landing she could camp comfortably on. It was a warm autumn day, the sun shining through the tamaracks as she followed the path up the far side of the property.

Inhaling the crisp late fall air, she smelt the tinge of frost on the air. In pursuit of pictures of snow, hella likes on instagram bro, she followed the distinct tinge of cold, hiking her way through the dense dead underbrush of pricker bushes and goldenrod.

The longer she hiked, the more snow there was, and the uneasier she became. This amount of snow was unusual for early November, even here in Vermont.

A deep pit in her stomach grew each step she took, and she looked behind her. Her footsteps trailed into….nothing. She doubled back, trying to find her tracks from before. Nothing. Her trail seemed to end abruptly. She sat down on a log, making sure to sweep the dusting of snow off first. She wasn't sure how long went by, contemplating her situation, before she pulled her journal out to document.

10/17/2021

approx 2 pm? unknown? weathers nice, sunny, chill wind, too much snow for november?

inv: one (1) large canvas hiking backpack, contents: one (1) large nalgene bottle of water, three (3) white chocolate macadamia nut cliff bars, one (1) large storage bag 3/4 full of gorp, one (1) survival kit (contents: fishing line, three fishing hooks, one bic lighter, one magnesium and steel firestarter, emergency tin foil blanket, toilet paper, lifestraw.). one handheld belt slicer on zipper pull. one change of all clothes; socks, underwear, cargo pants, long sleeved jacket, one spring jacket with waterproofing. one metal pipe, one metal herb grinder, approx. ⅛ of wacky herbs. one journal, lined, approx ~80 of 100 pages left, with accompanying pencils and sharpener.

one one-person waterproof tent, with sleeping bag rated for -30F. collapsible camp set with pan, plate, and folding utensils.

taking inventory is keeping me busy from wondering how I hiked through my forest into another completely different one

The writing stops here and devolves into scribbles on tear stained paper.

Her panic attack lasted for a good hour. The sun was nearing its zenith (it was early in the day, not late, as she thought before) as she finally stood up from the grass and dirt, wiping away snot and tears from her face with her sleeves. She swore she heard voices accompanied by the sound of horse hooves in the distance. Assuming she was near the road up above, or the snowmobile trail near the neighbor's, she picked her backpack up. Strapped it on, and headed out in the general direction she heard the noises. It sounded close, just across that valley, maybe twenty minutes, and usually horse people were friendly enough to point her in the right direction.

It was not a twenty minutes' hike to the road. She wasn't sure what she was thinking but crossing that valley was way longer than she thought. Now her pants and shoes were wet and she had sand and pebbles in her boots. She managed to reach the road, but the literal second her foot made contact with one of the cobblestones of the path, there was a shout of,

"Halt, in the name of the Empire!"

She took one look at the approaching carriage and her eyes widened. Fight or flight kicked in, and you chose flight. Her feet carried her away as fast as she could, but in seconds her body was not in control of itself, spasming as it was on the ground, wracked with a Shock spell. Precious moments slipped by in agony as she struggled to regain muscle control, but a booted foot appeared in front of her vision, connected with her cheek, and she knew nothing more.

His fur chafed on the bindings around his wrists. Hours had passed since the last stop on this cart ride to Oblivion; and that was only to pick up the new, strange prisoner sitting across from him. For lack of anything else to do, the Khajiit observed the orange-gold haired lady. Her head bobbed with each dip of the cart, her frizzy, curly-wavy hair obscuring much of her face. Odd clothes, for sure. Nothing that Jo'shak had seen in any of his travels, at any point, and he had been many a where. Only a few Nords had such pretty shades of hair. So similar in color to his own, a shame they both were on the fast track to the block. He hummed very quietly to himself, more to soothe his own nerves than for entertainment. He only knew a few lullabies his mother sang to him.

Minutes bled into hours once again, the monotony of the cart ride broken only by an occasional bump in the road or order from their captors. The blond nord beside him kept murmuring soft prayers to Talos every so often, the gagged Nord beside the blond was leaning slightly upon him and listening, and the horsethief was praising each and every Divine in hopes of salvation.

The murmur of voices ceased after another half hour. Or maybe it was only a few minutes; Jo'shak's last ride felt like it was stretching on for eons. If only he had stayed with his caravan as they were massacred, he would have died an honorable death; not one upon the block. A melancholy sigh escaped him. Out of the cooking pot, into the firepit.

"Hey, you there. You're finally awake." The blond Nord beside Jo'shak spoke up. He turned his head away from the scenery to observe the conversation. The ginger Nord had lifted her head, and Jo'shak second-guessed his assumption that she was a Nord; in fact, her facial structure matched no race of man he knew of, excusing the obvious swelling on one cheekbone. Her expression morphed from groggy, to confused, then terrified. As if she already knew where she was headed. She stared at the blond Nord in abject, blank horror, but did not reply.

"I don't know why they picked you up- you were at least a half an hour away from the border. A pity you ran." The blond Nord continued talking, and the horse-thief livened up and butted in,

"If you damn Stormcloaks hadn't caused a civil war, I could be halfway to Hammerfell by now. Hey lady, you and me- we don't even belong here! It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants!" He says, voice growing louder.

"What about Jo'shak?" He interrupted, feeling oddly left out.

"We are all siblings in binds now, horse-thief." Blond Nord replied.

"Shut up back there!" Came the command from the driver.

There was little conversation after that.

Some time later, the walls of Helgen began to poke over the treetops. Jo'shak's sinking heart must have been all the way in his toes by now. He frowned and wiggled them sadly, maybe for the last time. There had been more snippets of hushed conversation, here and there, but the Khajiit found that he had no energy left to care much. The redheaded Nord(?) was still conscious, yet never talking, her legs bounced with anxiety and agitation the closer they came to the walls. The blond Nord started spouting off more of his Stormcloak garbage about the 'Empire this, General Tullius that,' until the guards shushed him again, this time with a generous cuff to the back of the head with a gloved hand. He grumbled still.

The horse-thief had gone back to praying to each divine, now suspiciously devoid of the last, ninth name. Jo'shak rolled his eyes and grimaced to himself; what a coward. Jo'shak will go to the Sands Beyond The Stars and dance with Jone and Jode with his head held high and his person unsullied by cowardice. They rolled through the gates. Ordered off the carriage. Both he, the horse thief, and the woman were stopped by an Imperial soldier, who asked their names. It seems even though they were not destined on the list, they were destined for death regardless, all because of proximity. Jo'shak curled his lip into a snarl as he gave his name.

The woman tried to speak, cleared her throat, and then spoke, "I'm Lydia." Her voice is hoarse and choked, as if she was trying not to burst into tears. Jo'shak could admire her strength, but a lady was permitted to cry on her way to the block. He would understand, at least. He hears the Imperial guard apologize to her. She did not react.

The horse-thief was next, and he immediately bolted for it, but in a flash, the redhead- No, Lilija? Jo'shak reminded himself, though he felt he probably got it wrong. Better to know who you were dying with- hooked her foot around his ankle and brought him down into the dirt. She knelt beside him, as if checking to see if he was okay, when she murmured softly, "Don't run, please. Just trust me." Lokir, the horse-thief, looked up at her in confusion, but did as she bid and fell into line, however much he was hyperventilating. Jo'shak decides he does not hear this or see this exchange, for it was strange.

The priest approached for their last rites, but an impatient Nord interrupted her and cut them short. Jo'shak was not too happy about this but could not blame him, what could one wish for but a swift death without much preamble? Jo'shak had run out of worry hours ago and now was weary and resigned to his fate. This was almost too much. His whiskers drooped sadly, again, maybe for the last time. He cast his eyes to the ground as the headsman readied his axe. Lilija turned herself away fully, gagging and dry heaving a bit as the sound of axe meeting wood rang through the town, followed by a gentle thud into a basket.

His ears perked up as a strange cry rang through the clearing. That did not sound like any bird he knew. It distracted him only for a moment, to see a horrible sight; the lady going to the block before himself. Ah, no, it meant he lived for just a bit longer, but it did pain him to see the other innocent die first. Maybe it was to let the Jarl see the innocents they caught up in the mess die first, have it weigh on their conscience. Of course, that is what Jo'shak would do in their position, yes.

The distinctly strange cry flew down the mountain again, disturbing the local birds and sending them fluttering away en masse. The executioner paused and looked up briefly at the sight. Lilija knelt with her head turned away, messy red curls spilling over the side of the block. Crimson mixed with ginger. The axe was raised once more, poised to bite, when the world shook and chaos erupted.

She felt herself being tossed away from the chopping block, pain blooming across her entire right side as she skid across the courtyard, getting thrown back into the cart she just rode in on. Lydia could have sworn that she made eye contact with the World-Eater, and his ruby gaze opened a pit of emptiness in her stomach. Dazed, and probably with a concussion, she sat up in the ruined mess of wood. She's bruised and hurting and her ears are ringing and she needs to GO OH FUCK

She manages to grab her bag from the wreckage of the carriage- yes!- and scramble out of the wood. The seatbelt cutter on the keychain zip makes short work of her hand bindings. Backpack on and hands free, she can do something about escaping. She looks around and finds that, yes indeed, Alduin is here. She wishes this nightmare would stop already because this is hurting a lot and she wishes she was just in her own woods camping right now.

Lydia looks around and- there the others are, on the ground. Imperial archers are busy poking and needling Alduin and keeping him busy for a moment on the North wall, she darts for two prisoners in particular; Lokir and that strange Khajiit, Joe-something. Both were laying on the ground, presumably tossed by the Unrelenting Force as she had been. No time to explain, she takes the cutter to their bindings and yells for them to follow. Holding onto the red-haired Khajiit's arm, he got up first, she booked ass for the tower where she saw Ralof usher Ulfric to. It was confusing because, fuck, Helgen is bigger than it was in game. And this battle wasn't going anywhere near scripted; nothing was, honestly. So far everything was only vaguely going along with what happened in-game. She reaches safety, along with the two in tow, just before another gout of fire bathes the ground. She stops for just a moment to catch her breath, heart hammering in her ears. She hears the ragged breathing of many men around her. The Khajiit is slumped against the wall, staring with wide full-moon eyes, and the horse thief is putting out an ember on his rear end. She breathes a sigh of relief; she could influence the timeline. At least this dream won't be boring and scripted. Lokir being alive was proof of that. She didn't anticipate the extra prisoner, but this was obviously a dream and her dreams are remarkably odd.

The rest of the trek out of Helgen was mostly a blur; Lydia kept the other two with her as best you could, but lost Lokir somewhere before she descended into the underground. She thinks he followed Ralof. Lydia and Joe followed Hadvar out, and were currently crouched in the bushes, watching Alduin's graceful flight away from the destruction caused. Joe khajiit had picked up two steel daggers and some spare Imperial's armor. Lydia...hadn't done much except pick up potions and hang back from the fighting. She isn't very well versed in violence, however scrappy she claims to be. She found a battered 'Flames' tome, but nothing seemed to happen when she opened the book, and the text was illegible. The words swam about on the page. She had quickly set it down and left it behind. She looks at her battered hand-and-a-half sword as the other two men watch the great black dragon fly off into the distance. Her ears are ringing with the sounds of screaming and the gurgling, gasping last breaths of the dying. The young blonde kid who looked a bit like her cousin grasping at the blade- her blade- wedged into his esophagus. A nudge from another, and she looks up. The men are looking at her, Hadvar with a questioning expression.

"Sorry, what?" Lydia asks, pinching herself lightly on the thigh to keep herself focused on the task at hand; staying alive.

"I said, I'm glad you got through alive, lass. My uncle Alvor lives in Riverwood, we can seek shelter and food there, as well as to share news." Hadvar repeated without an ounce of exasperation, and she assumes this man has the patience of a saint because she's sure they were trying to get her attention for a while. Joe looked annoyed, at least. She agreed and proceeded to follow the Nord, falling into step a little behind the Khajiit.

She tries not to stare- she really does, but it isn't every day that a furry has this detailed of a dream with anthropomorphics in it. She admires the graceful arch of his tail, and the soft footfalls. She notices that he is a Suthay-raht, and he wore curious foot wrappings instead of shoes. That could also be because he was in prisoner's rags. She is distracted in observing him until their travelling party was so rudely disrupted by two wolves, one of whom pounced right on top of Lydia. She held her sword up on instinct- already in hand since she had no scabbard- and lo-and-behold she had a wiggly and bitey furry skewer and she threw it away from herself with a short scream. The two men quickly dispatched the other wolf, and Joe stabbed his dagger through the still wiggling one. He retrieved her sword, wiping the blade on the grass. He looked around in confusion, then asked,

"Where did you go?"

"I'm right here." Lydia steps closer to the Khajiit, who starts in surprise, then squints at the direction of her body. She isn't sure why, but accepted the proffered sword.

"Ah, Jo'shak did not know you were a mage." Was all he said, then continued on the path. Frankly, Lydia didn't either, and she's still confused about what exactly happened. She is on edge from there on out, each shift of the trees making her jump. This really was turning into a nightmare.

She really hopes this isn't her dying brain giving her one last hallucination before she dies at the bend of the path, tripped over a root with a broken neck.

Light was fading fast in the late afternoon sky, and they still weren't to Riverwood yet. Jo'shak and Hadvar were not much for conversation, and she understood, for bone-deep battle weariness was setting in and the nip of mid Fall cold was biting at all their backs.

Lydia's only path was listening to the footfalls of the men in front of her. She could barely see her own hand in front of her face by the time they all- supposedly- crossed into Riverwood. It wasn't until she saw the low burning candles in one or two houses that she believed it. Too big, much bigger than the game. She is finding that everything is bigger than she ever expected, even the small side villages. It took hours to walk from Helgen to Riverwood. Hadvar's footsteps suddenly slowed, then abruptly changed direction. She stumbled and smashed her foot on a rock. Biting down a swear, she hears Hadvar knock a specific rhythm against the door of the house they all were currently on the front steps of. There was silence, him repeating the pattern, then shuffling noises from inside. The door was opened to a tired looking older man, buff to the nines, almost in the buff. He only had a pair of linen trousers on. She momentarily admires the view of the massive mountain of muscle as he ushers all three of them into the house. From there she doesn't recall much other than a trip down some stairs, and a deep, dark sleep.

She wakes to a wet cloth being slapped on her face. She sputtered the water out of her mouth and sluggishly whipped the offending material off. Waterboarding at Guantanamo Bay sounds way more fun if you don't know what any of those words mean. She opened her eyes after wiping the moisture from them, and a younger middle-aged woman was looking down at her with both a concerned and apologetic face.

Sigrid explained briefly that Lydia was in such a deep sleep after she tripped down the stairs that they thought she had gone into the Deep Sleep already, and she was trying to wash the blood and ash off Lydia's face in preparation for her deeper sleep, and the cloth slipped, and- Shhhh. Lydia shooshes her. Sigrid is confused into silence. After being handed a dry cloth for her wets, Lydia explains that she is, in fact, a dead sleeper and next to nothing can wake her, especially after head injuries. Probably from the fall.

After acquainting herself with Sigrid, and assuring her that she is in fact OK, Sigrid left the cloth and the bucket of- thankfully warm- water for Lydia to wash with, and departed to the upstairs. Lydia heard the voices of the three men upstairs, along with occasionally a higher pitched voice. Reasonable deduction and remembrance flowing back, she remembers they are all Sigrid, Alvor, and Dorthe. She sighs to herself; she.. is beginning to wonder if this was not all just a dream. Maybe she shouldn't have slept on that concussion. Her head felt foggy and sluggish. She shivers as she peels her soiled clothes from her being, reeking of smoke, ash, sweat, death. She washes quickly, not wanting to really dwell on what transpired yesterday. Gently passing the rough cloth over her swollen face and various injuries. Her change of clothes is on in minutes, and she feels slightly less grimy than before. Old clothes are stuffed into a plastic zipper bag and put into a side pocket of her backpack.

Ascending the stairs once more, backpack over her shoulder, she observes the homey cabin. It reminds her very distinctly of Grampa O's cabin back home up on O'Donnell road, and a bolt of homesick sadness tears through her stomach. She was coming to realize that everything happening was real, and maybe, just maybe, she wasn't going home after waking up. Considering she slept and woke up during what she supposed was a dream, she'd bet that this was really happening, or this is the last hurrah hallucination.

"Nice of you to join the land of the living, lass," A deep baritone voice snapped her from her thoughts, and she turned at the top of the stairs to face Hadvar, who had spoken. Lydia smiled, attempting to hide the emotions she was feeling beneath the expression, and waved, greeting them a good morning. With them motioning you over, it didn't take her long to sit at the table with the three men and two women, one quite young.

Sigrid passed Lydia a bowl filled with thick stew, and a large slice of bread. She thanked her profusely and fell upon the food with fervent vigor. The fog in her mind drifted away, only apparent to you now as it was fading away. Now that she could think straight, at least a little, she tuned into the conversation at hand. The Khajiit- Joe? Something to do with Joe- was in a healthy debate about the finer points of sharpening points with Alvor, while Hadvar was discussing his next moves with Sigrid. Dorthe was watching her uncle with barely concealed excitement. Lydia saw fighting and war in the robust child's eyes and knew she's destined for the ranks, some day. Lydia notices that every so often Joe the Khajiit's gaze flits over to her; she holds it steady, eye contact has never been an issue with her. He looks away as soon as he glances. She eats more stew and bread and finishes everything with a tankard of cold water. She notes the water tastes faintly of iron and copper, and wonders what types of mineral deposits are nearby. She longs for the calcium-tasting water of home.

"...would go to Whiterun to tell the Jarl, but he won't allow soldiers from either side inside the gates. The fate of Riverwood rests on you, Jo'Shak, or Lilija here." She looks up at Hadvar, about to correct him on her name, before she realizes that she likes the sound of that name. Lilija, yeah. That's...better than being called Olivia, which was the default for anyone who misheard 'Lydia' back home. Then she processes his words. A deep pit of dread fills her stomach, emptying it of its warm contents; she doesn't want to be the Dragonborn. But everything lines up that Lydia should be. Maybe she could hope against hope that the Khajiit, Jo'shak, had that burden and not herself. Okay back to the topic at hand, Jo'shak was asking if he would get any compensation, y'know know, for his time and risk to his person. Hadvar's eye-roll was almost audible. Sigrid brought up a very good point; Jo'shak wouldn't be able to enter Whiterun by himself. Heads slid to stare right at Lydia, and she wilted under the direct attention.

"Will you accompany Jo'shak to get him into Whiterun? You'll most certainly get through the gates with him," Hadvar asked, his eyes raking over her curved form towards the end of his sentence. Ugh, of course, the tits get people into the clubs. She nods, hesitantly, as she shovels more stew down her gullet. At this point she's just stress eating and her stomach is starting to hurt. No real reason not to go; she has no objective here, she's young and vulnerable and it would do to have an experienced guide in this land. She's just choosing to ignore the fact that she's suddenly in a fictional place, and go into survival mode.

"Sure," Lydia replies, finishing up her stew. Sigrid stealthily ladles everyone another serving. She smiles and thanks Sigrid, as her guts churn uncomfortably from how much food she's eaten already. "If Jo'shak doesn't mind, that is." She casts her gaze to the khajiit, studying his face intently, as she did every chance she could. It was fascinating, seeing a non-human sentient. Jo'shak shrugged noncommittally, replying,

"As long as you can take care of yourself, Jo'shak sees no problem in having you along." He says, using a claw to dislodge a chunk of gristle from his incisors. It is decided, then.