Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Elder Scrolls series.

A/N: I'm back! Sorry about the long time between updates. In the last two months, I've gotten married, been on honeymoon and had my hours at work shoot up! Curse you, real life, for getting in my way! Also, apologies for the editing of that last chapter. I was in the last month before my wedding and was attempting to upload and cook dinner at the same time. Female I may be, but multi-task, I cannot.

3. The Dragonborn

Brynjolf stumbled backwards into the wall and slid down it, drawing his knees up and resting his head against them. What was wrong with him? He wasn't some teenage boy. He was a seasoned man, capable of controlling his own body. The Divines knew he'd seduced his fair share of ugly women to get his prizes and the pretty ones just to get them into bed. But never had he lost control of himself so shamelessly before. All he'd wanted to do was bend her over the table, pull down her trousers and sink into her. And then she'd kissed him. Talos knows if she had held on a second longer with that kiss, she would have been pressed against the wall or on her bed, unable to stop him from consuming her body until she came apart in his arms. How had he, Brynjolf, the thief of Riften, lost his control?

He'd always been master of his own body, when his mind said no, his body obeyed. But this little scrap of a girl, no, this woman, this auburn-haired, flesh and blood and curves of a woman had made his body rebel for the first time in his four decades in this world. He let out a frustrated yell and clenched his fists. There was a pop and a drop of hot water hit his cheek. The cooking pot was ready. He stood up to chop the venison but his hands were shaking too much. He needed to cool off. He stormed out of the Manor's front doors and heading around the side towards the lake.

As he approached, he tore off his armour, clothes and boots before diving headfirst into the cool clear water. The cold water provided instant relief, thwarting his desires and allowing him to think clearly. What had she meant by 'thank you'? For the kiss? For finding her desirable? For wanting to do those things to her? 'No,' he thought sharply, 'That way, madness lies and you'll end up back here again.'

There came the sound of a distant roar. He turned his head. On the far side of the lake, he saw a large black shape. Dragon. He quickly swam for the shore and pulled on his trousers. There came another roar, closer this time. He grabbed his other clothes and ran for the house, hoping to shelter long enough to get his armour back on and find his weapons. Another roar, too close this time. He could hear wings flapping. He looked over his shoulder. The dragon was right above him and coming in to land. His foot slipped on a loose piece of dirt and he fell. The dragon's head pulled back, ready to launch an attack. A door slammed and his lass appeared from the front of the house, bow and arrow in hand. The dragon paused, surprised by this sudden newcomer. Brynjolf tried to tell her to run and hide but there was no time. She looked the dragon right in the eye, took a deep breath and….
"FUS RO DAH!" she shouted and the dragon suddenly hurtled backwards. Brynjolf didn't waste any time and scrambled to his feet.
"How did you…" he started.
"No time, your bow and arrows are right there," she said simply, "Keep your aim true." She pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it in her bow. She pulled back, not seeming to feel any pain from her injuries. The dragon seemed to recover. She let the arrow fly. It hit the dragon square in the chest and it let out a roar of pain. Brynjolf grabbed his own weapons which were resting by the door and quickly launched one of his own.

The dragon roared and its icy breath hit them. Luckily, both being Nords, they were unaffected by the cold. They both let off two more volleys at the dragon, all hitting true. It seemed to stumble. Brynjolf notched another arrow and hit the dragon. It roared and fell forward, dead. Its flesh lit up and seemed to burn away, the light rushing forward and hitting Leif. She stood firm, her eyes closed as it poured into her. When the light stopped, she opened them again. Her eyes seemed to burn with bright flames. There was a moment of peace, no sound at all. Then the birds began to sing again, the insects buzzed and Leif fell forward to her knees. Brynjolf rushed forward and caught her before she fell backwards. She was conscious, just exhausted it seemed. The rumours he'd heard. They were true.
"Dragonborn," he whispered, "You're the Dragonborn."
"Yes," she replied, "The Greybeards called me to High Hrothgar, taught me the Thu'um." Her eyes rolled and her head went limp. She had passed out. Brynjolf stood up, lifting her easily into his arms and walked back into the house. In the dining room, he saw the venison and vegetables had been chopped up and put into the cooking pot. He went into her bedroom and laid her out on the large double bed. She needed to rest. He'd be sure to come fetch her when the stew was ready. He couldn't believe it. His lass was the Dragonborn.

He was just stirring the stew for the final time when he heard a noise. He looked up and saw her leaning against the doorframe. She looked a little more rested after the few hours sleep.
"My name is Leif Lakeman," she said, "And I was born here in Falkreath Hold, just on the other side of the lake." It took Brynjolf a moment to realise what she was doing. She was opening up to him, giving him more of her. He left the stew and walked over to her, his arms slipping around her waist and his thumbs running back and forth across her back.
"My parents were farmers," she said, "My mother, Erdolliel, gave my father seven daughters. I was the youngest. She died when I was still a babe in arms. Within weeks my father had left with another woman, an Imperial woman. He left my fourteen year old sister to care for us, promising he'd come back. He didn't return for three years. He returned with two sons by the Imperial woman. She despised my sisters and I. She treated us as if we were Skeevers, not her step-daughters. Her sons had beds covered in soft fur, my sisters and I had beds of old straw on the floor of the cellar. I hated her. I was the youngest and looked most like my mother, my father adored me though. His wife used to beat me with a stick when he was out, telling him I was clumsy and kept falling over and running into things. My father would then beat my eldest sister saying she hadn't taught me to walk properly."

Her breath kept catching as she spoke but no tears fell and her voice didn't falter. His hands moved to cup her face.
"One by one, she married my sisters off to anyone who would have them," Leif continued, "Except for me. My father insisted that I remain with them, because I look so much like my mother. He said I deserved someone special. They argued about it a lot. One night, about a year ago, they had another argument. My step-mother was trying to marry me off to the son of some Imperial merchant. My father said no. After he went to bed, my step-mother came in and tried to beat me again. But this time I fought back, I took the stick from her and hit her with it. She fell to the ground and didn't move. I don't know if I killed her or not. I just ran. I was running for the Pale Pass and nearly made it over the border but I was caught by Imperial soldiers. One of them asked me if I was in league with Ulfric Stormcloak. I said Ulfric who? Then he slapped me, that's when my face was cut, that's how I got the scar. They took me to Helgen and were about to cut my head off when the dragon attacked. I found out I was the Dragonborn not long after."

Her hands were shaking badly. Brynjolf held them in his own.
"It's alright, lass," he said, "She's not here. It's just you and me, remember?" Leif took a deep breath. Brynjolf pulled her into his arms. Hers slipped around him but barely made it around his broad chest. Her face was buried in him and her shoulders shook.
"I don't want to be the Dragonborn," she sobbed, "I don't want to have to fight them. I hate fighting them. It's like they're following me. Everywhere I go, they're there. Each time, I'm scared it'll be my last and now…" Her hands balled into fists.
"Tell me, lass," he said, "Share with me."
"Delphine and Esbern….they want me to fight Alduin," she sobbed. Brynjolf's heart froze. He knew those stories. Alduin, the World Eater.
"I don't want to fight dragons," she continued, "I want to live in peace…I want to get married one day, have a family…I want to die peacefully in my sleep. Not twisted up in pain by some dragon's flame." She pulled back a little and looked up at him. Her eyes were reddened from the tears that fell down her cheeks. Brynjolf wiped them away.
"I promise lass, while we're here," he said, "You are not the Dragonborn. Here, you are just Leif."

One of his hands slipped to her hair, running through it gently. She turned and pressed a kiss to his palm.
"No one else knows we're here," he said, "It's just the two of us."
"Just the two of us," she repeated. She was about to say something else when her stomach rumbled. Brynjolf couldn't help but let out a light laugh. Leif frowned.
"Alright, lass," he said, "You should never confess too much on an empty stomach. Go sit down and I'll bring you something to eat."

He let go of her and moved over to the fire place. He picked up on of the wooden bowls that had been sat on the hearth. The wood felt nice and warm as he began to ladle out some of the thick, brown stew into it. He'd barely placed it on the table in front of her when she had begun wolfing it down. He sat down next to her with his own bowl and began breaking up a loaf of bread.
"It's not much," he said, "But it'll build your strength back up." Leif swallowed her mouthful.
"I haven't got round to finishing the kitchen yet," she said, "I should probably work on that next."
"How long have you been working on this place?" Brynjolf asked.
"About six months," Leif replied, "There was nothing here when I bought it."
"I think it looks good," Brynjolf replied.
"It's just furniture, really," Leif said, taking a bit of bread and dipping it into her stew, "I wish I still had Lydia sometimes…"
"Lydia?" Brynjolf asked.
"She is…was…my housecarl," Leif said, "Balgruuf made me a Thane when I first visited Whiterun and gave me Lydia but she was just useless. We were barely out of Whiterun's gates when a bear showed up. She got herself killed, foolish girl, not much older than me. Now, it seems the new Jarl won't recognise me as a Thane unless I buy some property up there."
"Will you?" Brynjolf asked, stirring his stew absentmindedly.
"I don't know," she replied, "As it stands, I have somewhere to rest my head up there. Unless Kodlak has decided I'm not welcome there anymore."
"Kodlak?" Brynjolf said, "Kodlak Whitemane? You in the Companions, lass?" Leif smiled at him before biting into her bread.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, smiling, "Busy little bee, aren't you? I thought you didn't like fighting."
"I don't like fighting dragons," Leif said, "Other Nords, Imperials…anything that doesn't fly, I'm alright with. Anything that I'm not forced to absorb its soul after I kill it."
"Does it hurt?" Brynjolf asked gently.
"Not so much hurt," she said, "It's like a weight pressing against me, like I'm being squeezed. At night, though, I can hear the voices of all the dragons, whispering in my mind."
"How many have you killed?"
"About twenty so far," she said, "Six of those in Falkreath. I swear, every time I go there, there's a dragon. Last time, there were two."

Brynjolf grabbed the bottle of mead that was sat in the middle of the table. Honningbrew, it said on the label.
"You lift this from the meadery Maven sent you to?" he asked. Leif had a mouth full of stew but nodded.
"Nice work, lass," Brynjolf said, opening the bottle and pouring it into two tankards. Leif soon polished off her first bowl of stew and went for more. She wolfed down the second bowl faster than the first, a trickle of the gravy slid from her lower lip.
"You've got a little something," Brynjolf said, before reaching over and wiping it away with his thumb, his fingers splayed across her neck. Her eyes glanced sideways at the brown blob on his thumb. Before he could pull his hand away, her pink tongue had snaked out and licked it off. His breath hitched at the hot, wet feel on it. He could only imagine what it would feel like to have her tongue caress certain other parts of his anatomy.
"Lass, we really ought to talk about what we're doing here," he said, his voice a little low and husky.
"What are we doing?" Leif asked, looking up at him, her eyes darkened.

He'd seen that look before. She'd worn it the day she'd found him in the Flagon, the day she'd come to join the Guild. He'd thought the lust was for the adventure. But she had that already with dragons, and the Companions and whatever else she had been doing around Skyrim. No, he now suspected that the lust was aimed at him. Was that why she had joined? To get closer to him?
"Look, Leif, lass," he started. She leant forward and kissed him again.
"I love it when you call me that," she said, her lips barely parting from his.
"What? Lass?" he said. Another kiss, a bit harder this time. Brynjolf pulled back.
"Look, Leif, believe me, I like where this is going," he whispered, looking down at the floor, hoping to find something to distract himself. Her feet, yes.

He'd never found feet particularly attractive, though he did know of a couple of thieves who had a bit of a foot fetish. Only, Leif's feet were something else. Her perfect little pink feet were bare and he could just imagine her toes curled in orgasm.
"I like where this is going too," Leif replied, licking the shell of his ear.
"But I want to do this right," Brynjolf said quickly, closing his eyes, "I want you to get better first." Leif pulled back, allowing Brynjolf to think more clearly. He brought his gaze back up and looked her in the eyes. They were grey; he'd never noticed the colour before.
"I want to know you completely," he said, "I don't want us to take this too fast and then mess it up with something stupid. I like you, lass." She smiled at the use of his pet name for her.
"I like you too," she replied, "You're right. It's just that sometimes…I can't control myself around you."
"Believe me, I know," said Brynjolf, "Let's get you healed and you can tell me all about your little adventures since Helgen." Leif nodded before hesitating.
"What's wrong lass?" he asked.
"I…I have a spare bed upstairs," she said, "But…I don't want to sleep alone in my room tonight. I've spent too much time alone in the past few months."
"It's ok, lass," he said, "I wouldn't want you to not sleep well. I'll stay with you tonight, but I'll be on top of the covers, understand?" Leif nodded, smiling and biting her lip. Damn, that looked cute. She wasn't going to make this easy.


She definitely wasn't making this easy for him. He lay stretched out on his back beside her, on top of the covers. She was curled up on her side next to him, sleeping soundly. He would have been asleep by now if he'd lain down on his side, but that would mean curling his body around hers. That would have led to his arm being over her, which would have led to groping…and other things he knew he'd do in his sleep to the warm young body next to him. Instead his mind drifted to what she had said earlier.

The youngest of seven sisters, an abusive step-mother. Lakeman she said her family name was. Brynjolf tried to remember his own, but it had been so long the only name he knew himself as was Brynjolf, thief of Riften. He heard a sigh and looked over at her. Her backside wiggled a little as she fidgeted. If he'd been curled around her and under the covers, that would definitely have aroused him. He'd come to realise this attraction had always been bubbling just beneath the surface but as he'd always been surrounded by others and constantly distracted by the Guild, he'd never had time to dwell on it. Now he had time. He knew she felt it too. He couldn't but help feel a small sense of pride. The Dragonborn wanted him, had chosen him. His mind flicked back to what she had said of her family. Her mother was dead, her sisters were Talos knows where and her father had abandoned them to pursue a woman who'd then beaten his children with a stick. Leif had been running away from this life. His blood ran a little cold when he thought about the possibility that his lass, his Leif, could have killed the woman. Not that the woman hadn't deserved it. He wondered what had become of the two brothers, or rather half-brothers, that Leif had spoken of. Had she held any affection for the boys her father had sired on another woman or was she indifferent to the pair who had been treated so much better than she and her sisters?

Brynjolf had a brother…somewhere. He remembered being told the story. He had been born somewhere in Hjaalmarch, just north of Morthal but not long after his birth, the family had abruptly upped and left. He and his mother had journeyed to The Rift, settling in Shor's Stone where they had lived in peace. His father and brother however had taken a different road. His mother had told him two different versions of the story. In one, they had turned back around, heading for Solitude, in another, they had headed for Winterhold or Windhelm. In any case, the pair held nothing but a mild curiosity for Brynjolf.

They had never come looking for Brynjolf and his mother. They hadn't come to his mother's funeral after she had died when Brynjolf was twelve. They hadn't come looking for Brynjolf when he was thrown out of the house at Shor's Stone. He'd been forced to head south to Riften. There he'd discovered his talent for pickpocketing and had later been recruited to the Thieves Guild. The rest, as they said, was history. He'd made a name for himself amongst the guards as a thief, and amongst the women of Riften, as a gifted lover. Leif fidgeted in her sleep again, rolling over completely.
"Brynjolf?" her sleepy voice came.
"I'm still here, lass," he replied softly, "I'm not going anywhere." She shifted closer, one hand creeping across his bare chest, playing with the light covering of hair. She needed him to be there.

After seeing her take on that dragon this afternoon, he knew she could take care of herself physically. But living out here, on her own, so close to where she had suffered at the hands of her stepmother, the Imperials and the dragons, it had left her emotionally fragile. It felt good that someone needed him to help keep their head above water and that she would do the same for him if he needed her to. He wondered; if he had walked past her farm, had paused and spoken to her stepmother, would she have tried to marry Leif off to him? Not that it mattered, because Brynjolf was a thief, and if she hadn't been offered to him, he would have stolen her away anyway. He listened to her breathing even out once more. He should roll her back over, shouldn't let her drape herself over him but it just felt too damn comfortable, because she was his lass.